17 The First Message from the West



I waited for a day or two and heard nothing—that is, nothing that I wanted to hear, thinking that the time had come now when the Government must take the risks of war, however great they might be—but I learned that the new British minister, Mr. Foster, a man of amiable temper, from whom an effort to make us some reparation for old wrongs was expected, would be due in a few days in Washington, and on such account the Government regarded the impressment of Deguyo as most untoward. The news of the affair was soon known all over Washington, and while the Government waited the population was in a rage, and the French minister, profiting by the opportunity, egged them on, and wished to know, whenever he met Americans, whether they intended to become the servile subjects of England. I confess that I assisted somewhat in the egging process, and, moreover, I received a letter from Cyrus Pendleton, trusting that I had arrived in safety and that the truth had lost none of its bitterness in my telling.

I had begun to think that this outrage, like all the others, would be passed over, if not forgiven, when I received a message from Mr. Gallatin to visit him at his office.

“It seems that you are to become our regular messenger, Philip, through the process of circumstances,” he said, coming at once to the matter in hand, “and the President has another message for you. Don’t think that we have forgotten or wish to forget that affair which, you saw in New York Bay. Listen! Our frigate, the President, is lying off Fort Severn, at Annapolis. You are to go to her, and here is a letter which you will deliver to her captain, John Rodgers. It orders him to go to sea at once, and cruise up and down the coast for the protection of American commerce, which is preyed upon by both England and France as if we were enemies, though we are at war with neither. That is a very simple message, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I said, guessing his meaning by his look, “but Captain Rodgers might ask me questions.”

“That is so,” he replied, “and there is something I may tell you, and I know no reason that will keep you from telling it to others. The Guerriere, after impressing Deguyo, is reported to have gone southward from New York; and if Captain Rodgers should ask you, you might tell him about all these things, and add, too, that in case he falls in with the Guerriere the President trusts in his ability to present Captain Pechell strong arguments showing why Deguyo should be released at once.”

His look was full of meaning, and I understood. Again I resolved that the facts in a message which I bore should not suffer from diminution when I came to explain them by word of mouth. I said to myself, with a little inward laugh, half pride, half ridicule of myself, that if it were necessary for me, single-handed, to bring on a declaration of war against Great Britain, I would do it.

I mounted my horse, and again rode away into the blossoming country, this time through a sleepy part of old Maryland to the dreaming little town of Annapolis. The frigate, the President, lying off Fort Severn, seemed to be the biggest thing in the town or vicinity, and though a landsman myself I admired her size and symmetry, the vast and intricate tracery of masts and spars, and the shining whiteness of her decks. But, despite all this, she too seemed to share in the general slumber and peace of the place, as if, man-of-war though she was, it was not intended or expected that she should ever fight. My impression of unreadiness was confirmed when I went on board and was forced to deliver the President’s letter to a lieutenant. I found the ship almost stripped of her officers—Captain Rodgers was with friends at Havre de Grace, the chaplain and the purser were in that Washington which I had just left, and the sailing master was in Baltimore.

But the lieutenant who received my letter, and who did not dare to open it in the absence of the captain, was a young man, aflame with zeal and enthusiasm, and, remembering that there was no harm in telling him why I came, I told him everything, and he, with equal promptitude, sent off messengers to all the missing officers, bidding them come at once on business of the utmost importance to the country. I stayed to see the officers arrive and the ship depart, feeling that my mission would not be complete until then.

That lieutenant was a fine fellow, and I shall always remember him with pleasure, for he asked me to the cabin, where we drank wine together, and then he took me about the ship, explaining the use of this and the use of that, which I remembered about three minutes, and saying over and over that he hoped the captain would come soon. Thus we talked and walked while the day passed and the shining red globe of the sun slipped out of sight behind the western hills and the twilight fell, and after that the night. Far in the darkness came Captain Rodgers, furious because he was away from his ship when such a message had been sent to him, though it was not his fault, since our little navy had been taught to expect no such errands. Before midnight all the others arrived also, and Captain Rodgers said to me, as I still stood on his deck:

“This frigate sails at daylight, Mr. Ten Broeck, and I thank you for the able manner in which you have explained the President’s letter. But you had better go ashore now and seek a night’s sleep; you’ll find a fair tavern in the town.”

“I’m not sleepy at all,” I said; “and, moreover, I can not consider my duty fully done until I see the ship sail.”

“I’m sorry to say it, but I’m afraid a landsman will be in the way here.”

“I must stay; my duty commands it!”

He said no more, but left me there, and by the light of the lanterns I watched with the deepest interest the busy scene around me: the preparations to sail, the packing of stores, the measuring of ammunition, the noiseless step of the sailors as they slipped about in their bare feet, and the fine discipline of all—the ready and decisive commands of the officers, and the quickness and skill of the sailors in obedience. Landsman as I was, I could see that the captain would keep his word and depart at daylight.

I walked about on the decks watching this—to me—curious spectacle of a man-of-war preparing in haste to sail. The night was dark, clouds sailing past the moon and hiding its face. Ship and men, water and shore swam in a ghostly light, which turned substance into unreality. The sails, shapeless gray clouds, quivered above me. Masts and spars ran away, dim black lines, and where they ended in the darkness I could not see. The sailors slid past me with soundless tread, phantoms themselves. The cannon, the twenty-four-pounders and the eighteens, grew larger and more threatening in the faint light, and the old story of the Flying Dutchman came back to me with marvellous distinctness. Here was I on a phantom ship with a phantom crew, a phantom myself.

“Better go ashore, Mr. Ten Broeck; it will not be long until we see daylight.”

It was Captain Rodgers again, giving me fatherly advice which I rejected, as one usually does.

“Captain,” I said, “I have stayed up a whole night without sleep more than once in my life, and I must see this ship sail; I feel that the whole responsibility of it rests upon me.”

“Very well,” he said, “if you take that view of it. I suppose I have nothing to do with this ship and her business.”

I could see him smiling through the dusk as he passed on. I stayed where I was, and occasionally a sailor looked curiously at the civilian standing there, so much out of place, but none spoke. The lieutenant who had received me on board the ship gave me a friendly glance as he hurried by, and I strolled presently to the rail and looked over at the dark water, mottled now with faint moonbeams and lapping softly against the ship’s side. Around me the noises of departure went on without ceasing. The sails rustled as they puffed out with the wind, masts and spars creaked, and the ship began to groan as she shook up her big body. In the East a gray light was coming, and down where the edge of it touched the earth a line of pink shone.

“Mr. Ten Broeck, the day is at hand and we are about to sail; it is time for you to go ashore.”

It was Captain Rodgers warning me for the third time to leave the ship.

“I must see the frigate when she sails, not merely when she is ready to sail. My duty, captain, don’t let me forget that.”

He passed on, and the light of day increased. The gray belt in the east broadened, the pink edge of it grew and turned to red. Over the waters a silver radiance fell. Shore, fort, and fields swam up from the sea of dusk. The great ship heaved, and the water hissed against her sides.

“Mr. Ten Broeck, the ship is moving, and it is too late for you to go ashore; I am very sorry, but it was your own fault.”

“Captain, I can stand it, and I admit that it was my own fault wholly.”

“Come with me to my cabin, Mr. Ten Broeck, and let us drink to the success of this cruise for the protection of American merchantmen.”

We drank the wine together with the greatest good will, and then, at the captain’s suggestion, I lay down upon a lounge and slept off the chagrin of my unavoidable impressment by a ship of my own country.

When I awoke a sailor was pulling at my shoulder and bidding me prepare for luncheon with the officers. The frigate was swaying gently with the sweep of the water, and I felt none of those qualms which had assailed me on the voyage from Boston to New York. I went upon deck and saw a world shimmering in the sunlight, a sky of silky blue studded with little white clouds like bits of lamb’s wool, and an atmosphere clear, radiant, and bracing. A fine wind sang through the rigging, and the sailors on deck took up the strain and carried it on. The great ship was alive, and her timbers caught the tune from wind and sailors and murmured it in a softened undertone.

I took my luncheon with the junior officers, and I am sure that I was welcome. I liked those young fellows, healthy of body and mind, and I began to see that we had not appreciated our ridiculed little navy at its true worth. It was evident from the first that here were men who knew their business to the last detail, and, falling in with their spirit, I began now to believe that, man for man and ship for ship, the Yankee tar had nothing to fear from anybody.

“Captain,” I said some time afterward on the deck, “suppose we should fall in with the Guerriere, what would you do about the man Deguyo?”

“Well,” he said, with much deliberation, “I don’t know that you have any right to ask that question, Mr. Ten Broeck; but if we should meet the Guerriere I hope that I may prevail upon her commander to release the impressed young man.”

We passed out into the open sea, and beat about without any definite purpose. We had a touch or two of rough weather, and I felt some qualms, but I soon recovered, and a pert midshipmate told me that he thought with ten or fifteen years’ experience I might make a fair sailor.

I saw that my presence aboard the ship did not worry the officers, nor did it worry me. I thought that Washington could get along very well in my absence, and if any one should happen to complain I could point to the accidental nature of my voyage. Thus reasoning, I was happy and enjoyed the voyage, the crisp air of the sea, the comradeship of those men who had nothing to do with politics or its mazes, and the hope that something which we would not regret was going to happen.

But as day after day passed and we saw only merchantmen that knew no news, and the wide blaze of the trackless sea, I began to fear that the voyage would end in nothing, until about noon of the fourth day our lookout sighted an approaching sail, which was not new, but added that she was a man-of-war, which was both new and interesting.

“It’s the Guerriere; it must be that frigate; it can’t be any other,” said an eager midshipman.

A lieutenant laughed at him for assuming so much so rashly, but in two minutes it was reported all over the ship that we were about to meet the Guerriere, and our captain would endeavour to persuade her captain to release an impressed American.

Our course led toward the stranger and hers toward us, and, taking my place upon the deck where I could see best, I watched her. The Guerriere was no unknown ship to me, but whether she and the sail approaching were the same was more than I could tell.

“But we will know very soon,” said the captain. “No, by Jove, she intends to leave us!”

The truth of his words was soon apparent, for the strange ship wore round and headed to the south, while she was yet so far away that we could not read her name, and I was not sailor enough to decide from her cut whether it was the Guerriere. Yet I thought it was.

“We’ll follow,” said the captain.

The stranger was headed south and we made all sail after her, gaining on her steadily, though the wind was light, and the captain said that meant a long chase.

It was a new thing for an American ship to pursue an Englishman, but it so happened; that it had not happened before was the fault of the American Government, not of the Americans; now that it was a fact I was inspired with a singular degree of buoyancy, and so I believe was every man aboard our frigate. The sea was a blaze of purple and blue, and behind us was a long track of foam where the water cut apart by the ship rushed together again. The beautiful June afternoon waned and the sea turned gray before us, while the shadows gathered on the horizon. We gained slowly on the strange ship, still far ahead of us, and the march of the twilight promised her refuge in the darkness if she wished it; though we could not tell why she should seek to escape us, since an American had nothing to fear and a Briton boasted that he never ran.

Twilight brought the night in its train, and the stranger hauled to the wind and tacked, going about and about in a way that puzzled me, but left me to guess that she did it in the hope of shaking us off. Yet we could see her through the dusk and always we followed, though thick weather came to the aid of the night. I will not deny that I felt an excitement growing in my mind, a belief now, a hope before, that I was about to witness an event of consequence. So believing, I would not leave the deck; not for supper nor for anything else, but stood there watching the distant ship which I believed to be the Guerriere, though I could not tell. When I looked about at the officers and crew I was confirmed in my opinion that an event was approaching, since all were quiet and ready, and, like I, seemed to be expectant.

The night deepened and the outlines of the strange vessel became misty, making her size and character doubtful. But with a better wind we were gaining fast upon her now, and a little after eight o’clock we came up close on the weather bow of the stranger, who seemed to abandon the effort to escape. Then the two ships hovered together, magnified in the dusk, like mountains.

“What ship is that?” hailed Captain Rodgers from our lee rail.

All were silent on the President, and his voice, clear and loud, cut with startling force through the darkness.

From the stranger came the answering cry in precisely the same words:

“What ship is that?”

Aboard the other vessel, save for the captain’s query, they seemed to be as silent as we. Our captain called again:

“What ship is that?”

No answer.

I could see the misty forms of men on the deck of the stranger looking at us. Our own sailors were dim figures in the dusk. Our captain’s lips opened, as if he would repeat the question again, and at the same moment I saw a great red flash blaze from the side of the strange ship, and the deep boom of a cannon shot rolled over the still waters. I felt the rush of air past me, I heard the sweep of round lead, and an eighteen-pound cannon ball crashed into the mainmast of the President, some splinters flying with a whiz into the air. A cone of smoke rose.

I stood quite still, and the first thought that flashed upon me was of the Chesapeake. But this was not the Chesapeake, and though our captain had not found time to utter a word—I could see the sudden look of surprise upon his face—there came a flash, an answering roar from our own ship, and a cannon ball, the first messenger of the West, sped across the deck of the stranger. Who fired that shot—fired without orders—I never knew, but if I had known I would never have told, since I would have esteemed him too much.

But the stranger was not content with speaking only once. In an instant I saw the red flash blaze out from her side, and again and again. Three times her cannon boomed—one, two, three—and then a long belt of flame leaped up, as I heard the ripping crash of a broadside, followed by the whistling of lead, the puffing of smoke, and the smash of timber as the shot struck. The stranger was firing into us with all the guns she could bring to bear; but let me repeat it, this was no Chesapeake—we were ready.

“Fire into him! Give him the lead!” cried our captain to his gunners, and in a moment we were in the red blur and shouting fury of a desperate sea combat. It had come upon us with such a rush that I had not time to think of myself until some one shouted to me to look out for the cannon balls, when I dodged behind a huge coil of rope and knelt down, just as eighteen pounds of lead screamed and hissed over my head and went on to cool its rage in the sea beyond us.

The ships were lying close together, and the dusk of a damp, misty night was broken by flash after flash of the cannon—red light following red light so fast that the blaze was unbroken.

I heard the screaming of projectiles, the smash of wood, the whiz of splinters as dangerous as the cannon balls themselves, the shouting of the seamen, the cries of the hurt—the whole a wild medley of noise and fire and smoke. The smoke rose in huge columns and clothed us like a thick fog, but the battle lanterns were burning, and the cannon fire, too, lit up the decks and cast an angry red over the face of the sea. From the rigging sharpshooters were firing, and through the heavier boom of the great guns one could hear distinctly the sharp crackle of the rifles. The gunners loaded and fired rapidly, but with aim. Sometimes, as the smoke was blown away by their own cannon fire, I could see them distinctly, and then the smoke floating back would hide them or turn them into mere ghostly figures, seeming to be made of vapour themselves. The ship swayed with the swell of the ocean and the concussion of the guns, and the yards creaked peacefully through all the firing.

I began to think now what would be the result of this, of these cannon shots fired out at sea with such suddenness. Surely it was not an affair that two governments could let drift on for years, and it must lead to something that would be a change from the long period of insult and oppression that we had endured, for I never doubted that the strange ship was an Englishman.

Again a cannon ball shrieked over my head, another sent splinters flying, and a boy, a powder monkey, cried out as one tore the flesh of his shoulder. They took him below to the surgeon, and a minute later our gunners raised a great cheer. The stranger’s fire was slackening fast, and in ten minutes from the first cannon shot it became only a stray discharge or two. Then the captain ordered ours to cease entirely, for it was evident from the volume of the cannonade that the strange ship was much inferior to ours in calibre. I was sure now that she was not the Guerriere, which was of the same class as the President, but I was still firm in the belief that she was an Englishman.

The gunners obeyed the order with the same promptness and calmness that they had shown in loading and firing, and waited to see what would happen. What did happen was a sudden renewal of the stranger’s cannonade, for, taking our cessation as proof that we were beaten, he opened anew with many guns. Then the combat which we had rejoiced over as finished was begun again. The clouds of smoke thickened in the damp, misty night, and the quivering of our ship became a roll, for the wind was rising, and, despite the flash of the guns, the darkness increased. Looking up, I could see that there were no stars in the heavens, and all the skies were cloudy, black, and threatening. The firing of the stranger was wild, many balls whistled far above our heads, and still others struck the sea behind the ship, sending up jets of foam. There was much to confuse the aim, for each of the vessels was firing into the smoke-bank, and only by the light of the cannon were the combatants visible to each other. Suddenly the President fired an entire crashing broadside into the heart of the smoke-bank that hid the stranger. I heard the splintering and tearing of wood, the flapping of falling sails, the shriek of men mortally hurt, and the strange ship, under the impact of the shot, seemed to heave up out of the smoke-bank and then to sink back into the sea, winged and helpless. She was beyond the control of her crew now, for she wore around stern on, and another broadside from the President would have raked her fore and aft and annihilated her crew. But that broadside was not given, for it was evident that our enemy’s fight was over.

There was again a sudden silence aboard our ship; the gunners stood beside their guns, the sharpshooters in the rigging held their rifles at rest, the frigate rocked in the swell of the sea which lapped against her sides, and the clouds of smoke again drifted slowly from the deck and upward. Our captain hailed the stranger, and some kind of a reply was shouted out, but as we were to windward we could not understand it. Sure now that she could fight no longer, we ran down under the stranger’s lee and hove to, that we might be ready to rescue the crew in case she should sink, which seemed probable.

I did not sleep or lie down that night. I will admit that every nerve in me was quivering with excitement. I, who a week before had dreamed of nothing, less than of this, had just passed through a furious naval battle which might bring untold consequences, and, moreover, I was thrilled to the marrow by the scene itself, the darkness of the night, the moaning of the wind, and the immensity of the sea, limitless to me, a landsman, upon which the two ships rocked side by side, one almost a wreck. The wildness of the enemy’s fire had been so great that on the President nobody was hurt save the boy whom I had seen struck by a splinter, but I guessed that on the other ship there would be a much bloodier tale to tell.

As the night advanced, the wind rose still more and the two ships drifted apart, and in the darkness we lost her for awhile. It was a time of suspense and anxiety for us all, since the stranger might go down in the night, leaving no sign, and it was important to know whom we had been fighting. But the long night ended and the slow day came at last. The fiery sun swinging clear of the sea drove away the sombre rain clouds, and the face of the waters stretched before us, a blaze of blue, shot with pink, where the flame of the sun struck through it. But there, two or three miles away, floating like a hulk, was our ship.

“A Briton—a twenty-two-gun sloop, I should say,” said Lieutenant Creighton, by whose side I was standing. “What a fool she was to fire into a vessel of our weight, but since the Chesapeake affair any British ship thinks she can bully an American of double her size.”

Which was true, but which, nevertheless, proved to be a most unfortunate thing for Englishmen.

We ranged up, and a boat was lowered from our ship.

“Would you like to go in the boat, Mr Ten Broeck?” asked the captain of me. “I think that, after all, it was a good thing you missed going ashore, as you will have to report on this affair, and you will be an extremely important witness.”

Of course I volunteered to go in the boat, which was commanded by Lieutenant Creighton, who was instructed to convey to the stranger our regrets at the necessity that led to such an unhappy result, and to offer any assistance that might be needed. These things sound stilted and insincere now, but they were the style then, especially among naval officers, and hitherto it had been the pleasure of the English only to “express regrets.”

We pulled toward the shattered ship, and saw lowerering faces watching over the rail. But they did not object to our visit aboard, where we were received by Arthur Bingham, commander of his Britannic Majesty’s twenty-two-gun corvette Little Belt, which had suffered eleven men killed and twenty-one wounded in a combat the night before with the American frigate President— more than a double reparation for the murderous and gratuitous assault upon the Chesapeake.

But the small courtesies that we had for each other were a mere form, soon discarded as useless. Commander Bingham was in no mood for phrases, nor would I have been, in his place, with my ship half a wreck under me. We gave the name of our ship and he gave his, declining our offer of assistance with the belief that the Little Belt was still good enough to reach her port, wherever that might be. So we left him to his dead and his wounded, and, though it is an awful thing to take life, I felt no sorrow for the English, since they had provoked it and they had shed much American blood without redress before that night.

I found that I was bound on a longer voyage than I had expected, as the President, in obedience to orders of which I knew nothing, did not return to the Chesapeake, but sailed for New York. We spoke a Swedish vessel bound for Baltimore, which carried the first news of the fight to an American port, while we jogged leisurely on to New York.