A discussion that grew more heated every moment.
"A discussion that grew more heated every moment."
Three or four days after the fight, Captain Stewart was dining in his cabin, and as usual his guests were the English captains, who had not yet entirely recovered from the deep chagrin incident to their surrender. How it started, no one exactly knew. It is not on record which of the gentlemen was at fault for the beginning of the quarrel, but they were fighting their battles over again in a discussion that grew more heated every moment. Suddenly one of the officers, jumping to his feet, accused the other of being responsible for what he termed "the unfortunate conclusion of the whole affair." Hot words were exchanged. Stewart, who, of course, had his own opinions on the matter in question, said nothing, until at last he perceived that things might be going too far, and it was time for him to interfere. Smiling blandly, and looking from one of the angry men to the other, he spoke as follows:—
"Gentlemen, there is only one way that I see, to decide this question,—to put you both on your ships again, give you back your crews, and try it over."
This ended the argument, but the story went the rounds of the ship, and one of the lieutenants in writing to a brother officer described the incident in those exact words.
Quartermaster Renwick survived the loss of his leg, and he used to relate the story of how and where he lost it to the youngsters who would gather about his favorite bench fronting the Battery seawall.
The boy recovered also, and he served his country until they laid him on the shelf after the Civil War was over. Very nearly forty years had he passed in the navy, where he grew to be a great hand at yarn-spinning, and was much quoted, for he linked the service back to the days of wind and sail, although he had lived to see the era of steam and steel. His favorite story of them all was of the oldConstitutionand how she behaved under the command of "Fighting Stewart."
TWO DUELS
"Oh, Bainbridge, you're going ashore with us, aren't you?"
At these words a young man who was walking up and down the frigate's quarter-deck turned quickly. He was dressed in the same uniform as the one who had just asked the question,—that of a midshipman of the American navy.
"Not if you are starting at once, Raymond," he replied. "I won't be off duty for a quarter of an hour. Is the boat ready?"
"Not yet—maybe you will have time—have you asked for leave?"
"I have that right enough, but I can't be in two places at once. I'd like to go, though, if I could."
"It's too bad; all the fellows were counting on your coming." And Midshipman Raymond left the quarter-deck, and strolled forward to the mast, where five or six other middies were waiting, all dressed in their best uniforms, with rows of polished brass buttons, and neat little dirks swung at their left hips by slender chains. They were impatient at the delay. Every one wished to be ashore, as it was the intention to dine together and afterwards to attend a concert at the Malta Theatre; for theConstitutionwas lying at anchor just off the town, and not far from the walls of the heavy fortifications that make the island England's greatest stronghold in the Eastern Mediterranean—second in importance among her possessions only to the impregnable Gibraltar.
"I hear Carlotti is going to sing to-night," observed one of the midshipmen knowingly, interrupting the chorus of grumblings at the slowness of the shore boat in returning. "She's great," he added.
"How do you know?" asked a short tow-headed reefer; "you never heard her."
"No, but Bainbridge has, and he told me."
"Wish Bainbridge was going with us——"
"So do we all," was the chorus to this, and just at this moment the ship's bell clanged the hour, and the one to whom they referred ran past them. He paused at the head of the ladder.
"I'll be up in a minute; don't you fellows go without me."
With these words he jumped below, and running into the steerage, he slammed open the lid of his chest and shifted into his best uniform in "presto change" fashion. He was just in time to hasten down the ladder and leap into the boat as she shoved off from the side. There were two lieutenants going ashore, and they don't wait for tardy midshipmen.
"Quick work, Joseph," said Middy Raymond, laying his hand on Bainbridge's knee.
"Rather," was the panted reply. "Do I look shipshape? Feels as if I'd forgotten something."
"All ataunto—far as I can see."
Joseph Bainbridge was a younger brother of Commodore William Bainbridge, and like him he had gifts of popularity. He possessed a magnetic personality that attracted to him the notice of both officers and men, and a bold, adventurous spirit that won their admiration. Added to this was the fact that he was tall and strong, and conceded to be the handsomest young officer in the service.
When the boat drew up at the pier, the middies flocked off by themselves, and the two young lieutenants fell behind.
"You didn't hear the lecture,—the lecture the old man gave us while you were below, Bainbridge," said Midshipman Raymond. "Phew! but he piled it on thick in telling us how to behave ourselves. Any one might think that we were going ashore to offer challenges right and left to all the British army."
"What do you mean?" asked Bainbridge, slipping his arm through his friend's, and looking down at him, for he stood head and shoulders above the other youngsters.
"Why, just this," was the response. "The old man" (in this manner was the Commodore referred to) "says that there are plenty of fire-eating, snap-shooting 'eight-paces' chaps, just longing for a chance to pick a quarrel with a Yankee officer; and as he told us it took two to make trouble, he said he would hold us responsible if there was any row. We will have to mind our tacks and sheets. He expects us to be blind to all ugly looks, and deaf to all remarks, I suppose. Besides, we are all under promise to return by the last boat, that leaves at eleven o'clock."
"Well," observed the tall midshipman, laughing, "there seems to be no great hardship in that; we have some hours before us. Let's turn in here and get our grub—then, ho for the theatre!"
The crowd of laughing young fellows entered a café, and seated themselves quietly at a corner table. But their entrance had been observed. A group of officers, in scarlet coats and gilt braid and shoulder knots, gazed insolently at them.
"Young Yankee puppies," observed one, turning to his companions.
"Rather airy,—I should say breezy," was the rejoinder.
Before long, the fun grew fast and furious at the middies' table; laughter and even the snatch of a song broke from them. Pretty soon one of the English officers arose—the one who had first noticed their presence. He walked over to their table, and rapped on the edge with the hilt of his sword.
"Less noise, less noise here!" he said.
Bainbridge was about to spring to his feet, when Raymond restrained him. "Have a care," he said softly.
No one noticed the Englishman's presence, and slightly abashed he returned to his seat. But he covered his confusion with an air of bravado. "Taught 'em a lesson," he sniggered.
In a few minutes the whole party had adjourned to the play-house.
Carlotti sang her best, every one was enjoying the music and anxious for more, when the curtain fell on the first act. TheConstitutionlads applauded so long that one might have thought they wished to have the whole thing over again, which they would have liked exceedingly. But seeing at last that the prima donna would not respond,—she had been out five times,—the lads arose and strutted into the lobby in a body.
"There's that officious Britisher," said Bainbridge, nodding his head toward a group of scarlet coats that stood blocking up a doorway.
"Oh, I just heard about him," put in one of the smallest reefers. "He's Tyrone Tyler, the dead shot,—I overheard some one pointing him out. He's killed eleven men, they say."
The officer in question was tall and exceedingly slender, and he might have been called good-looking if it were not for the insolent eyes, the leering mouth, and arrogant chin that made him so conspicuous. He made some remark that caused the others to laugh as he put up his eyeglass and stared into the faces of the Yankee middies. Some reddened and dropped their glances, but Bainbridge returned the stare with interest. The Englishman frowned and let his glass fall from his eye.
"Care for cub-hunting, Twombly?" he inquired of a red-faced man at his elbow. "Here's a chance for you!"
The midshipmen heard this, but said nothing, and soon they were all lost in the theatre crowd.
During the next intermission all kept their seats but Raymond and Bainbridge, who again strolled out. The taller lad, who looked some years older than his age, which was but nineteen, attracted some attention; many looks of admiration were thrown at him as he passed through the lobby. Suddenly he collided with somebody, who pushed him off.
"Beg pardon," said Bainbridge, making way.
There was no reply, and the lad's handsome brows contracted as he saw the evil face of Captain Tyrone Tyler smiling sneeringly at him. In the course of a few minutes they met again, and once more came together.
"Beg pardon, sir."
The words had a peculiar intonation this time. They were spoken in the tone of voice one uses when compelled to move something that may disturb another. Bainbridge lifted the infantry captain past with a firm grasp on both his elbows. He moved him as easily as one might lift a lashed hammock to one side.
"Beg pardon, sir," said he again.
The officer grew livid, and had it not been that some one grasped his arm, he would have struck the midshipman across the face. But Bainbridge and Raymond moved quickly away.
As they turned to leave the hall after the performance was over the word was brought that Tyler and three others were waiting at the entrance. After a consultation it was agreed that it would be best to remain, and avoid a meeting if possible. So talking in low voices, the midshipmen stayed on until warned by the dimming lights that the place was being closed. At last a plan was settled on. Bainbridge, who was eager to go out first, was persuaded to remain with Raymond, and follow shortly after the others had left. They singled out, and when the last two stepped past the door, Tyler was still waiting.
"Now for the training," said he, stepping forward. As he spoke he put one elbow in Bainbridge's face, and with the other grasped for his collar.
But he reckoned wrongly. The middy ducked quickly and picked up his cap that had been pushed off by the blow. Then he straightened himself.
"You are a cowardly bully," he said calmly. "But I understand you. My card, sir; I am at your service."
As he spoke, he extended a bit of engraved pasteboard. Captain Tyler took it, handed it to one of his friends, and gave his name, adding:—
"I trust that you will meet me on the beach under the west fort to-morrow morning at nine o'clock."
"Can you make it earlier?"
"Certainly; at eight, then."
The Englishman laughed as he moved off with his companions.
"Be on hand, my young monkey jacket; I should hate to be turned out so early for nothing."
"Never fear," was Bainbridge's return.
"Oh, Joseph, what have you done?" wailed little Raymond, suddenly. "They will never let you off the ship, and we've broken orders, and are in a frightful mess."
I observed it,' said the Lieutenant.
"'I observed it,' said the Lieutenant."
"I'm not going on board again, Sammy; I'm to meet that bully, and I will do it. It's either disgrace or death, and I'm reckless now. But run along, you; leave me to myself."
"I shall stay if you do," replied Raymond, stoutly. "It will never be said that——"
"Come, young gentlemen, 'tis about time you were making for the boat. Commodore Preble's orders were very strict; don't forget them."
The speaker was a tall, graceful young man, wrapped in a long watch-cloak. It was Stephen Decatur, the First Lieutenant, and the idol of the ship. He descended the few steps from the entrance to the lobby, and continued as he acknowledged the midshipmen's salute:—
"Come, let's all be moving—stir your stumps now, Mr. Raymond."
As they reached the archway of the pier, Bainbridge held back.
"Come, Mr. Bainbridge, a word with you," said Decatur, taking the lad kindly by the arm. He was but five or six years the senior, but his manner was almost fatherly. "Have you anything to tell me?"
"Yes, sir. I have broken orders."
"I observed it," said the Lieutenant. "Have you anything else to say."
"Yes, sir; unless you insist, I'd rather stay on shore to-night."
"You will return to the ship."
"Very good, sir."
In silence the party was rowed back, and in silence they climbed the side and came on deck.
Then the First Lieutenant spoke. "Mr. Bainbridge, wait on deck here until my return."
"What's up, Raymond?" asked the lads as soon as they had gone below to the steerage where they swung their hammocks. "Did Bainbridge have a row, after all? What's going to happen?"
"Don't ask me," was the reply; "you know as much as I do." Raymond concluded that it was best to keep mum on the subject, and with this he tumbled into his hammock.
Bainbridge waited up on deck for half an hour. He had not the least idea what was going to be done with him. But he was grieving bitterly. If he did not meet the Englishman, he was disgraced,—his name was known, "he owed it to the honor of the service"; for that was the way the code was established. But how could he have disobeyed the order of Decatur to proceed on board ship? That would have been impossible, also. Yet, strange to say, he did not regret his action, and he had not once felt a thrill of fear. True, Tyler was a noted man-killer, but that did not worry Bainbridge in the least. He may have been a fatalist, but that was not the only reason: he knew without bragging that he was a good shot.
Suddenly he heard some one approaching. He lifted his despondent head out of his hands. Was he going to be called into the cabin to take a rating from the fiery tongue of the Commodore. Could he stand that!
"Mr. Bainbridge."
"Yes, sir."
"Commodore Preble's orders are for me to go on shore to-morrow at seven thirty in the morning. By the way, you will go with me——"
"Oh, thank you, sir," interrupted the midshipman, his voice breaking; "thank you."
"I shall attend to everything, if you will allow me the honor."
Bainbridge put out his hand; Decatur took it without a word.
The next morning, on a narrow stretch of beach, there was a curious little gathering, or, better, two separate groups: one composed of five men talking together, and at a few paces' distance two silent figures.
The five men were conversing in whispers.
"Nevertheless, I intend doing it," said the tall slender man who was in the centre. "Do you see the button at his throat? A Yankee more or less does not count."
"Are you ready, gentlemen?"
The others stepped back, and there stood two tall figures fronting one another: each held a long heavy pistol in the right hand. The faces of the men were pale, but the midshipman was just as cool as his experienced opponent; a determined gleam was in his light blue eyes.
The officer who had last spoken began counting, and then there came a flash and one report. The pistols had been discharged at the same instant.
Bainbridge reeled slightly, and passed his hand about his throat.
"I am all right," he said calmly.
"Thank God! Then let's be off," was Decatur's sole return.
Lying on the sand was Tyler "the dead shot," the surgeon fumbling at his chest. Decatur and the midshipman raised their hats as they passed by.
So much for the first duel; now for the sequel. In this modern day we can scarcely imagine the complaisant attitude assumed by press and public towards such happenings as this. Were they less careful of human life, or did they view matters in such a different light that their perceptions were altogether blunted? No, not that exactly; many men fought duels who did not believe in the resort to arms at all. They were compelled to by the deluded custom of the times. Few men werebraveenough to refuse a challenge. But one thing, a man who was known to have figured on the field of honor, sooner or later found himself there again, and generally it was once too often.
The second duel to be told about here, has a slight connection with the first, and yet belongs more properly to history. Commodore William Bainbridge, who was one of Decatur's most intimate friends, was grateful indeed for the manner in which he had stood by his brother, and when Decatur stood in need of some one to do the same thing by him, it was but natural that he should turn to Bainbridge.
But now to get back to history: Stephen Decatur had, against his will, been one of the members of the court martial that had sentenced Commodore Barron to suspension from the navy for five years because of the affair of theChesapeakeand theLeopard. Barron had gone abroad, and was in England when the War of 1812 was declared. His period of suspension ended shortly after the declaration, but he did not return to America until over a year had elapsed; and then presenting himself without explanation, he demanded the command of an important ship. Decatur used every effort to prevent his securing active employment, taking the ground, as he explained in a letter written to Barron himself, that the latter's conduct "had been such as to forever bar readmission into the service." He disclaimed any feeling of personal enmity, but was firm in his opposition. For years this was the state of affairs; the correspondence between Barron and Decatur grew more bitter and ironical, and at last it culminated thus:—
Writes Barron on the sixteenth of January, 1820, dated Norfolk:—
Sir:Your letter of the 29th ultimo, I have received. In it you say that you have now to inform me that you shall pay no further attention to any communications that I may make to you, other than a direct call to the field; in answer to which I have only to reply that whenever you will consent to meet me on fair and equal grounds, that is, such as two honorable men may consider just and proper, you are at liberty to view this as that call. The whole tenor of your conduct to me justifies this course of proceeding on my part. As for your charges and remarks, I regard them not, particularly your sympathy. You know no such feeling. I cannot be suspected of making the attempt to excite it.I am, sir, yours, etc.,James Barron.
Sir:Your letter of the 29th ultimo, I have received. In it you say that you have now to inform me that you shall pay no further attention to any communications that I may make to you, other than a direct call to the field; in answer to which I have only to reply that whenever you will consent to meet me on fair and equal grounds, that is, such as two honorable men may consider just and proper, you are at liberty to view this as that call. The whole tenor of your conduct to me justifies this course of proceeding on my part. As for your charges and remarks, I regard them not, particularly your sympathy. You know no such feeling. I cannot be suspected of making the attempt to excite it.
I am, sir, yours, etc.,
James Barron.
To this, Decatur replied as follows:—
Washington, Jan. 24, 1820.Sir:I have received your communication of the 16th, and am at a loss to know what your intention is. If you intend it as a challenge, I accept it, and refer you to my friend, Commodore Bainbridge, who is fully authorized to make any arrangements he pleases as regards weapons, mode, or distance. Your obedient servant,Stephen Decatur.
Washington, Jan. 24, 1820.
Sir:I have received your communication of the 16th, and am at a loss to know what your intention is. If you intend it as a challenge, I accept it, and refer you to my friend, Commodore Bainbridge, who is fully authorized to make any arrangements he pleases as regards weapons, mode, or distance. Your obedient servant,
Stephen Decatur.
And so the fatal meeting was arranged. Captain Elliot, Barron's representative, and Bainbridge chose Bladensburg, a beautiful spot within driving distance of the Capitol, as the duelling ground. Letters describing contemporary events give such vivid pictures of past scenes, that it is well to quote entire the letter of Samuel Hambleton, one of Decatur's closest friends, who was present. This letter was written shortly after the meeting had taken place.
Washington, March 22, 1820.... This morning, agreeably to his request, I attended Commodore Bainbridge in a carriage to the Capitol hill, where I ordered breakfast at Beale's hotel for three persons. At the moment it was ready, Commodore Decatur, having walked from his own house, arrived and partook of it with us. As soon as it was over he proceeded in our carriage towards Bladensburg. At breakfast he mentioned that he had a paper with him that he wished to sign (meaning his will), but that it required three witnesses, and as it would not do to call in any third person for that purpose he would defer it until we arrived at the ground. He was quite cheerful, and did not appear to have any desire to take the life of his antagonist; indeed, he declared he would be very sorry to do so. On arriving at the valley half a mile short of Bladensburg we halted and found Captain Elliot standing in the road on the brow of the hill beyond us. Commodore Bainbridge and myself walked up and gave him the necessary information, when he returned to the village. In a short time Commodore Barron, Captain Elliot, his second, and Mr. Lattimer arrived on the ground, which was measured (eight long strides) and marked by Commodore Bainbridge nearly north and south, and the seconds proceeded to load. Commodore Bainbridge won the choice of stands, and his friend chose that to the north, being a few inches lower than the other.On taking their stands, Commodore Bainbridge told them to observe that he should give the words quick—"Present; one, two, three," and they were not, at their peril, to fire before the word "one" nor after the word "three" was pronounced. Commodore Barron asked him if he had any objections to pronouncing the words as he intended to give them. He said he had not, and did so.Commodore Barron, about this moment, observed to his antagonist that he hoped, on meeting in another world, they would be better friends than they had been in this; to which Commodore Decatur replied, "I have never been your enemy, sir." Nothing further passed between them previous to the firing. Soon after Commodore Bainbridge cautioned them to be ready, crossed over to the left of his friend, and gave the words of command precisely as before; and at the word "two" they both fired so nearly together that but one report was heard.They both fell nearly at the same instant. Commodore Decatur was raised and supported a short distance, and sank down near to where Commodore Barron lay; and both appeared to think themselves mortally wounded. Commodore Barron declared that everything had been conducted in the most honorable manner, and told Commodore Decatur that he forgave him from the bottom of his heart. Soon after this, a number of gentlemen coming up, I went after our carriage and assisted in getting him into it; where, leaving him under the care of several of his intimate friends, Commodore Bainbridge and myself left the grounds, and, as before agreed to, embarked on board the tender of theColumbusat the Navy Yard. It is due to Commodore Bainbridge to observe that he expressed his determination to lessen the danger to each by giving the words quick, with a hope that both might miss and that then their quarrel might be amicably settled.Samuel Hambleton.
Washington, March 22, 1820.
... This morning, agreeably to his request, I attended Commodore Bainbridge in a carriage to the Capitol hill, where I ordered breakfast at Beale's hotel for three persons. At the moment it was ready, Commodore Decatur, having walked from his own house, arrived and partook of it with us. As soon as it was over he proceeded in our carriage towards Bladensburg. At breakfast he mentioned that he had a paper with him that he wished to sign (meaning his will), but that it required three witnesses, and as it would not do to call in any third person for that purpose he would defer it until we arrived at the ground. He was quite cheerful, and did not appear to have any desire to take the life of his antagonist; indeed, he declared he would be very sorry to do so. On arriving at the valley half a mile short of Bladensburg we halted and found Captain Elliot standing in the road on the brow of the hill beyond us. Commodore Bainbridge and myself walked up and gave him the necessary information, when he returned to the village. In a short time Commodore Barron, Captain Elliot, his second, and Mr. Lattimer arrived on the ground, which was measured (eight long strides) and marked by Commodore Bainbridge nearly north and south, and the seconds proceeded to load. Commodore Bainbridge won the choice of stands, and his friend chose that to the north, being a few inches lower than the other.
On taking their stands, Commodore Bainbridge told them to observe that he should give the words quick—"Present; one, two, three," and they were not, at their peril, to fire before the word "one" nor after the word "three" was pronounced. Commodore Barron asked him if he had any objections to pronouncing the words as he intended to give them. He said he had not, and did so.
Commodore Barron, about this moment, observed to his antagonist that he hoped, on meeting in another world, they would be better friends than they had been in this; to which Commodore Decatur replied, "I have never been your enemy, sir." Nothing further passed between them previous to the firing. Soon after Commodore Bainbridge cautioned them to be ready, crossed over to the left of his friend, and gave the words of command precisely as before; and at the word "two" they both fired so nearly together that but one report was heard.
They both fell nearly at the same instant. Commodore Decatur was raised and supported a short distance, and sank down near to where Commodore Barron lay; and both appeared to think themselves mortally wounded. Commodore Barron declared that everything had been conducted in the most honorable manner, and told Commodore Decatur that he forgave him from the bottom of his heart. Soon after this, a number of gentlemen coming up, I went after our carriage and assisted in getting him into it; where, leaving him under the care of several of his intimate friends, Commodore Bainbridge and myself left the grounds, and, as before agreed to, embarked on board the tender of theColumbusat the Navy Yard. It is due to Commodore Bainbridge to observe that he expressed his determination to lessen the danger to each by giving the words quick, with a hope that both might miss and that then their quarrel might be amicably settled.
Samuel Hambleton.
Commodore Bainbridge told of hearing the following conversation as Decatur and Barron lay beside each other bleeding on the ground.
"Barron," said the Commodore, "we both, I believe, are about to appear before our God. I am going to ask you one question. Answer it if you feel inclined.... Why did you not return to America upon the outbreak of hostilities with England?"
Barron was suffering great agony, but he turned and spoke clearly in a low tone. "Decatur, I will tell you what I expected never to tell a living man. I was in an English prison for debt!"
"Ah, Barron," returned Decatur, "had I known that, had any one of your brother-officers known it, the purse of the service would have been at your disposal, and you and I would not have been lying here to-day."
"Had I known you felt thus," answered Barron, "we would have no cause to be here."
Sad words these, sad unfortunate words, because they came too late. Poor Decatur! he died at half past ten o'clock that night. When he was struck by the ball which lodged in his abdomen, he is said to have spoken thus, "I am hurt mortally, and wish that I had fallen in defence of my country." Yes, that was his great sorrow; he saw the uselessness of it all.
So much for the code duello, so much for false pride and extreme ideas of what should touch one's honor. Can we think that such things really happened, and so short a time ago! Have we not reason to rejoice that it is all over? That people no longer start at the sound of shots in shady lanes, run across tragedies on lawns or in tavern courtyards? There is just another word or so to add that points a stronger moral and rounds up the chapter: Joseph Bainbridge fell also in a duel. He, alas, had many of them; but like all the rest, there was a last one. The public mourned many times because good men were lost for causes in which the nation had no interest and that could have been passed by with a wave of the hand. A sad history that of "the field of honor."
DARTMOOR
The word "Dartmoor" means little to the ear of the American of this generation, for it is the name of a town on the bleak open stretches back from the sea in Devonshire. But during our war with England, and for a long time afterward, the word "Dartmoor" brought up much the same kind of recollections that "Andersonville" or "Libby" does to-day. It was the prison where England kept in confinement those unfortunates that the fate of war had thrown upon her hands. It was a safe seclusion, indeed, and for the better explanation of the story that is to be told here, it might be well worth the while to tell in a few words what manner of place it was. Surrounding an enclosure, circular in shape, and containing about eight acres, was a high stone wall, where the sentries patrolled their beats, where they could look down into the courtyards of the gloomy prison buildings some twenty feet below them. The enclosure was divided into three partitions, by walls that crossed the main space diagonally, and through which there were grated gateways leading from one department to the other. The buildings, seven in number, radiated from a common point like wheel spokes. They were built of brick, with small iron-barred windows, and in the entrance archway, leading from one yard to another (each building had a separate yard), there were always stationed after sunset two armed sentries with primed muskets. While the occupants of any one building had access to all parts of it and to the others during the daytime, it was difficult, indeed, to make a journey, or pay a visit, after nightfall.
Here were confined six thousand prisoners, and here were suffered hardships without number. There would be scarcely space to tell of the prison life, but some there were there who had been immured so long that they had almost forgotten that they had lived anywhere else. They had become so resigned to the lot of a prisoner of war, that they had begun to doubt if they should ever see their own beautiful country again. From the upper windows of the prisons, the view above the walls was nothing but a stretch of bleak, rolling country, treeless and barren—the Dartmoor heaths. The inmates had formed a government among themselves; as was done in most military prisons, many worked at their trades, as well as they could; they had markets in which they sold their wares; they had theatrical companies, which served to keep up their spirits, and lighten the dreary hours; but there was one thought in the hearts of all: the day when they should receive their liberty. Many were never to see that day.
There was a young sailor confined in the prison building known as No. 5. His strong constitution and his youth had kept him in a fair state of health for one who had been so long in close confinement, for he had been captured in a privateer in the first year of the war. Many times had he thought of his far-away home on the hills above the old town of Salem. He was popular with his fellow-prisoners, and had been a leader among them in their sports and pastimes. George Abbott was his name. He was but six and twenty years of age, and yet he had followed the sea for over twelve. When he had been captured there had been taken with him a young lad of but eighteen, who had run away from a comfortable home and a loving family, to enlist on board the privateer, but he was not of the tough fibre of which the sailor should be made, and since his arrival in prison he had been gradually succumbing to the effects of his long imprisonment. Between Abbott and this young man there had grown up a deep affection. The sailor had shielded the landsman from much of the rough treatment of the forecastle while on board ship, and now that they were prisoners together, they had been constant companions; but it was plain to see that the younger of the two would not last long enough to see the dawn of liberty unless it came quickly. He had grown so weak that by the middle of February, 1815, it was expected by all that every day he would be taken from the prison buildings and sent to the Depot Hospital, from which, alas, few ever returned. But Abbott nursed him carefully, and watched over him with all the care of an elder brother, trying to be always cheerful.
March came, and with it the gloomy mists that rose from all around settled down on the gloomy heaths, shrouding the prison buildings in impenetrable clouds. It was hard to keep either dry or warm. Those fortunates who owned little stoves would huddle around their handful of fire, but the prisons being unheated and unprovided with chimneys, the stoves were very small, their little pipes being led out of the windows.
Lying in a hammock that had been swung low, so that its occupant almost lay upon the floor, was the young landsman. He stretched out his hand toward the roughly made brazier of sheet iron, and so thin were they that they looked more like claws than the fingers of a human being.
"Lord help us and deliver us," he murmured.
"Hallo, Harvey," cried a voice, breaking in upon his prayer. "I didn't expect to be so long. We've waited a long time, but here it is, my lad, and now let's begin. Shall I pitch in first? I ain't much of a reader."
He held aloft in his hand a copy of a smudgy, dog-eared book, smirched and torn by constant handling.
"We've been waiting our turn on this for three weeks, now. Sam Jordan, he promised to get it for me though, and so he did."
"What's the name?" inquired the pinched-faced lad in the hammock.
"It's R-a-s-s-e-l-a-s," was the response. "I dunno how to pronounce it, but they say as how it's good reading. Say the word, and I'll fire away."
He flung himself down on the floor and opened the pages. It was storming hard outside, and the rain beat against the roof and poured from the gutters down on the stone courtyard. There was just enough light to see the print, if one was not afraid of ruining one's eyes, and Abbott began:—
"'Ye who listen with credulity to the whispers of fancy and pursue'——" He had read as far as the first half-page, when suddenly the sick man put out his hand and touched him on the shoulder.
"Listen," he said hoarsely, "what's that going on below?"
Some one on the floor beneath had given a loud staccato whoop. It was followed by another, and then by an increasing murmur of voices. The sailor had risen to his knees and dropped the book.
"Some skylarking or tomfoolery," he said; "or perhaps it's the Rough Alleys," he added.
The "Rough Alleys" was the name given to the gangs of hard customers and those of the lower order of prisoners who had been compelled by their more circumspecting and better behaved companions to mess by themselves, and to generally toe the mark, as much as possible. Occasionally, however, they would break out in some sort of raid or riot that would require suppressing, and it was to this habit of theirs that Abbott referred. But this time he was mistaken.
"Listen to that!" he cried, all at once springing to an erect position. A roaring, rousing cheer came up from below, and then from the other buildings they heard it echoed.
The invalid arose from his hammock.
"Stay here," cried Abbott; "I'll fetch the news to you."
He hastened to the head of the stone stairway. A breathless man dressed in fantastic rags met him half-way up.
"What's the row, Simeon?" asked Abbott, in excitement.
"Heard the news, messmate?" the man cried in answer. "Heard the news? There's peace between America and England!"
There came a strange sound from the head of the stairs. The young prisoner had heard the words, and Abbott was just in time to catch him in his arms as he plunged forward senseless.
What had these men expected? These prisoners who had danced and sung and gone wild with delight and joy at the message that had been brought to them that bleak March day? Why, liberty at once. They were going to return to their homes. It was freedom! And did they get it? Listen! There is more to tell. Here begins the story:—
Of course it was not to be supposed that the British government should at once set these prisoners free, as one might set free birds from a cage by opening the door and allowing them to fly. It was a grave question what was to be done with them, and there is no use denying the fact that the United States, or at least its representative in England, was in a great measure responsible for what subsequently occurred. Ten days went by, and there was nothing done. In that space of time the men's spirits sank to zero. Had their country deserted them? Had their fellow-citizens forgotten them? It was past believing that such things could be. And it was just at this time that there was most complaint, arising from the quality of the bread and the insufficiency of the food supplied by the prison authorities. The Governor of the Depot, as it was called by the English, was a Captain Shortland, a man so well hated and despised by those under him that if murderous looks had the power to kill, he would long ago have been under the sod. Many of the prisoners, as they had caught glimpses of him, had longed to sink their fingers into his throat, and now they hated him worse than ever before. In the beginning of the second week information was sent the rounds of the prison, that the delay was occasioned by the difficulty that the representative of the United States government found in obtaining cartels, or vessels, to bring the released ones back to their own again. But the delay was bitter.
The poor sick boy had rallied a little during the first days after the arrival of the news of peace. Probably he supposed that he would be released at once, but as the days dragged on, and there were no signs of any change in their condition, he sank again into the unfortunate path of the men who slowly died because they had no hope.
From a condition of joyousness, the majority of the prisoners had relapsed into sullen anger—anger at their own country, and an increased hatred for the red coats who guarded them. Among so many prisoners of all classes there were, of course, men of all kinds and character: there were the ignorant and degraded, and those who could well lay claim to education and enlightenment. Harvey Rich, who was now so weak that he could scarcely totter from his hammock to the head of the stairway, had been prepared to enter Harvard College, when he had caught the fever of adventure and had run away to sea. At the request of the inmates of Prison No. 5, he had drawn up a letter addressed to Mr. B.—— (the American agent), requesting him to make all haste; and, at least, if he could do no more, to secure to them an additional supply of provisions, or make a monthly allowance of some kind to save the men from actual starvation. Anxiously was an answer awaited, but none came.
One day late in the month, when, for a wonder, the sun was shining brightly, there was a strange group gathered near one of the open windows on the top floor of Prison No. 5. Propped up by blankets, so as to get as much of the sunshine that came in at the grated window as possible, was Harvey Rich. Beside him sat the young seaman, and squatted on the floor near by was a remarkable-looking human being. His face was black, his dark hair was shorn close to his head, and a bandage made of a torn bandanna handkerchief was pushed up on his forehead. At first glance, one would have taken him for a negro, although his features showed no trace of African descent. The torn shirt that he wore was unloosed and open at the bosom. The skin which showed through from underneath was fair and white. Every now and then he would give a nervous start and look back over his shoulder.
"They almost had you last night, Simeon," said Abbott to the half-black man.
"Yes," returned the other; "I thought my jig was up, for sure; but, confound it! now that there is peace, I don't see why they wish to hound me any more. 'Tis that brute,—Shortland. He's angry at his lack of success as a man-catcher. I'd like to get my hands upon him,—only once, just once,—that's all."
Abbott happened to look out of the window at this instant.
"Egad!" said he, "your friends are out again."
From the grated bars, a view of the neighboring courtyard could be obtained. There was a sight that, when seen, used to make the prisoners' blood boil hotly. Three men, heavily manacled, were walking with weak steps to and fro along the narrow space enclosed between the high brick walls. The clanking of their chains could be heard as they moved. But as if this were not enough, beside them walked three sentries, with bayonets fixed. For half an hour each day, they made this sorrowful parade. It was their only glimpse of the sky and the sunlight, their one breath of fresh air during the twenty-four; and, as soon as it was over, they were hustled back to their place of confinement,—a dungeon known as the Cachet,—where no light could penetrate, and the only air that reached them was through the shaft of a disused chimney. No wonder that their eyes blinked and the tears rolled down their cheeks when they emerged into God's bright sunlight. No wonder that their haggard, pale faces grew each day more deathlike. These men were being killed by inches. For what crime? It will be shown. The man whom Abbott had addressed as "Simeon" had crawled to the window and was peeping cautiously out. A wild curse broke from him, as he viewed the sight.
"Look at poor Whitten," he said; "take note of him; he's not for long. He used to tell me that he knew that he was going mad. He's that already. See the poor devil jabbering."
He gave a shudder. It was only six weeks since he had walked to and fro in that same courtyard. There was a grated gateway at one end. It came within a few feet of the archway at the top. A silent crowd of prisoners were gathered there, closely watching the unfortunates. Well did they all remember the day when there were four of them; that day when, just as the prisoners turned, in following the footsteps of the sentries, one of them had left his companions, and, making a great leap of it, had clambered up the iron gate, and, manacled as he was, had thrown himself down among them.
Immediately they had carried him into one of the prison houses, where they had filed and removed his shackles, and had since hidden and protected him at great cost and sacrifice. Many of their privileges had been withdrawn because they would not give up this man; they had been routed out at night by files of soldiers; they had been counted and mustered, over and over again, and yet, among the many thousand who knew where Simeon Hays was hiding, there was not one so base as to betray him, not one to point the directing finger. All honor to them. Many were the disguises that Simeon had been forced to assume. He had been a mulatto mess-cook, speaking with the French accent of Louisiana; he had appeared as a black-faced yawping Sambo, who had cracked guffawing jokes on the heads of the searchers; he had passed a day and a night in a coffin-like space between the floor-beams, when they had him cornered, and yet they had not caught him.
And for what crime were these men treated thus? For a crime that was never proved against them. They had been taken by a British frigate from a recaptured prize, and shortly afterward the vessel had been found to be on fire. These men had been accused of attempting to blow up the ship and her company, and when they were sent to Dartmoor they were under sentence to close confinement. Here was Shortland's opportunity. His cruel and vindictive spirit rejoiced in carrying out the order, and it chagrined him deeply that one should have made his escape, and every day he attempted to locate his hiding-place and return him to the prison—to the torture of the dreaded Cachet.
Soon the half-hour's breathing space had expired, and the manacled ones had been withdrawn from sight. The prisoners flocked to their buildings for their midday meal. Hays, who had descended to the courtyard, had made all haste to return to No. 5, where he was then supposed to be hiding, although, owing to his bold disposition, he oftentimes made the range of the lot; and as he passed by the open space on this day, although he did not know it, a turnkey recognized him, and soon those in No. 5 Prison were alarmed by the cry "The guard is coming! Lie low, lie low!" But they found that the entrances were held by a squad of armed soldiers, and that this time Hays appeared certain to be apprehended. But search here or there, the soldiers could not find him. Many times had they stepped over his hiding-place in the floor.
Captain Shortland, who had been afraid to enter the building to personally conduct the search, remained outside with a strong guard. The disappointed officer reported at last that he was unsuccessful.
"Why don't you drive them from the building, then?" Shortland thundered.
"They are sailors, sir, and will not be driven by soldiers, they say. They seem to treat the whole affair as a great joke, laughing and scampering ahead of my men, and paying no attention to my orders."
"Run them through then," Shortland returned. "A little cold steel will teach a serviceable lesson!"
At this minute one of the turnkeys approached.
"I beg your pardon, sir," he said, saluting; "if you let me turn the men out in the usual manner, I think they will leave quietly, but you must withdraw the soldiers."
Reluctantly, Shortland gave the order, and the red coats filed out, drawing up in line, behind which he carefully placed himself. The turnkey entered the building alone. He had been an old boatswain in the service, and drawing a silver whistle from his pocket he piped all hands. Then in a stentorian voice he ordered the prisoners into the yard. They all obeyed, crowding out to the number of one thousand or more, and they filed past the soldiers in a compact body. One of the last to leave the building was Harvey Rich. He tottered down, alone, and joined the crowd, that stood packed in a sullen body, crowded within a few paces of the handful of soldiers, who stood with their muskets cocked and ready. Soon the officer returned from his fruitless search.
"The man cannot be found, sir," he said.
Shortland swore viciously.
"Turn them back in the building, then," he roared, "and keep them there without water. That will fetch them to their senses.—Back through that doorway, all of you," pointing with the heavy stick which he always carried, for he was a gouty man.
But the prisoners had heard his threat, and not one of them moved a step. There was a large trough of clear water in the yard, to which they had free access. The weather was warm and clear. Suddenly one of them stepped forward. All eyes turned upon him. It was George Abbott.
"We will not return there, under those conditions," he said loudly. "We will stay here, and die, first, every man Jack of us."
A movement began among the prisoners. They crowded in closer in the narrow space, and a murmur as of a subdued cheer arose among them. Shortland was furious.
"Seize that man," he cried; "seize him! He shall go without bread and water both."
No one moved.
"You cowards," he muttered. "I'll do it myself, then; make way here!"
He crowded through the file of soldiers and approached the sailor, who was standing there calmly, with folded arms. But before he had taken three short steps, something most unexpected happened. Harvey Rich, who was standing but a few feet away, stooped swiftly and picking up a loosened bit of the stonework of the courtyard, he hurled it full at Shortland's head. It would have killed him had it struck him, but it only grazed his cheek. Shortland halted and retreated hurriedly.
"Fire on them," he cried. "Take aim and fire."
Thirty or forty muskets were brought to the shoulder. But the young officer in command of the detachment kept his senses. Calmly he walked out to the front. He knocked up the muzzles with his unsheathed sword.
"Steady," he said. "As you were."
Shortland flung an oath at him, and turning to the red coats he screeched at the top of his voice:—
"Fire, you rascals, fire!"
Again the officer sprang forward and threw up the points of the muskets again.
"As you were; steady, men."
That cool authoritative tone saved a frightful scene; for had the volley been delivered at such close range, there is no telling how much slaughter had followed. But mark this: there would have been enough men left to strew the dismembered bodies of the red coats about the yard with no other weapons but their naked hands!
Shortland, stamping and fuming in anger, turned upon his heel, and hastened out through the gate. Immediately, the Lieutenant called his men to a shoulder arms, and marched them after him, he himself remaining until the last of the squad had passed under the archway. Then he drew a thankful breath. One or two of the sailors nearest the entrance saluted him. Gravely he touched his heavy bearskin hat. There was not a cheer or a sound of the usual merriment that might have accompanied the discomfiture of the "lobster backs." Every one had been too much impressed with the seriousness of the matter in hand. Yet, there was no one to chide Rich for his impetuous action. Silently they all returned to the prison, and once more Simeon Hays emerged from his hiding-place.
This night news was brought to the prisoners that the United States government was going to allow them the sum of seven shillings sixpence per head in addition to their rations given them by the Crown; also the news was circulated that the first cartel would start the following week, and the detachment of those going in her would be read at the morning's muster. The names were to be taken in alphabetical order. Again there followed great rejoicing in all of the prison buildings. Men whose names began with the first letters of the alphabet were in high spirits. They were congratulated and made much of; while the poor chaps who were to tail off the list were correspondingly depressed. A rather important occurrence took place on this night, also. Simeon Hays, who, as a special treat and in honor of the occasion, had washed the smut from his face, had been recognized and taken. Poor fellow, before his friends could interfere, he had been hurried off to the confinement of the Cachet. Before this news had circulated through the building, Rich and Abbott had held a long conversation. The former was objecting strenuously and earnestly to a proposition that the young sailor had made.
"I cannot think of such a thing," he remonstrated. "It would not be right——"
Abbott interrupted him, "What is the use, mess-mate, of talking about right, in such a case?" He lowered his voice, "Do you think I could go out and look any man square up and down if I left ye here? You've got to do it."
Rich shook his head weakly, "I can't think of doing such a thing," he murmured.
"We'll stow all further conversation," was the reply, and with that he got up and left Rich alone.
The next morning, in each prison, a number of names were read off until two hundred had been called. Abbott's was the first read in Prison No. 5. The lucky ones were told to get their dunnage ready and report at the prison entrance at half past ten. At the hour named, all were there.
"George Abbott," called out the officer in charge of the guard-room.
"Here," answered a weak voice, and to the surprise of those who knew him, Harvey Rich stepped forward. A moment later, and he had passed forth into the free air outside.
Abbott answered to his friend's name at the roll-call, and thereafter passed by the name of Rich. They would come to his name on the list some day, he reasoned, and he knew well enough that another week or so of prison life would have finished his young friend for good and all.
On the 3d of April, owing to the prison authorities trying to change the fare from soft bread to hardtack, there was a small riot among the prisoners, which, however, resulted in their obtaining their object by breaking down the barriers and raiding the bread-room. This did not increase Shortland's good humor, nor did the taunts levelled at the soldiery tend to improve the feeling existing between them and the triumphant sailors. On the sixth of the month, it was fine, clear weather, and the prisoners were put in good spirits by the news that Hays and his companions, the word of whose condition had reached higher ears than Shortland's, had been liberated and had left the prison. From all the various yards there was shouting and singing. The morning's "Liberty Party," as the sailors called the lucky ones who were to start for America, had been seen off, with rousing cheers. Those left behind were trying to amuse themselves by games and horseplay. A score or more were playing ball against the cross-wall dividing the barrack yard of the soldiers from that of No. 7. In some way, the ball, thrown by a careless hand, sailed across the barrier and fell almost at the feet of a sentry on the opposite side.
"Hi, there, Johnny Bull! heave it back to us," requested one of the men, through the iron grating. The sentry paid no attention, and soon there was a clamoring crowd surrounding the opening, beseeching the imperturbable red coat in all sorts of terms to "Be a good fellow, and toss back the ball."
"Just heave it over, Johnny," called one. "Don't you think you're strong enough?"
The sentry whirled angrily. "Come and get it, if you want it," he said.
"Can we?" shouted a half-dozen voices.
"I won't touch it," the sentry responded. With that, he resumed his beat, cursing the ball players for "a lot of troublesome Yankee blackguards."
Half laughing, the sailors had loosened one of the stones close against the wall, and by luck found that the ground was soft and yielding. The mortar, too, they were able to remove easily, and with such objects as they could pick up to help them, they fell to burrowing like rabbits. The sentry, who did not know what was going on, or how his words had been taken up, was surprised when suddenly he saw a man's head and shoulders appear at the base of the wall on his side.
"The prisoners are digging out!" he roared, firing his musket.
At once, the soldiers on the walls began firing, forming into squads and keeping up a constant shooting as long as any prisoners were in sight. Those in the central yard, known as the Market, not knowing the reason for the fusilade, and wondering why the alarm bell was ringing, did not retreat into their buildings; and the first thing they knew, Shortland himself appeared, entering the big gate at the head of a company of soldiers with fixed bayonets. They advanced at a double-quick step, the prisoners were so crowded together that they could not escape. Some, not seeing why they should be charged in this fashion, stood their ground. Shortland had lost all control of himself.
"Halt! Aim!" And before the astounded victims knew what was going to happen, he had given the word to fire.
A crashing volley sounded. When the smoke cleared away, wounded and dying men filled the yard. The rest, panic-stricken, had retreated into the buildings. Seven were killed and fifty-six were wounded! Poor Abbott, who had been trying to urge his comrades to hasten, was among the first to fall, shot through the lungs. As no one told of his exchange of names, he was buried under the name he had assumed, Harvey Rich. And what of the real owner of that name? Alas, he, poor fellow, also, did not live to see his home in the New Hampshire hills, for he died at sea not long after the cartel in which he was returning had set sail. He was sent overboard in the sailor's canvas shroud, and the name "George Abbott" was stricken from the list of liberated ones. Few knew the truth, and, perhaps, few there were who cared.