Chapter 17

The _King George_ had fourteen guns and eighty men, but this did not worry staunch and nervy Silas Talbot. He started in pursuit of her, as soon as he learned of her whereabouts, and, before many days, sighted a sail just off the New York coast, which was hoped to be the vessel of the renegade.

Mile after mile was passed. Hour by hour the _Argo_ ploughed after the silvery sails, until, late in the afternoon, the stranger hovered near a shallow harbor on the coast, and seemed to await the on-coming privateer with full confidence.

The _Argo_ boomed along under a spanking sou'wester and, sailing near the stranger, to the keen eyes of Talbot came the welcome sight of _King George_ painted upon the stern of the rakish privateer.

"All hands man the guns," cried he. "We'll sink th' rascally Hazard with all his crew, unless he strikes. She's got more men and guns, but what care we for that. Take hold, my Hearties, and we'll soon make her know her master."

The _King George_ seemed to welcome the coming fight; she luffed; lay to; and her men could be seen standing ready at the polished cannon. Now was one of the strangest battles of American sea history.

The _King George_ cruised along under a full spread of canvas, jibbed, came about upon the port quarter of the stranger, and ran up to within shooting distance, when a broadside was poured into the deck of the rolling _Argo_. She replied with her own fourteen guns, and, before they could be reloaded, the _King George_ struck her alongside; the American seaman swarmed across the rail; and--if we are to believe a historian of the period--"drove the crew of _King George_ from their quarters, taking possession of her, without a man on either side being killed." Hats off to the doughty Silas Talbot for this brave adventure! Did you ever hear of such a fight with no man ever being slaughtered?

Again rang the fame of Silas Talbot, but he was not to rest long upon laurels won. The British privateer _Dragon_--of three hundred tons and eighty men--was hovering near Providence, Rhode Island, hungry and eager for unprotected merchantmen.

"I'll have to strike her," said Captain Talbot.

It was a beautiful day in June. As the _Dragon_ drowsed along listlessly a dozen miles off the shore, her topsails barely filling in the gentle southerly breeze, the watch suddenly stirred, and sang out in no gentle tones,

"Sail ho, off the starboard! Looks like Captain Talbot of the _Argo_!"

The captain came bounding from his cabin, glass in hand.

"Sure enough," said he, scanning the white sails upon the horizon. "It's Talbot and we're in for a tight affair. All hands prepare for action!"

There was noise and confusion upon the deck of the privateer as the guns were sponged, charges were rammed home, and all prepared for battle. Meanwhile, the stranger came nearer, and rounding to within striking distance, crashed a broadside into the slumbering _Dragon_, who had not yet shown her fangs.

_Crackle! Crackle! Boom!_

The small arms from the Britisher began to spit at the advancing privateer, and seven of her fourteen guns rang out a welcome to the sailors of Rhode Island. The solid shot ploughed through the rigging, cutting ropes and spars with knife-like precision.

"Round her to on the port quarter!" shouted Captain Talbot, "and get near enough for boarding!"

But, as the _Argo_ swung near her antagonist, the _Dragon_ dropped away--keeping just at pistol-shot distance.

"Run her down!" yelled the stout Rhode Islander, as he saw this manoeuvre of his wily foe. Then he uttered an exclamation of disgust, for, as he spoke, a bullet struck his speaking trumpet; knocking it to the deck, and piercing it with a jagged hole.

"Never mind!" cried he, little disconcerted at the mishap. "Give it to her, boys!"

Then he again uttered an exclamation, for a bounding cannon ball--ricochetting from the deck--took off the end of his coat-tail.[1]

[1] A true incident vouched for by two historians.

"I'll settle with you for that," yelled the old sea-dog, leaping to a cannon, and, pointing it himself, he touched the fuse to the vent. A puff of smoke, a roar, and a ball ploughed into the mainmast of the rocking _Dragon_.

Talbot smiled with good humor.

"Play for that, my brave fellows," he called out, above the din of battle. "Once get the mainmast overside, and we can board her."

With a cheer, his sailors redoubled their efforts to sink the _Dragon_, and solid shot fairly rained into her hull, as the two antagonists bobbed around the rolling ocean in this death grapple. Thus they sparred and clashed for four and a half hours, when, with a great splitting of sails and wreck of rigging, the mainmast of the _Dragon_ trembled, wavered, and fell to leeward with a sickening thud.

"She's ours!" yelled Captain Talbot, through his dented speaking trumpet.

Sure enough, the _Dragon_ had had enough. Her wings had been clipped, and, in a moment more, a white flag flew from her rigging.

"The _Argo_ is sinking! The _Argo_ is sinking!" came a cry, at this moment.

"Inspect the sides of our sloop," cried Talbot.

This was done, immediately, and it was found that there were numerous shot-holes between wind and water, which were speedily plugged up. Then, bearing down upon the crippled _Dragon_, she was boarded; a prize-crew was put aboard; and the _Argo_ steered for home, her men singing,

"Talk about your gay, old cocks, Yankee, Doodle, Dandy, 'Si' Talbot he can heave the blocks, And stick like pepp'mint candy.

"Yankee--Doodle--Shoot and kill, Yankee--Doodle--Dandy, Yankee--Doodle--Back an' fill, Yankee--Doodle--Dandy."

Silas Talbot, in fact, had done extremely well, but, not content with his laurels already won, he soon put out again upon the _Argo_, in company with another privateer from Providence, Rhode Island, called the _Saratoga_; which sailed under a Captain Munro. They were not off the coast more than two days when they came across the _Dublin_; a smart, English privateer-cutter of fourteen guns, coming out of Sandy Hook. Instead of running away, she ploughed onward, and cleared for action.

The _Argo_ and the _Saratoga_ ran in upon the windward quarter and banged away with audacity. The fight lasted for an hour. Then--as the _Argo_ tacked in closer in order to grapple and board--the _Saratoga_ was headed for the privateer. But--instead of coming in--she began to run off in the wind.

"Hard a-weather! Hard up there with the helm!" cried Captain Munro.

"It is hard up!" cried the steersman.

"You lie, you blackguard!" cried Munro. "She goes away lasking! Hard a-weather I say again!"

"It is hard a-weather, I say again, captain," cried the fellow at the tiller.

"Captain Talbot thinks that I am running away when I want to join him," cried Munro. "What the deuce is the matter anyway?"

"Why, I can tell you," cried a young Lieutenant. "You've got an iron tiller in place of the wooden one, and she's loose in the rudder head, so your boat won't steer correctly."

"Egad, you're right," said Munro, as he examined the top of the tiller. "Now, jam her over and we'll catch this _Dublin_ of old Ireland, or else I'm no sailor. We'll give her a broadside, too, when we come up."

The _Argo_, meanwhile, was hammering the Englishman in good fashion, and, as the _Saratoga_ pumped a broadside into her--raking her from bow to stern--the _Dublin_ struck her colors.

"Two to one, is too much odds," cried the English captain, as a boat neared the side of his vessel. "I could have licked either of you, alone."

And, at this, both of the American privateersmen chuckled.

Old "Si" Talbot was soon in another fight. Three days later he chased another sail, and coming up with her, found his antagonist to be the _Betsy_: an English privateer of twelve guns and fifty-eight men, commanded by an honest Scotchman.

The _Argo_ ranged up alongside and Talbot hailed the stranger. After a bit of talk he hoisted the Stars and Stripes, crying,

"You must haul down those British colors, my friend!"

To which the Scot replied:

"Notwithstanding I find you an enemy, as I suspected, yet, sir, I believe that I shall let them hang a little longer, with your permission. So fire away, Flanagan!"

"And that I'll do," yelled Talbot. "Flanagan will be O'Toole and O'Grady before the morning's over. For I'll beat you like an Irish constable from Cork."

So it turned out. Before an hour was past, the _Betsy_ had struck, the captain was killed, and all of his officers were wounded.

"Old Si"--you see--had had good luck. So well, indeed, had he fought, that in 1780 he was put in command of a good-sized vessel, the _General Washington_. In her he cruised about Sandy Hook in search of spoil.

One hazy day in August, the watch sang out,

"Several sail astern, Sir! Looks like a whole squadron!"

Talbot seized the glass and gazed intently at the specks of white.

"Egad! It _is_ a squadron," said he, at length. "And they're after me. Crowd on every stitch of canvas and we'll run for it."

So all sail was hoisted, and the _General Washington_ stood out to sea.

But the sails of the pursuers grew strangely clear. They came closer, ever closer, and Talbot paced the deck impatiently.

"Gad Zooks!" cried he, "I wish that I could fly like a bird."

He could not fly, and, in two hours' time the red flag on the foremast of a British brig was clear to the eyes of the crew of the privateer. When--an hour later--a solid shot spun across his bow, "Old Si" Talbot hove to, and ran up the white flag. He was surrounded by six vessels of the English and he felt, for once, that discretion was the better part of valor.

* * * * *

"Old Si" was now thrown into a prison ship off Long Island and then was taken to England aboard the _Yarmouth_. Imprisoned at Dartmoor, he made four desperate attempts to escape. All failed.

In the summer of 1781 he was liberated; found his way home to Rhode Island; and died "with his boots on" in New York, June 30th, 1813. The old sea-dogs of his native state still cherish the memory of "Capting Si;" singing a little song, which runs:

"He could take 'er brig or sloop, my boy, An' fight her like 'er man. He could steer 'er barque or barquentine, An' make her act jest gran! 'Ole Si' wuz 'er rip-dazzler, His flag wuz never struck, Until 'er British squadroon, Jest catched him in th' ruck.

"So drink 'er drop ter 'Ole Si,' Sky-high, Oh my! Drink 'er glass ter 'Ole Si,' th' skipper from our kentry. Give three cheers fer 'Ole Si,' Sky-high, Oh my! Give three cheers fer 'Ole Si,' th' pride o' Newport's gentry."

CAPTAIN "JOSH" BARNEY

THE IRREPRESSIBLE YANKEE

(1759-1818)

"Never strike your flag until you have to. And if you have to, why let it come down easy-like, with one, last gun,--fer luck."--_Maxims of 1812._

CAPTAIN "JOSH" BARNEY

THE IRREPRESSIBLE YANKEE

(1759-1818)

If you would hear of fighting brave, Of war's alarms and prisons dark, Then, listen to the tale I tell, Of Yankee pluck--and cruising barque, Which, battling on the rolling sea, There fought and won,--Can such things be?

It was about eight o'clock in the evening. The moon was bright, and as the privateer _Pomona_ swung along in the fresh breeze, her Captain, Isaiah Robinson of New York, laid his hand softly upon the shoulder of his first officer, Joshua Barney, saying,

"A ship off the lee-quarter, Barney, she's an Englishman, or else my name's not Robinson."

Barney raised his glass.

"A British brig, and after us, too. She's a fast sailer and is overhauling us. But we'll let her have a broadside from our twelve guns and I believe that we can stop her."

The _Pomona_ carried thirty-five men. Laden with tobacco for Bordeaux, France, she was headed for that sunny land,--but all ready for a fight, if one should come to her. And for this she carried twelve guns, as her first officer had said.

The British boat came nearer and nearer. Finally she was close enough for a voice to be heard from her deck, and she ran up her colors. A cry came from the black body,

"What ship is that?"

There was no reply, but the Stars and Stripes were soon floating from the mainmast of the American.

"Haul down those colors!" came from the Britisher.

There was no answer, but the _Pomona_ swung around so that her port guns could bear, and a clashing broadside plunged into the pursuer. Down came her fore-topsail, the rigging cut and torn in many places, and, as the American again showed her heels, the British captain cried out,

"All sail aloft and catch the saucy and insolent privateer!"

Then commenced one of the most interesting running actions of American naval history.

"The cursed American has no stern-gun ports," said the British sea-captain. "So keep the ship abaft, and on th' port quarter, where we can let loose our bow-guns and get little in return."

This was done, but--if we are to believe an old chronicler of the period--"The British crew had been thrown into such confusion by the _Pomona_'s first broadside that _they were able to fire only one or two shots every half hour_."

"By Gad," cried Joshua Barney to Captain Robinson, about this time, "let's cut a hole in our stern, shove a cannon through it, and whale the British landlubber as he nears us for another shot with her bow-chasers."

The captain grinned.

"A good idea, Barney, a good idea," he chuckled. "Now we can teach her to keep clear of us."

So a three-pounder soon poked her nose through the stern, and, when the proud Britisher again came up for one of her leisurely discharges, she received a dose of grape which made her captain haul off precipitously. Nor did he venture near again for another shot at the saucy fugitive.

When daylight came, sixteen guns were counted upon the British brig.

"By George!" shouted Barney. "See those officers in the rigging. She's a gun-ship--a regular ship-of-war."

But Captain Robinson laughed.

"That's an old game," said he. "They're tryin' to fool us into the belief that she's a real gun-boat, so's we'll surrender immediately. But see--she's drawin' near again--and seems as if she's about to board us from the looks of her crew."

Barney gazed intently at the stranger.

"You're right," said he. "Load the three-pounder with grape-shot."

"And here's a crow-bar as'll top it off nice," put in a sailor.

Captain Robinson laughed.

"Yes, spike her in, too. She'll plunk a hole clear through th' rascal," he cried. "I'll touch her off myself."

The British gun-boat drew nearer and nearer. Just as she was within striking distance--about ten yards--the three-pounder was touched off with a deaf'ning roar.

"So accurate was the aim," says an old historian, "that the British were completely baffled in their attempt; their foresails and all their weather foreshrouds being cut away."

"Give her a broadside!" called out Captain Robinson, as the brig sheered off in order to support its foremast, which tottered with its own weight; the rigging which supported it, being half cut away. And, as he spoke--the crew let drive a shower of balls and grape-shot. It was the last volley.

The _Pomona_ kept upon her course, while the white sails of the attacker grew fainter and fainter upon the horizon.

"I saw her name as she ranged in close to us," said Joshua Barney, slapping Captain Robinson on the back. "And it was the _Rosebud_."

"I reckon that _Rosebud_ has no thorns left," chuckled Captain Robinson, and he was still chuckling when the little _Pomona_ safely sailed into the harbor of Bordeaux in France. The voyage had been a success.

Here a store of guns, powder and shot was purchased, and, having shipped a cargo of brandy, and raised the crew to seventy men, the staunch, little vessel set sail for America.

Not three days from the coast of France the cry of "Sail ho!" startled all on board, and, upon the starboard quarter--loomed a British privateer. Upon nearer view she was seen to have sixteen guns and seventy men.

"All hands for a fight!" cried Robinson. "Don't let th' fellow escape."

Now was a hard battle. It lasted for full two hours, and--in the end--the Britisher struck, with twelve killed and a number wounded, while the American loss was but one killed and two wounded. The _Pomona_ kept upon her course, jubilantly.

But the saucy ship was not to have all smooth sailing. She was soon captured--by whom it is not known--and stout "Josh" Barney became a prisoner of war. In December, 1780, with about seventy American officers, he was placed on board the _Yarmouth_--a sixty-four-gun brig--and was shipped to England.

Now listen to the treatment given him according to a contemporaneous historian. Did you ever hear of anything more atrocious? Peace--indeed--had more horrors than war in the year 1780.

"From the time these Americans stepped aboard the _Yarmouth_ their captors gave it to be understood, by hints and innuendos, that they were being taken to England 'to be hanged as rebels;' and, indeed the treatment they received aboard the _Yarmouth_ on the passage over, led them to believe that the British officers intended to cheat the gallows of their prey, by causing the prisoners to die before they reached port.

"On coming aboard the ship-of-the-line, these officers were stowed away in the lower hold, next to the keel, under five decks, and many feet below the water-line. Here, in a twelve-by-twenty-foot room, with upcurving floor, and only three feet high, the seventy-one men were kept for fifty-three days, like so much merchandise--without light or good air--unable to stand upright, with no means to get away.

"Their food was of the poorest quality, and was supplied in such insufficient quantities, that, whenever one of the prisoners died, the survivors concealed the fact, in order that the dead man's allowance might be added to theirs. The water which they were served to drink was atrocious.

"From the time the _Yarmouth_ left New York till she reached Plymouth, in a most tempestuous winter passage, these men were kept in this loathsome dungeon. Eleven died in delirium; their wild ravings and piercing shrieks appalling their comrades, and giving them a foretaste of what they, themselves, might expect. Not even a surgeon was permitted to visit them.

"Arriving at Plymouth, the pale, emaciated men were ordered to come on deck. Not one obeyed, for they were unable to stand upright. Consequently they were hoisted up, the ceremony being grimly suggestive of the manner in which they had been treated,--like merchandise. And what were they to do, now that they had been placed on deck?

"The light of the sun, which they had scarcely seen for fifty-three days, fell upon their weak, dilated pupils with blinding force; their limbs were unable to uphold them, their frames wasted by disease and want. Seeking for support, they fell in a helpless mass, one upon the other, waiting and almost hoping for the blow that was to fall upon them next. Captain Silas Talbot was one of these unfortunate prisoners.

"To send them ashore in this condition was 'impracticable,' so the British officers said, and we readily discover that this 'impracticable' served the purpose of diverting the indignation of the land's folk, which sure would be aroused, if they knew that such brutality had been practiced under the cross of St. George (the cross upon the British flag).

"Waiting, then, until the captives could, at least, endure the light of day, and could walk without leaning on one another, or clutching at every object for support, the officers had them removed to the old Mill Prison."

This story has been denied, for the reason that the log of the _Yarmouth_ shows that she was forty-four and not fifty-three days at sea, and the captain writes:

"We had the prisoners 'watched' (divided into port and starboard watch) and set them to the pumps. I found it necessary so to employ them, the ship's company, from their weak and sickly state, being unequal to that duty, and, on that account to order them whole allowance of provisions."

It would have been impossible for men to be in the condition which the first historian describes if they had to man the pumps. It would have been impossible for them to have done an hour's work. Therefore, I, myself, believe the second story. Don't you?

But to return to stout "Josh" Barney, now meditating thoughts of escape in old Mill Prison. Bold and resourceful he was always, and he was now determined to face the difficulties of an exit and the chances of detection. "I must and can get away," he said.

The prisoners were accustomed to play leap-frog, and one day the crafty "Josh" pretended that he had sprained his ankle. Constructing two crutches--out of pieces of boards--he limped around the prison-yard and completely deceived all but a few of his most intimate friends.

One day--it was May the eighteenth, 1781--he passed a sentry near the inner gate. The fellow's name was Sprokett and he had served in the British army in America, where he had received many kindnesses from the country people. For this reason his heart warmed to the stout, young "Josh," who had often engaged him in conversation.

Hopping to the gate upon his crutches, the youthful American whispered,

"Give me a British uniform and I will get away. Can you do it?"

Sprokett smiled.

"Sure," said he.

"To-day?"

"Dinner."

And this meant one o'clock, when the warders dined.

"All right," whispered "Josh," smiling broadly, and he again hobbled around the yard.

After awhile the sentry motioned for him to come nearer. He did so--and as he approached--a large bundle was stealthily shoved into his arms. He hastened to his cell and there put on the undress uniform of an officer of the British army.

Drawing on his great-coat, he went into the yard and hobbled about upon his two sticks until the time drew near for the mid-day mess. Then he drew close to the gate.

One o'clock tolled from the iron bell upon the prison rampart, and, as its deep-toned echoes sounded from its tower, several of Barney's friends engaged the half-dozen sentries in conversation. It was the time for action.

The astute "Josh" suddenly dropped his crutches. Then--walking across the enclosure towards the gate,--he winked to the sentry. A companion was at hand. With a spring he leaped upon his shoulders. One boost--and he was on top of the walk. Another spring, and he had dropped to the other side as softly as a cat.

But the second gate and sentry had to be passed.

Walking up to this red-coated individual he placed four guineas (about $20.00) into his outstretched palm. The soldier smiled grimly, as the great-coat was tossed aside, and the shrewdest privateer in the American Navy walked towards the opening through the outer wall, which was usually left ajar for the convenience of the prison officials. Another sentry stood upon duty at this point.

Barney nodded. The sentry had been "squared" (told of the coming escape) and so he turned his back. Thus--with his heart beating like a trip-hammer--"Josh," the nervy one--walked down the cobbled street outside of the "Old Mill." He was free.