Part 2

Boyd's adventurous career under his own flag and in the service of his own people forms quite another though a scarcely less thrilling story. Trained and experienced officers being in those days few and far between, the government offered him the colonelcy of the 4th Regiment of Infantry, which he promptly accepted, displaying such energy in drilling his men that when his regiment marched through the streets of Boston on its way to Pittsburg the local papers commented editorially on the smartness of its appearance. When William Henry Harrison, then governor of the Territory of Indiana (which included the present States of Indiana, Illinois, Michigan, and Wisconsin), realizing the imperative necessity of smashing the great Indian confederation which Tecumseh, the Shawnee warrior-statesman, was so painstakingly building to oppose the white man's further progress westward, called for troops to do the business, Boyd put his men on flat-boats, floated them down to the falls of the Ohio, and marched them overland to Vincennes, his dusty, footsore column tramping into Harrison's stockaded headquarters almost before that veteran frontiersman had realized that they had started. Boyd was in direct command, under Harrison, of the little expeditionary force of nine hundred men throughout the whirlwind campaign which culminated on a drizzling November morning in 1811 on the banks of the Tippecanoe River. Tippecanoe was, I suppose, the only battle which our army ever fought in high hats, for the absurd uniform of the American infantry, discarded a few months later, consisted of blue, brass-buttoned tail-coats, skin-tight pantaloons, and "stovepipe" hats with red, white, and blue cockades. Though taken by surprise and outnumbered six to one, Boyd's soldiery showed the result of their training by standing like a stone wall against the onset of the whooping redskins, pouring in a volley of buckshot at close range which left the hordes of warriors wavering, undecided whether to come on or to retreat. At this psychological moment Boyd ordered up the squadron of dragoons which he had been holding in reserve for just such an opportunity. "Right into line!" he roared in the voice which had resounded over so many fields in far-off Hindustan. "Trot! Gallop! _Charge!_ Hip, hip, here we go!" It was the charge of the cavalry, delivered with all the smashing suddenness with which a boxer delivers a solar-plexus blow, which did the business. The Indians, panic-stricken at the sight of the oncoming troopers in their brass helmets and streaming plumes of horsehair, broke and ran. Tippecanoe was won; Harrison was started on the road which was to end in the White House; the peril of Tecumseh's Indian confederation was ended forever, and the civilization of the West was advanced a quarter of a century.

In the following year, upon the outbreak of our second war with England, Boyd, who had been commissioned a brigadier-general, commanded a division of Wilkinson's army in the abortive American invasion of Upper Canada, and, on November 11, 1813, fought the drawn battle of Chrysler's Field. "Taps" were sounded to his picturesque career on October 4, 1830. He died, not as he would have wished, sword in hand at the head of charging squadrons, but quite peacefully in his bed, holding the prosaic position of port officer of Boston, to which post he had been appointed by that other gallant fighter, President Andrew Jackson. As the end approached I doubt not that in mind he was far away from the brick and plaster of the New England city, and that his thoughts harked back to those mad, glad days when he and his lancers rode across the plains of Hindustan and his elephants rocked and rolled behind him.

WHEN WE FOUGHT NAPOLEON

This is the story of some forgotten fights and fighters in a forgotten war. The governments of the two nations which did the fighting--France and the United States--refused, indeed, to admit that there was any war at all, and, in a sense, they were right, for there was never any declaration of hostilities, and there was never signed a treaty of peace. But it was a very real war, nevertheless, with some of the fiercest battles ever fought on deep water, and when it was over we had laid the foundations of a navy, we had won the respect of the European powers, and we had humbled the pride of Napoleon as it had been humbled only once before, when Nelson annihilated the French fleet in the battle of the Nile.

At the time that this narrative opens Bonaparte had just finished his wonderful campaign in northern Italy, and the French nation, flushed with confidence by his remarkable series of victories, was swaggering about with a chip on its shoulder, and defying the nations of the world to knock it off. In fact, the leaders of the Reign of Terror, drunk with unaccustomed power, had lost their heads as completely as the victims whom they had guillotined on the Place de la Révolution. Thoroughly typical of this insolent and arrogant attitude was the French Directory's peremptory demand that we instantly abrogate the treaty which John Jay, our minister to England, had just concluded with that country, basing its unwarrantable interference with our affairs on the ground that the terms of the treaty were injurious to the commercial interests of France. Upon our curt refusal to accede to this preposterous demand, Charles C. Pinckney, our minister at Paris, was notified by the French Government that it would hold no further intercourse with him, and the very next mail-packet brought the news that he had been expelled from France. Not content with this extraordinary and uncalled-for affront to a friendly nation, French cruisers began seizing our ships under a decree of their government authorizing the capture of neutral vessels having on board any of the products of Great Britain or her colonies, for at this time, remember, France and England were at war, as they were, indeed, throughout nearly the whole of Napoleon's reign. As the bulk of our trade at this period was with the British colonies in the West Indies, it was evident that this decree was aimed directly at us. Every packet that came from West Indian waters brought news of American ships overhauled and plundered, of sailors beaten and kidnapped, and of cargoes seized and confiscated by the French, the authenticated despatches to the State Department naming nearly a thousand vessels which had been captured. So bold did the French become that one of their privateers actually had the audacity to sail into Charleston Roads and, almost under the guns of the batteries, to burn to the water's edge a British vessel which was lying in the harbor.

Though it was evident that nothing short of a miracle could avert war, President Adams, appreciating the ill-preparedness of the United States, which had only recently emerged from the Revolution in a weakened and impoverished condition, determined to make one more try for peace by despatching to France a special mission composed of Minister Pinckney, Elbridge Gerry, and John Marshall, the last-named later Chief Justice of the United States. Though in all our diplomatic history we have sent abroad no more able or distinguished embassy, the reception its members received at the hands of the French Government was as disgraceful as it was ludicrous. The French Directory at this time was composed of low and irresponsible politicians of the ward-heeler type who had climbed to power during the French Revolution, so that, incredible as such a state of affairs may seem in these days, the negotiations soon degenerated into an attempt to fleece the American envoys, who were informed quite frankly that their success depended entirely upon their agreeing to bribe--or, as the French politely put it, to give a _douceur_ to--certain avaricious members of the Directory. Not only this, but the American diplomatists were told that, if the bribes demanded were not forthcoming, orders would be given to the war-ships on the French West Indian station to ravage the coasts of the United States. The chronicles of our foreign relations contain nothing which, for sheer impudence and insult, even approaches this attempt to levy blackmail on the nation. Even the astute Talleyrand, at that time French Foreign Minister, so far misjudged the characters of the men with whom he was dealing as to insinuate that a gift of money to members of the government was a necessary preliminary to the negotiations, and that a refusal would bring on war. Then all the pent-up rage and indignation of Pinckney burst forth. "War be it, then!" he exclaimed. "Millions for defence, sir, but not one cent for tribute!"

Upon learning of this crowning insult to his representatives, President Adams, on March 19, 1798, informed Congress that the mission on which he had built his hopes of peace had proved a failure. Then the war-fever, which had temporarily been held in abeyance, swept over the country like fire in dry grass. Talleyrand's attempt to whip America into a revocation of Jay's treaty had ignominiously failed. He had made the inexcusable mistake of underestimating the spirit and resources of his opponents. Congress promptly abrogated all our treaties with France, prohibited American vessels from entering French ports, and French vessels from coming into American waters, and voted a large sum for national defence. The land forces were increased, the coastwise fortifications strengthened, ships of war were hurriedly laid down, volunteers from every walk of life besieged the recruiting stations, Washington reassumed command of the army. At Portland, Portsmouth, Salem, Chatham, Norwich, Philadelphia, and Baltimore the shipyards resounded to the clatter of tools, for those were before the days of big guns and armor-plate, and a man-of-war could, if necessary, be built and equipped in ninety days.

Out from behind this war-cloud rose the thrilling strains of "Hail, Columbia." When the war-fever was at its height, a young actor and singer named Fox--a vaudeville artist, we should call him nowadays--who was appearing at a Philadelphia theatre, called one morning on his friend Joseph Hopkinson, a young and clever lawyer, and a son of that Francis H. Hopkinson whose signature may be seen at the bottom of the Declaration of Independence.

"Look here, Joe," said Fox, dropping into a chair, "I need some help and you're the only man I know who can give it to me. No, no, old man, it's not money I'm after. To-morrow night I'm to have a benefit at the theatre, but not a single box has been sold; so, unless something can be done to attract public attention, I'm afraid I shall have a mighty thin house. Now it strikes me that, with all this war-fever in the air, if I could get some patriotic verses, something really fiery and inspiriting, written to the tune of 'The President's March,' I might draw a crowd. Several of the people around the theatre have tried it, but they have all given it up as a bad job, and say that it can't be done. So you're my last hope, Joe, and I think you could do it."

Shutting himself up in his study, within an hour Hopkinson had completed the first verse and chorus of what was to prove one of the greatest of our national songs, and had submitted them to his wife, who sang them to a harpsichord accompaniment. The tune and the words harmonized. A few hours later the song was completed and was being memorized by Fox. The next morning Philadelphia was placarded with announcements that that evening Mr. Fox would sing, for the first time on any stage, a new patriotic song. The house was packed to the doors. As the orchestra broke into the familiar opening bars of "The President's March," and Fox, slender and debonair, bowed from behind the footlights, the audience grew hushed with expectancy. When the now familiar words,

"Immortal patriots, rise once more! Defend your rights, defend your shore!"

went rolling through the theatre from pit to gallery, the audience went wild. Eight times they made him sing it through, and the ninth time they rose and joined in the rousing chorus:

"Firm, united let us be, Rallying round our Liberty. Like a band of brothers joined, Peace and safety we shall find."

Night after night the singing of "Hail, Columbia," in the theatres was applauded by audiences delirious with enthusiasm, and within a few days it was being sung by boys in the streets of every city from Portland to Savannah. Never since the days of Bunker Hill had the nation been so stirred as it was in that summer of 1798.

On July 6, with the red-white-and-blue ensign streaming proudly from her main truck, the sloop of war _Delaware_, twenty guns, of Baltimore, under Stephen Decatur, Sr., put to sea to an accompaniment of booming cannon. Cape Henry had scarcely sunk below the horizon before she was hailed by a merchantman which had been boarded and plundered by a French privateer only the day before. Upon hearing this news Decatur set off in a pursuit as eager as that with which a bloodhound follows the trail of a fugitive criminal. A few hours later his lookouts reported four vessels dead ahead. Being unable to determine which was the privateer, he ran in his guns, closed his ports, and keeping on his course until he was sure that he had been seen, stood hurriedly off, as though afraid of being captured. Just as he had anticipated, the Frenchman fell into the trap, and piling on his canvas, bore down upon him. It was not until the privateersman drew close enough to make out the gun-ports and the unusual number of men on the American's decks, that he discovered Decatur's ruse and attempted to escape. But it was too late. The _Delaware's_ superior speed enabled her easily to overhaul the Frenchman, which proved to be _La Incroyable_, fourteen guns and seventy men. So accurate and deadly was the fire poured into her by the _Delaware's_ gunners (forerunners, remember, of those bluejackets who handle the twelve-inch guns on the dreadnaught _Delaware_ to-day) that within ten minutes after the action had commenced the French tricolor came fluttering down. We had struck our first blow against the power of France.

The captured vessel was sent into port under a prize crew, was refitted, added to the American Navy as the _Retaliation_--fitting name!--went to sea under command of William Bainbridge (the same who a few years later was to lose the war-ship _Philadelphia_ to the Barbary pirates in the harbor of Tripoli), and shortly afterward was recaptured by the French frigate _l'Insurgente_, being the only vessel of our little navy taken by the French.

By the beginning of 1799 the West Indian waters were as effectually patrolled by American war-ships as a great city is patrolled by policemen. The newly built American frigates were objects of great amusement and derision to the French and British officers stationed in the West Indian colonies, for they were far too heavily armed, according to European ideas, carrying almost double the number of guns usual to vessels of their class. It is interesting to recall the fact, however, that sixty-odd years later European officers were equally derisive and sceptical of another American innovation in war-ships which was destined to revolutionize naval warfare--the monitor. But before long the sceptics were compelled to revise their opinions of the fighting qualities of our infant navy. Our fleet was at this time divided into two squadrons, both of which made their headquarters at St. Christopher, or, as it was more commonly called, St. Kitts, on the island of Antigua; one, under Commodore Barry, running as far south as the Guianas, while the other, under Commodore Truxtun, cruised northward to Santo Domingo, thus effectually cutting off from commercial intercourse with the mother country the rich French colonies in the Caribbean.

Truxtun was a most picturesque and romantic figure. Short and stout, red-faced, gray-eyed, loud-voiced, gallant with women and short-tempered with men, he was as typical a sea fighter as ever trod a quarter-deck with a brass telescope tucked under his arm. From the time when, as a boy of twelve, he ran away to sea, until, a national hero, he was laid to rest in Christ Church graveyard in Philadelphia, his life was as full of hair-breadth escapes and hair-raising adventures as that of one of Mr. George A. Henty's heroes. A sailor before the mast when scarcely in his teens, he was impressed into the British Navy, where his ability attracted such attention that he was offered a midshipman's warrant, which he refused. When only twenty years of age he commanded his own ship, in which he succeeded, though at great personal hazard, in smuggling large quantities of much-needed powder into the rebellious colonies. Eventually his ship was captured and he was made a prisoner. Escaping from the British prison in the West Indies where he was confined, he made his way to the United States, obtained letters of marque from the first Continental Congress, and was the first to get to sea of that long line of privateersmen who, first in the Revolution, and afterward in the War of 1812, practically drove British commerce from the Atlantic. At the close of the Revolution Truxtun returned to the merchant service, in which he rose to wealth and position. When the American Navy was organized under the stimulus of French aggression, he was offered and accepted the command of the thirty-eight-gun frigate _Constellation_, a new and very beautiful vessel, splendidly officered and manned, and with heels as fast as her gun-fire was heavy.

While cruising off Antigua, on February 9, 1799, the _Constellation's_ lookout reported a French war-ship, which, upon being overhauled, proved to be _l'Insurgente_, forty guns, which had the reputation of being one of the fastest ships in the world, and was commanded by Captain Barreault, an officer celebrated in the French Navy as a desperate fighter and a resourceful sailor. As the _Constellation_, with her crew at quarters and her decks cleared for action, came booming down upon him, Captain Barreault broke out the French tricolor at his masthead and fired a gun to windward, which signified, in the language of the seas, that he was ready for a yard-arm to yard-arm combat. Truxtun's reply was to range alongside his adversary, a flag of stripes and stars at every masthead, and pour in a broadside which raked _l'Insurgente's_ decks from stem to stern. The first great naval action in which the American Navy ever bore a part had begun.

Waiting until the _Constellation_ was well abreast of her, at a distance of perhaps thirty feet (modern war-ships seldom fight at a range of less than three miles), _l'Insurgente_ replied, firing high in an attempt to disable the American by bringing down her rigging. Midshipman David Porter, a youngster barely in his teens, was stationed in the foretop. Seeing that the top-mast, which had been seriously damaged by the French fire, was tottering and about to fall, but being unable to make himself heard on deck above the din of battle, he himself assumed the responsibility of lowering the foretopsail yard, thus relieving the strain on the mast and preventing a mishap which would probably have changed the result of the battle. That midshipman rose, in after years, to be an admiral and the commander-in-chief of the American Navy.

Barreault, who had a much larger crew than his adversary, soon saw that his vessel was in danger of being pounded to pieces by the American gunners who were making every shot tell, and that his only hope of victory lay in getting alongside and boarding, depending upon his superior numbers to take the American vessel with the cutlass. With this in view, he ordered the boarding parties to their stations, sent men into the rigging with grappling-irons with which to hold the ships together when they touched, directed the guns to be loaded with small shot that they might cause greater execution at close quarters, and then, putting his helm hard down, attempted to run alongside the _Constellation_. But Truxtun had anticipated this very manoeuvre, and was prepared for it. Seizing his opportunity--and in sea-battles opportunities do not last long or come often--he whirled his ship about as a polo player whirls his pony, and ran squarely across the enemy's bows, pouring in a rain of lead as he passed, which all but annihilated the boarding parties drawn up on the deck of _l'Insurgente_.

Foiled in his attempt to get to hand-grips with his enemy, the Frenchman sheered off and the duel at short range continued, the _Constellation_, magnificently handled, sailing first along _l'Insurgente's_ port side, firing as she went, and then, crossing her bows, repeating the manoeuvre on her starboard quarter. Nothing is more typical of the iron discipline enforced by the American naval commanders in those early days than an incident that occurred when this duel between the two frigates was at its height. As a storm of shot from the Frenchman's batteries came crashing and smashing into the _Constellation_, a gunner, seeing his mate decapitated by a solid shot, became so demoralized that he retreated from his gun, whereupon an officer drew his pistol and shot the man dead.

Time after time Truxtun repeated his evolution of literally sailing around _l'Insurgente_, until every gun in her main batteries had been dismounted, her crew being left only the small guns with which to continue the action. It speaks volumes for Barreault's bravery that, with half his crew dead or wounded, and with a terribly battered and almost defenceless ship, he did continue the action, his weary, blood-stained, powder-blackened men loading and firing their few remaining guns dauntlessly. Seeing the weakened condition of his enemy, Truxtun now prepared to end the battle. Before the French had time to grasp the full significance of his manoeuvre, he had put his helm hard down, and the _Constellation_, suddenly looming out of the battle smoke, bore down upon _l'Insurgente_ with the evident intention of crossing her stern and raking her with a broadside to which she would be unable to reply. Though no braver man than Barreault ever fought a ship, he instantly appreciated that this would mean an unnecessary slaughter of his men; so, with the tears streaming down his cheeks, he ordered his colors to be struck, and in token of surrender the flag of France slipped slowly and mournfully down. The young republic of the West had avenged the insult of Talleyrand.