Chapter 9

_The Arrow and the Raker._

The immense injury done to the English service by American privateers, no less than the splendid victories obtained by our regular navy, had at length awakened in the mind of our adversaries a proper respect for American prowess. They had learned that the stars and stripes shone upon a banner that was seldom conquered, and never disgraced. At this period of the war their attention was more particularly directed to the privateers, who seemed to be covering the sea. Almost every merchantman that sailed from an English port became a prize to the daring and active foe. The commerce of England was severely crippled, and anxious to punish an enemy who had so seriously injured the service, several frigates were fitted out to cruise especially against the American privateers; these were chosen with particular reference to their speed, and one which was the admiration of every sailor in the service, called the Arrow, had spoken the merchantman, just as it was entering the channel, a few days after its capture by the Raker. No definite information as to the present position of the privateer could be obtained from the merchantman, but having learned her bearings at the time she was lost sight of, the Arrow bent her course in the same direction, confident that if he could once come in sight of her he would find little difficulty in overhauling her.

It was a black, murky, windy day, with frequent gusts of rain, and a thick fog circumscribed the horizon, narrowing the view to a few miles in each direction. Toward evening the fog rose like a gathered cloud to westward, leaving that part of the horizon cloudless, and shedding down a bright light upon the waters. Had the look-out on the Arrow been on the alert he might have seen, directly under this clear sky, the topsails of the American privateer, but the honest sailor had just spliced the main-brace, and having deposited a huge quid of tobacco in his cheek, was lying over the crosstrees, in a state as completely _abandon_ as a fop upon a couch in his dressing-room.

All on the Raker, however, were on the broad look out, they knew they were nearing the shores of England, and liable at any time to come within sight of an enemy's cruiser as well as merchantman.

Lieut. Morris had for some time been anxiously scanning the horizon with his glass, and had caught sight of the frigate's topsails almost as soon as the fog lifted. As Captain Greene's wounds still in a great measure disabled him, the lieutenant still kept the command of the privateer. Unable to determine whether he had been seen by the frigate or not, he at once gave orders to bear off before the wind, hoping that even if such were the case, his little brig would prove superior in speed to the frigate.

As his brig wore off, with her white sails glittering in the flood of light, the worthy look-out on the Arrow had just raised his head to eject a quantity of the juice of the weed. His eyes caught sight of the sails as they rose and fell like the glancing wings of a bird; rubbing his eyes, he took another careful look, and then cried "sail in sight." The officer of the deck, as soon as he had got the bearings from the sailor, could plainly see her himself, and after swearing slightly at the look-out for not seeing her sooner, gave orders that all sail should be set in pursuit. As the fog rapidly lifted from the ocean, each vessel was able to determine the character of the other, and when the sun went down, leaving a cloudless sky, it was evident that the Arrow had gained on the privateer. Lieutenant Morris felt that his brig must be overhauled unless the wind should slacken. The breeze was now so powerful that, while it bore the frigate onward at its best speed, it prevented the privateer from making its usual way. Before a light breeze, Lieutenant Morris felt quite confident that he could sail away from any frigate in his majesty's service. He therefore calmly ordered every rag to be set that he thought the little brig would bear, and kept steadily on, trusting the wind would die away to a light breeze after the middle watch. It did indeed die away almost to a calm, and when the day broke, although the Raker had put a considerable distance between herself and the frigate, yet she lay in plain sight of her, the sails of both vessels flapping idly in the still air.

Morris knew that he must prepare for an attack from the frigate's boats, and consequently every gun on board was loaded with grape and canister, and carefully pointed; the captain of each gun receiving orders to be sure his first fire should not be lost, for that is always the most effective, and indeed often wins the battle, as many sea-fights will attest. Every sail was kept set, as this was a conflict in which it would be no disgrace for the privateer to run if favored by the wind.

The frigate had by this time lowered three boats, which were speedily filled by her brave seamen, and impelled by vigorous oarsmen toward the privateer. As it would occupy them nearly two hours to make the passage between the two vessels, the crew of the Raker paid no immediate attention to their progress, but quietly partook of their breakfast, and then girded themselves with their boarding cutlases, and made ready to defend to the death the little bark they all loved so well.

Lieutenant Morris watched with some anxiety for the moment to give orders to fire. If he could cripple and sink two of the boats, he felt confident that he could beat off all who would then attempt to board, as that would reduce the number of his foe nearly to his own number. The boats had now approached within half a mile of the privateer, evidently making vigorous efforts each to take the lead. All was silent on board the Raker, not the silence of fear, but of suspense. They looked with a feeling somewhat akin to pity upon the gallant seamen, many of whom were hurrying to death. Lieutenant Morris himself stood by the long gun, holding the match in his hand, and frequently taking aim over its long breech--another moment and the fatal volley would be sped, but even as he was about to apply the match, his quick eye saw the sails filling with the breeze, and with the true magnanimity of a generous heart he stayed his hand.

The light bark fell off gracefully before the wind, and in the hearing of the volley of curses, accompanied by a few musket-shots, from the boats, the graceful brig shot away from them, leaving them far in the wake. It was but a cap-full of wind, however, and again the privateer was motionless upon the calm waters. Alas for many a brave English heart! With a loud cheer from their crews the boats again came sweeping on.

"Boat ahoy!" shouted Morris, "'bout ship or I'll blow you out of water."

He was answered by a musket-shot, which struck his right arm lifeless to his side, compelling him to drop the match. Another moment and the foremost boat would be inside the range of the gun, but with a cool courage which belongs only to the truly brave, Lieutenant Morris picked up the match with his left hand, and though his wounded arm pained him excessively, without hurry or confusion he waited the dreadful instant when the gun would cover the boat--then the heavy gun sent forth its smoke and deadly missiles--as the dense cloud lifted from around the brig, he saw how terrible had been its effect; the foremost boat was cut in pieces, and of its gallant crew only here and there was one able to struggle with the waves; most had sunk under the deadly volley. A few were picked up by the hindmost boat, the second having pressed on with the valor characteristic of English seamen; they were met, however, by a heavy fire from the starboard guns, which had been depressed so as to cover a particular range, and the second boat like the first was shattered to pieces. The third busied itself in picking up the crew, and then lay on its oars, as if aware of the folly of attempting to board under such a terrible fire. It is seldom indeed that a boat attack is successful against a well armed and expecting vessel, and the attempt on the part of the Arrow may justly be considered rash, and doubtless arose from a hope that fortune would favor the assault, rather than from a confidence in its success.

Lieutenant Morris had no desire to shed more blood, and he therefore, after giving orders to load the long gun, kept his position by it, with his match ready, but forbore to hail the boat, well aware that any thing like a taunt from him would bring the gallant crew forward even to certain death, and confident that a few moments reflection would convince the officer of the boat that, if he should make the assault, he would more likely be a candidate for immortality than for promotion.

To such a conclusion did that worthy officer arrive, and having picked up all his wounded companions, his boat returned to the Arrow, the slow, heavy strokes of the oars showing how different were the feelings of those that held them, from the excited valor with which they pulled toward the privateer but a short hour before.

For the remainder of the day the two vessels held their relative positions, but the heavy clouds gathering over the western sky portended a storm of wind during the night, and the crew of the Raker felt no little anxiety, as they were well aware that the frigate being much the heaviest, would have every advantage over them in the chase. But there was but one way, and that was to run for it, not yielding till the last moment--for a sailor never yet sailed under the stripes and stars, that would not rather see his flag shot down by an enemy's ball, than strike it with his own hands.

The wind increased by the hour of sunset to so strong a blow, that it seemed impossible that the little privateer should escape the frigate--and it was not to be doubted that the two vessels would be alongside each other before morning; yet the Raker was saved, and by American hands.

On board the Arrow were several native-born American seamen, who had been pressed into the English service, and compelled to serve even against their own country. Three of these sailors were among the middle watch on board the frigate. They had watched the whole conduct of the Raker with a patriotic pride, and were in no slight degree vexed and disappointed when they saw that the frigate must in all probability overtake the little brig.

These three sailors were together in the bow of the frigate, the rest of the watch being on the look-out, or pacing up and down between decks.

"I say, Bill," says one, "isn't it too d--d bad that the little craft has got to be overhauled after all. She's given this cursed frigate a good run for it, anyhow."

"Yes she has; the old man has looked black all day, and sworn a little I guess; here he's kept all ready for a fight for the last two days--arm-chests on deck--cutlas-racks at the capstan and for'ard--decks sanded down--and haint got within a long shot yet. God bless the little brig, and the flag she sails under--the stars and stripes forever!"

"Yes, the stars and stripes--'tis just the handsomest flag that floats."

"By Heaven, and that's the truth! but avast now, Bill, can't we do any thing for the little craft ahead?"

"D--d if I see how, Hal; we can't shorten sail, for we should be seen; and we can't fire bow-chasers, for we should be heard--and those are all the ways I know on to deaden a vessel's speed."

"Bill, I've got my grapples hold on an idear. I recollect once, when I was a fishing in Lake Winnepisoge, in the old Granite State, where we used to anchor with a heavy stone, made fast to a rope, and sometimes we used to row with the stone hanging over the side, not hauled up."

"Well, Hal, what's all this long yarn about? If you call it an idear, it strikes me it's a d--d simple one."

"Why the yarn aint much, I think myself; and I shouldn't tell it on the forecastle in a quiet night, no how; but it's the principle of the thing, Bill--that's what's the idear."

"Well, shove ahead--they allers told me on shore, before I came to sea, that I hadn't got no principle--but that's no sign you haint."

"Now, boys, if we can only get some dead weight over the frigate's side, it will lessen her way you see, and the wind may lull enough before morning to give the little craft a chance to haul off."

"That's a fact, Hal; blast my eyes but they spoiled a good lawyer sending you to sea. But what can we make a hold-back of? And there's them cursed Britishers abaft, sitting on all the rope on deck."

"That's a poser!--no, I have it. Can't we drop these anchors?--that would do it."

"They'll make a confounded noise running through the hawse-holes; but let's try it, it's hard work for three men. Belay it round that pin, Hal! Better take two turns, 'cause if any body comes toward us, one more will hold it tight. I believe we shall do it."

"Do it--of course we will! aint we working for our country?"

The whistling of the wind through the shrouds, and the rushing of the waters over the deck, aided the seamen much in their noble achievement, and in a short time both anchors were run out to their full length. Fortunately for them, the watch was changed before it became apparent that the frigate was losing ground, and upon the after investigation of the matter, no suspicion fell upon their watch, and the perpetrators of the deed were never detected.

As any seaman knows, so heavy a dead weight on the bow of a vessel would materially lessen its speed; and by the morning's sun the privateer's topsails were but barely visible in the distance.

The commander of the Arrow was furious in his anger, and threatened to flog the whole of the last watch, as before they took charge of the deck, the frigate had neared the privateer so much as to give assurance of taking her; but, after a rigid examination, no one was punished, and all the captain could do was to keep a close eye on all his crew, trusting to discover the traitors at some future time.

As for the gallant Americans, they had the proud consciousness that though chained to an enemy's service, they had been able to serve their own country, perhaps more effectually than if fighting under her banner.

The wind slackened, and long before night the Raker was out of sight. She was not, however, to be frightened off her cruising ground by a narrow escape, and did not set sail for the States until she had a full cargo; and, being favored by fortune, reached her port in Chesapeake Bay, with wealth aboard for all hands, followed by three English merchantmen--the English ensign at their peaks, with the stars and stripes streaming over them.

The Raker had nearly prepared for another cruise, when she was stayed by rumors of peace being declared between the two nations; the report was soon confirmed, and the gallant crew of the Raker shook hands together over the news. They were glad, for the sake of their country, that the war was over, yet all had acquired a love for their wild and exciting life as privateersmen; and there was much that partook of a mournful nature in their feelings, as they thought that their number must be divided forever. Some of the crew entered the regular American Navy, some entered the merchant service; and a few, having sufficient wealth to purchase farms, made the attempt to be happy ashore, but after a short time declared it a lubberly sort of a life, and returned once more to "do business upon the waters."

Lieutenant Morris purchased the Raker, and made one more cruise in her--not for war, nor for gold, but for his lady-love. She who had risen like a Naiad from the wave to be his bride. A year had passed since he had seen her, and though he doubted not her truth, it was with an anxious heart that he drew near the shores of England. He feared lest some hand might yet dash the cup of happiness from his lips--perhaps the unseen hand of death.

Mr. Williams's name was once more good on 'change; and his fair daughter had once more seen crowds of suitors thronging their doors, among them were the titled and the proud, who gladly laid at her feet their titles and their pride--but still her heart beat true to the young sailor, though her father now and then ventured to hint that she had better accept the hand of Lord Augustus this, or Sir George Frederick that, remarking that likely enough her lover had got killed before the close of the war; and that if she did not be careful, she might never get a husband of any kind. At these remarks, half expostulatory and half petulant, from her worthy father, Julia would smile very quietly, telling him she was sure her young sailor was alive, and would soon be at her feet.

She was right in her prescience. The gallant sailor before another week had passed, after her father's expostulations, had cast anchor in the Thames--and without difficulty found the residence of Mr. Williams. Julia presented him to her visiters with pride, for, in the fashionable dress of the day, his appearance was more brilliant and graceful than any one of her titled suitors. These soon discovered how matters stood between the young American and the fair Julia. Some were wise enough to retreat from the field with good grace; but vigorous attempts were made to drive the lieutenant from the course by two or three others, who could illy bear their disappointment; but the firm and haughty bearing of Morris had its due effect upon them, and one by one they dropped away, until the old merchant, who had not at first received the lieutenant with much satisfaction, acknowledged to his daughter that she had better marry him if she wanted any body, as he was the only one left. To this Julia assented readily, and their hands were joined as their hearts had long been; and the blessing of the old merchant pronounced upon them, as he saw the happiness which beamed from his daughter's eyes, as she gazed up from the altar that had heard her willing vows.

Long years have since then joined the irrevocable past. Mr. Williams lived several years, to witness the happiness of his child, but could never be persuaded to visit America. He had no doubt, he said, but that it was a very fine country, and he would go and see it, if it wasn't for crossing the sea, and that he wouldn't do for nobody. After he had been gathered to the dead, his children resided entirely on the family estate of the Morris's, in New Jersey, where, at this day, they still reside, surrounded by children with the lofty port of their father, and the flashing eye of their mother. The tale of the pirate's death, and the fate of poor Florette, is a tale that never wearies their fire-side circle, and there, tears are still shed for the dark scourge of the ocean, and his devoted mistress; and very often is an old and gray-headed man, in whom the reader would hardly recognize our old friend, John, asked to recount his perilous achievements on the pirate's deck, and his wonderful escape, obtained by his own right arm.

THE BATTLE OF LIFE.

BY ANNE C. LYNCH.

There are countless fields, the green earth o'er, Where the verdant turf has been dyed with gore; Where hostile ranks, in their grim array, With the battle's smoke have obscured the day; Where hate was stamped on each rigid face, As foe met foe in the death embrace; Where the groans of the wounded and dying rose Till the heart of the listener with horror froze, And the wide expanse of crimsoned plain Was piled with heaps of uncounted slain-- But a fiercer combat, a deadlier strife, Is that which is waged in the Battle of Life.

The hero that wars on the tented field, With his shining sword and his burnished shield, Goes not alone with his faithful brand:-- Friends and comrades around him stand, The trumpets sound and the war-steeds neigh To join in the shock of the coming fray; And he flies to the onset, he charges the foe, Where the bayonets gleam and the red tides flow, And he bears his part in that conflict dire With an arm all nerve and a heart all fire. What though he fall? At the battle's close, In the flush of the victory won, he goes With martial music--and waving plume-- From a field of fame--to a laureled tomb! But the hero that wars in the Battle of Life Must stand alone in the fearful strife; Alone in his weakness or strength must go, Hero or coward, to meet the foe: He may not fly; on that fated field He must win or lose, he must conquer or yield.

Warrior--who com'st to this battle now, With a careless step and a thoughtless brow, As if the day were already won-- Pause, and gird all thy armor on! Dost thou bring with thee hither a dauntless will-- An ardent soul that no fear can chill-- Thy shield of faith hast thou tried and proved-- Canst thou say to the mountain "be thou moved"-- In thy hand does the sword of Truth flame bright-- Is thy banner inscribed--"For God and the Right"-- In the might of prayer dost thou wrestle and plead? Never had warrior greater need! Unseen foes in thy pathway hide, Thou art encompassed on every side. There Pleasure waits with her siren train, Her poisen flowers and her hidden chain; Flattery courts with her hollow smiles, Passion with silvery tone beguiles, Love and Friendship their charmed spells weave; Trust not too deeply--they may deceive! Hope with her Dead Sea fruits is there, Sin is spreading her gilded snare, Disease with a ruthless hand would smite, And Care spread o'er thee her withering blight. Hate and Envy, with visage black, And the serpent Slander, are on thy track; Falsehood and Guilt, Remorse and Pride, Doubt and Despair, in thy pathway glide; Haggard Want, in her demon joy, Waits to degrade thee and then destroy; And Death, the insatiate, is hovering near To snatch from thy grasp all thou holdest dear.

In war with these phantoms that gird thee round No limbs dissevered may strew the ground; No blood may flow, and no mortal ear The groans of the wounded heart may hear, As it struggles and writhes in their dread control, As the iron enters the riven soul. But the youthful form grows wasted and weak, And sunken and wan is the rounded cheek, The brow is furrowed, but not with years, The eye is dimmed with its secret tears, And streaked with white is the raven hair; These are the tokens of conflict there.

The battle is ended; the hero goes Worn and scarred to his last repose. He has won the day, he conquered doom, He has sunk unknown to his nameless tomb. For the victor's glory, no voice may plead, Fame has no echo and earth no meed. But the guardian angels are hovering near, They have watched unseen o'er the conflict here, And they bear him now on their wings away, To a realm of peace, to a cloudless day. Ended now is earthly strife, And his brow is crowned with the Crown of Life!

SUPPLICATION.--TWO SONNETS.

BY FAYETTE ROBINSON.

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

I.

Hearts will sigh. The burdens of distress Weigh on us all. E'en from the natal hour The purest soul some hidden cares oppress, O'ertasking far our vain and feeble power. Clouds o'er each mountain summit ever lower, And gloom enwraps each hushed and quiet vale: Bright eyes grow dim, each rosy cheek grows pale, For change is earth's inevitable dower. Then the crushed soul, forgetful of its pride, Turns from itself to what it may not see But knows exists, for safety and for aid. And well it is that we may lay aside Our burdens thus, and in humility Pray at a shrine where prayer was ne'er denied.

II.

And in that hour of weariness of soul, Not 'mid a marble aisle, 'neath vaulted domes, The stricken heart for aid and refuge comes; But where from lonely hills bright torrents roll, And placid lakes reflect the moon's bright ray, Striving with clouds that ever seem to sway Like ocean waves. When heaven's great scroll Is spread before us does the heart unfold Its agony to God's all-searching eye, And pray to him to shield it from distress. Then o'er the heart comes hopefulness again, As moonbeams rush from out the clouded sky: The brow grows bright, the spirit dares to bless The unseen hand that loosed its heavy chain.

A VISION.

BY E. CURTISS HINE, U. S. N.

[This piece was composed during a tremendous storm off Cape Horn, on board the frigate "United States" in 1844.]

Night from her gloomy dungeon freed, Had chased the lingering light away, The landscape, clad in widow's weed, Mourned o'er the couch of dying day; Bright-shielded Mars, who leads the host That watch around God's burning throne, Placed sentinels on every post, Whose beaming eyes upon me shone!

The tears of eve were falling fast, With diamonds spangling every flower, Whose gentle fragrance round was cast, Like incense in some Eastern bower. The wearied hind had left his plough To rest within its furrowed bed, And on full many a waving bough Was heard the night-bird's lightest tread.

All else was still, save Nature's voice, That whispered 'mid the waving trees, And bade my lonely heart rejoice; While oft the playful evening breeze, Came o'er the moonlit Hudson's tide, And brushed it with its playful wing, As swift it hurried by my side, Perchance in angel's bower to sing.

Afar the Highlands reared a wall, To keep the clouds from passing by, There, in a mass were gathered all, Impatient gazing on the sky; Where sister-cloud escaped was free, Sailing the heaven's blue ocean o'er, Like lonely frigate on the sea, That seeks some fair and distant shore.

Where Summer's busy hand had wove A shady roof above my head, I sat me down and eager strove, To spy the rebel cloud that fled. I saw it soon, with wondering eye, Take to itself a female form, And hover toward me from on high, As fall the leaves in Autumn storm. Her dress was like the mantle fair Which Autumn to Columbia brings, And bids the moaning forest wear, With rainbow hues of angel's wings; Her voice was like the witching strain Which laughing streamlets gayly sing When Summer o'er the ripening grain Spreads wide her warm and golden wing.

The rustling of her snowy wing Was like the music of the breeze, That seraphs mimic when they sing: 'T was sweet as when an organ's keys Are touched by angel's hand at night, When all the earth in slumber share, And glimmering grave-yard meteors light The church while spirits worship there.

Softly she spoke--"Awake! arise! Thy doom is sealed, thou long must roam Where ocean surges wet the skies, And where the condor makes his home! Thou'lt gaze on many a cloudless sky, Where deathless Summer sweetly smiles, Like restless swallow thou shalt fly Where ocean's breast is gem'd with isles,

"Thy feet shall track the forests wide, Like vast eternity unshorn, Where great Missouri's arrowy tide On pebbled couch is borne. But when the World's imperial brow Shall frown like wintry sky, Then seek my cloud-winged bark, and thou Shalt soar with me on high!"

She paused and vanished--but her form In Heaven's blue lake I hail, When oft before the raging storm The clouds in squadron sail; And when the fleet can live no more, But in a mass are thrown, On the horizon's circling shore She skims the air alone!

MARY DUNBAR.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE THREE CALLS."