Part 57

The De Brock turned bottom up but a short distance from Cape Henlopen, carrying with her gold and jewels, rich bales of rare merchandise and folds of delicate, fragile lace, representing immense values. A few of the ship’s company succeeded in reaching floating remnants of wreckage and were rescued by their townspeople, who hastened to the rescue with beating hearts and sorrowful minds. Among the survivors was the gray-haired sailing-master, who lived to tell to his descendants and friends the many exciting incidents connected with the French-built craft that Drew had gained and commanded with consummate skill and gallantry.

The lifeless body of Capt. Drew, his jaunty uniform and gold epaulets entwined with seaweed, but scarcely marred by rock or sand shore, was found cast up on the beach, cold and rigid in death, his handsome features proud and exultant even in death, his curly brown hair streaming over the high collar of uniform coat, and his dark eyes wide open, staring fixedly at the lowering heavens.

On the extreme point of Henlopen, after a heavy gale has been raging and a fierce sea rolling in and thundering along the beach, fragments and debris of wreckage have often been cast up by the action of the waves, and it is current rumor in that vicinity that more than one individual who now ranks as a leading and influential man owes success and prominence to James Drew’s misfortune and the treasure washed out by the sea from amid the sodden timbers of the ill-fated De Brock. The wreck of that vessel is but one instance in a long list of similar disasters.

At the close of the Revolution, a brig laden with specie was wrecked in close proximity to the cape, and was followed soon after by a huge Spanish treasure ship, her hold well ballasted with pieces of eight and stamped bars of the precious metal. Another Spanish bark laden with the choicest treasures from the land of the Incas came to grief on the treacherous shoals one dark and stormy night, but three escaping to tell the tale of horror.

BURNING OF THE FRIGATE PHILADELPHIA IN THE HARBOR OF TRIPOLI BY STEPHEN DECATUR.

Among the exploits of our sailors there is one which for daring is almost unparalleled in the history of naval warfare. It was a desperate undertaking, and had the enterprise failed those who undertook it would probably have been laughed at as foolhardy, but its success justified the daring of the little band of heroes and brought not only fame, but reward to all concerned.

The story of the Barbary pirates and their former control of the Mediterranean is too well known to need repeating. Such was once the power of the petty states which bordered the southern shore of the Mediterranean that they levied blackmail on every maritime nation of the world. No ship entered or left the Mediterranean without paying tribute to the Moors. The Deys of Algiers, of Tunis, of Tripoli, became immensely wealthy through the contributions they levied on Christian vessels and the tributes paid by Christian States for immunity from piracy. The United States was one of the nations which officially helped to fill the coffers of these barbarian chieftains, but even the tribute which was paid did not secure immunity, and in the early years of this century it was perceived that something must be done by the government to protect United States commerce in that quarter of the world. Then came the war with the Algerian States, a conflict entirely on the sea, for the distance, of course, was too great for an army to be sent from this country, and the war practically amounted to a blockade of the ports and the capture of such corsairs as attempted to enter or leave.

In the autumn of 1803, the Philadelphia, a frigate of thirty-six guns, in those days a man-of-war of the first class, was blockading the harbor of Tripoli. A storm came on, the ship was driven to sea, and on returning after the wind had lulled noticed a brigantine endeavoring to steal into the port. The Philadelphia gave chase and pursued the corsair close into the shore and within three miles of the guns of the forts. Capt. Bainbridge, of the Philadelphia, expressed his uneasiness at running so close to the shore, but the sailing-master professed an intimate acquaintance with the neighborhood, having been there before, and the pursuit was continued. Bainbridge did not know that he was among reefs, but without a moment’s notice the ship grounded with such violence that many of the men were thrown down on the deck. As soon as the corsairs perceived that the ship was fast they sallied out from Tripoli to attack the vessel, and during the day of October 31 the fight was kept up while ineffectual efforts were being made to get off the ship by cutting away the foremast and throwing overboard all the forward guns, but toward evening Bainbridge, recognizing the inevitable, and fearing lest when night came on the ship might be boarded and all on board massacred by the pirates, he scuttled the ship and surrendered the vessel.

The pirates swarmed on board, ordered the prisoners, 315 in number, including twenty-one officers, into their boats and took them to shore. Day, the American poet, who was one of the crew, thus describes an experience as the captive of the Moors: “When we approached the shore, we were thrown headlong into the waves, foaming from a high breeze, where the water was up to our arm-pits, and left to strangle, or get ashore as we could. At the beach stood a row of armed janizaries, through which we passed, amidst cursings and spittings, to the castle gate. It opened and we ascended a narrow, winding, dismal passage, which led into a paved avenue lined with grizzly guards, armed with sabres, muskets, pistols, and hatchets. Here we halted again a few moments, and were again hurried on through various turnings and flights of stairs, until we found ourselves in the presence of his majesty, the puissant Bashaw of Tripoli.

“The throne on which he was seated was raised about 4 feet from the surface, inlaid with mosaic, covered with a cushion of the richest velvet, fringed with gold, bespangled with brilliants. The floor of the hall was of variegated marble, spread with carpets of the most beautiful kind. The person of the Grand Bashaw made a very tawdry appearance. His clothing was a long robe of blue silk, embroidered with gold. His broad belt, ornamented with diamonds, held two gold-mounted pistols and a sabre with a golden scabbard, hilt and chains. On his head he wore a large white turban, decorated in the richest manner. His whole vestments were superb in the extreme. His dark beard swept his breast. I should suppose him to be about 40, is rather corpulent, 5 feet 10 inches in height, and of a manly, majestic deportment.

“When he had satisfied his pride and curiosity, the guard conducted us into a dreary and filthy apartment of the castle, where there was scarcely room for us to turn round and where we were kept for nearly two hours, shivering in our wet clothes and with the chills of a very damp night. The Neapolitan slaves, of whom the Bashaw had more than 150, brought us dry clothing to exchange for our wet, and we sincerely thanked them for their apparent kindness, expecting to receive ours again when dry; but the trickish scoundrels never returned our clothes nor made us any restitution. Our clothing was new, and what they brought us in exchange was old and ragged.”

Two days after the ship had grounded the Moors got her off, recovered most of her guns and brought her into the harbor of Tripoli, where she formed a substantial addition to the Bashaw’s fleet. While in captivity Bainbridge found means to communicate through the Danish Consul in Tripoli with the Americans, and wrote a letter to Capt. Edward Preble, of the Constitution, then in the Mediterranean, describing the position of the Philadelphia in the harbor and suggesting that an expedition be sent to destroy her. Stephen Decatur was then a young Lieutenant, in command of the sloop Enterprise. A few days after the letter from Bainbridge was received he had captured, south of Sicily, a ketch named the Mastico, filled with female negro slaves, and brought his prize into Syracuse, where the slaves were liberated and the property on board was sold for the benefit of the crew. As soon as Decatur heard of Bainbridge’s suggestion he was eager to undertake the task in his own ship, the Enterprise. But his proposal was rejected by Preble, who believed the Mastico better suited for the task, and ordered that she be employed. “Volunteers for an unusually dangerous service” were called for, and sixty-two responded, the number being subsequently increased to sixty-nine, and among them, besides Decatur himself, then a mere boy of 24, were two other boys destined to play an important part in naval affairs. One was James Lawrence, a midshipman of 16 years, the other Thomas McDonough, of 20.

A large quantity of combustibles was prepared and placed in the ketch, and with his daring crew Decatur left Syracuse for Tripoli in company with the brig Siren, which was to wait off the harbor and pick up the Americans in case they should be compelled to take to the small boats. On February 9, 1804, the expedition sailed from Syracuse and arrived off Tripoli by night, but a furious gale from the shore precluded the possibility of making the attack, and for six days the voyagers were tossed to and fro on the waves of the Mediterranean, their little vessel being almost swamped by the heavy seas.

On the morning of February 16 the sun rose fair and clear, the combustibles were examined and found to be dry and in good order, and sail was made for the harbor, the ketch and brig proceeding slowly in order not to arrive before night. As the darkness came on the brig paused in the offing, while under a brisk breeze the ketch sailed into the harbor. An hour later the wind lulled and the ketch slowly drifted toward the Philadelphia, which was plainly visible from its great bulk, the lighted portholes indicating that the crew was still awake. As the ketch approached it was guided so as to foul the Philadelphia at the bowsprit, and the Maltese pilot who had been taken on board at Syracuse principally because he could speak Arabic called to the officer on the Philadelphia and requested permission to make fast to the ship’s ropes, for the ketch had lost all her anchors in the storm. Permission was given, and a line was cast, which was caught by the three or four men who appeared on the little boat. The remainder, stripped to the waist for battle, and with cutlasses and pistols ready to hand, lay stowed away behind the bulwarks and invisible to the corsairs.

The Tripolitan officer in command asked the pilot what ship was in the offing, for the Siren had been seen, and the Maltese replied that it was an English brig waiting for daylight to cross the bar and enter the harbor. Not the least suspicion was roused in the minds of the corsairs, although the rope which made fast the ketch to the Philadelphia was even then being handled by the men concealed beneath the bulwarks of the little slaver. As, however, a line must be fastened from the stern to the larger vessel before boarding could be effected, it was quite possible that the men would be discovered as soon as the ketch was brought alongside. The pilot, however, kept the Moors entertained with narratives of the cargo the ketch contained, manufacturing very clever stories of the beautiful slaves and immense wealth on board. A moment later the stern line was made fast and the ketch brought alongside, when the Moors discovered the figures beneath the bulwarks and raised the cry of alarm, “Americanos! Americanos!”

Decatur had divided his men into five crews--one to remain on board and guard the ketch, the other four were first to storm the upper deck of the Philadelphia, then three parties were to go below and fire the ship, while the fourth held the deck against possible Moorish re-enforcements. The moment the ketch was brought alongside Decatur gave the word, “Boarders, away!” and the American boys swarmed through the portholes and up over the bulwarks of the Philadelphia. So sudden and furious was the onslaught that the Moors were taken by surprise, and as the Americans rushed forward, cutlass in hand, fled before them, jumping into the water to escape the terrible enemy. Of the Moorish crew of nearly 300 on board, twenty were killed outright, how many were drowned could not be ascertained, but a number, afraid to leap from the ship, hid below to perish a few minutes later like rats in their holes.

In five minutes from the time of boarding the deck was cleared of the pirate crew, the work being done solely with the cutlass; not a shot was fired from beginning to end. The parties appointed to do the firing at once began the work of hauling the combustibles aboard and passing them to the lower decks, cabin and hold. Fire was set to the ship in a dozen different places and the flames spread with such rapidity that some of the Americans had a narrow escape, and one was severely scorched by being compelled to pass up through a burning hatchway. The work was well done, and, as the flames appeared through the portholes, a rocket was sent up from the ketch to notify the brig outside that the enterprise had been successful.

Their work finished, the Americans hastily let themselves down into the ketch, and not a moment too soon, for so rapidly did the flames spread that there was danger of their little boat taking fire. The Philadelphia was a mass of glowing flames before the ketch could be disengaged, and such was the draught of air toward the burning ship that for some moments it seemed uncertain whether the ketch could be gotten away. The stern and sails did actually take fire, but a few buckets of water extinguished the blaze, and the men set to work with a will at the oars, of which there were four on each side.

The capture of the ship had been effected without apparently the least suspicion on shore of what was going on. The Philadelphia lay directly under the guns of the largest fort and not quite 400 yards away. Long before the swimmers from the ship could reach the shore the blaze warned the garrisons of the forts that something was wrong. Small boats were immediately dispatched, some of the swimmers picked up, and thus the truth became known. As the ketch was in plain view, a heavy fire was at once commenced and from a hundred guns on each side of the harbor belched forth flame and iron in vengeance for the daring act. But whether from haste or inefficiency, the aim of the gunners was bad, and although shell and shot plowed up the water all around the ketch she was struck but once, and then only by a ball going through the sail.

More to be dreaded than the artillery fire was the swarm of boats crammed with corsairs that put forth from the shore in pursuit. Decatur said afterwards that the little crew of the ketch must have been chased by a hundred craft of all sizes, containing probably a couple of thousand men, but the pirates reasoned very correctly that Americans who could attempt so desperate an act as the burning of a ship almost within stone’s throw of the forts were not to be trifled with in a hand-to-hand engagement, so kept at a respectful distance and contented themselves with a running fire of musketry. The Americans replied, those not at the oars maintaining a lively fusillade, while another rocket was sent up as a signal to the brig for aid. It was responded to by a rocket in the offing, the Siren’s boats, full of well-armed men, put off to the rescue, and as soon as they came within firing distance the Tripolitans withdrew.

Thus was achieved what Lord Nelson called the most daring act of the age. Not an American was killed, only one was wounded, he very slightly, and a third was, as already stated, severely scorched. Every participant in this hazardous adventure received his reward. Decatur, although only a boy, was made Captain; Lawrence and McDonough received substantial promotion; and every seaman was voted two months’ extra pay. The exploit had serious consequences for the crew of the Philadelphia, for the Dey of Tripoli fell into a furious passion at the loss of the ship and at once consigned the Americans to the filthiest dungeons in his castle, where they remained until liberated at the close of the war. The act of Decatur’s expedition had an important influence in bringing the war to an early conclusion, for, as the Danish Consul expressed it in an interview with the Dey, “If the Americans can burn your ships lying under the guns of the fort, they may undertake to burn your palace over your head,” and the Dey seems to have taken the same view of it. He did not have long to reflect upon the matter, however, for in less than six months Preble’s squadron arrived off Tripoli with better pilots than those of the Philadelphia, sailed through the intricate channels, entered the harbor, bombarded the forts and town, and the Dey was glad to conclude a treaty of peace, releasing all the American prisoners and promising not to demand nor exact tribute from American vessels. Decatur’s later career fully justified the reputation he won in his earliest exploit, but none of his subsequent deeds of bravery exceeded the burning of the Philadelphia.

McDUGALL’S PLUCKY FIGHT IN SIMONOSEKI STRAITS.

Another of the almost unrecorded chapters in the annals of the American Navy was the heroic action between the U. S. ship Wyoming, Commander McDugall, and three Japanese cruisers supported by six shore batteries, during the Civil War.

The Wyoming had her part in all the hardest of blockading and cruising service and fought well whenever she had a chance. She was sent at the same time as her sister ship, the Kearsarge, to cruise for that scourge of the seas, the Alabama, and just missed her by the merest chance on two occasions in the China Seas. From there the Alabama squared away for the Atlantic again and went to meet her fate under the heights of Cherbourg, while the Wyoming sailed to her hardest fight with the forces of the Tycoon.

It was in 1863, toward the end of the dual reign of the Tycoon and the Mikado. Japan was in the throes of civil war, and the foes of the rebel princes were resisting to the last the passing of the old feudal system.

The Prince of Nagato was one of these, and from his tiny kingdom that fronted on the Straits of Simonoseki he declared himself lord of all he surveyed, including the neighboring seas, from which he took as generous toll as did ever the pirate chiefs of Tariffa. He had laid violent hands upon the vessels of various powers, including Great Britain, France, the Netherlands, and the United States. Representatives of these powers had protested, but the protests had been of little moment. The Japanese central government had disavowed the acts of the pirate prince, but confessed its inability to deal with him while more formidable matters engaged its attention.

Meanwhile Prince Nagato throve and flourished, and one day fired on the American merchantman Pembroke, having failed to wring tribute or blackmail by any other means, and killed two of her crew. Another diplomatic protest from the combined foreign representatives followed, but Commander McDugall, who was in port with the Wyoming, suggested that if the Mikado could not subdue his rebellious subject the Wyoming could and would without much urging. Accordingly, McDugall was given carte blanche to settle accounts with the Prince of Nagato in behalf of all the powers concerned.

It was the middle of July when the Wyoming found herself in the Straits of Simonoseki and in sight of the shore batteries, which were a part of the prince’s defenses to seaward. Before she had time to open on the batteries two Japanese gunboats loomed up, one ahead and one astern, in the narrow straits, and presently a third came cruising out from among the neighboring islands. It was a nasty place for a fight, McDugall being without charts or pilots, and the odds were more than enough for Nelson himself, being forty-eight guns of the three Japanese vessels to the twenty-six of the old Wyoming, to say nothing of the batteries on shore.

Working to windward of the nearest Japanese ship, the Wyoming opened at long range, and worked down on her till when close aboard there was nothing of the enemy left standing above decks. The other two vessels had come up in the meantime and engaged the American on either side, but she lay to and gave them shot for shot, port and starboard, till her gunners were smoke-blind and the flame of the guns no longer served to light the battle-cloud that rolled in white billows over the smooth waters of the straits. It was desperate work in the shallow water, but the Wyoming was the best vessel and she outmanœuvered her two opponents from the start, though twice aground and once afire, with as many men disabled from splinters and heat as from the enemy’s shot.

Fighting themselves out of one smoke-patch into another, the three combatants circled around till they had drifted down in range of the shore batteries, which opened upon the Wyoming. But McDugall ran across the bows of one of his enemies, raked her as he went and left her a floating wreck, and then turned his attention to the batteries. The Wyoming’s men rigged the smith’s forge on deck and tossed hot shot into the works ashore till they set them afire, and the soldiers fled, and the crew of the remaining cruiser followed their example.

McDugall mended his rigging and patched his bulwarks, sent word to the recalcitrant prince to arrange for indemnity, which he did. The share of the United States was $300,000.

In this action McDugall’s loss was five men killed and six wounded.

CAPTAIN McGIFFEN AT THE BATTLE OF THE YALU.

On September 17, 1894, the Chinese ironclad Chen-Yuen with her sister ship, the flagship Ting-Yuen, and nine smaller war vessels, met the Japanese off the mouth of the Yalu River.

The Chen-Yuen was protected by 12 and 14-inch armor, and carried four 12.2-inch, two 6-inch, and twelve machine guns. Her commander was Captain McGiffen of the United States Navy.

Here the famous battle of the Yalu, the first great trial of modern ironclads, was fought. Owing to the cowardice of several Chinese commanders, who ran away at the first exchange of shots, eight Chinese ships did all the fighting against the twelve ships of the enemy. The battle was altogether a contest of Orientals, except that one man of European blood, trained in the naval school of a great Western power, commanded the Chen-Yuen--Philo Norton McGiffin, of the United States Navy. His fighting that day was the dramatic climax of a brave and spotless life that had been a nineteenth-century revival of knight-errantry. The lives of none of the free-lances and fearless adventurers from Hawkesworth to Gordon were more romantic than that of McGiffin.

The reduction by Congress of the U. S. naval force sent adrift Lieutenant McGiffin, a graduate of Annapolis in the class of ’82. As China was engaged in war in Asia, McGiffin straightway tendered his services to the Chinese Government. The result was eventually that China took one French gunboat in a war otherwise entirely disastrous to her. In 1887 McGiffin became the head of the Chinese Naval Academy at Wei-Hai-Wei. This was the reason for his command of one of China’s two most formidable warships in the battle which decided the outcome of the Chino-Japanese war.