BURNSIDE, AMBROSE EVERETT. Born at Liberty, Indiana, May 23, 1824; captured Roanoke Island and Newbern, February-March, 1862; fought at Antietam, September 17, 1862; commanded Army of the Potomac, November 7, 1862-January 26, 1863; defeated at Fredericksburg, December, 1862; governor of Rhode Island, 1867-69; senator, 1875-81; died at Bristol, Rhode Island, September 13, 1881.

HOOKER, JOSEPH. Born at Hadley, Massachusetts, November 13, 1814; graduated at West Point, 1837; served as captain in Mexican war; brigadier-general, 1861; corps commander at South Mountain, Antietam, and Fredericksburg; commander of Army of the Potomac, January 25, 1863; defeated by Lee at Chancellorsville, May 2-3, 1863; relieved of command, June 27, 1863; served in Chattanooga campaign and with Sherman; died at Garden City, New York, October 31, 1879.

SHERMAN, WILLIAM TECUMSEH. Born at Lancaster, Ohio, February 8, 1820; graduated at West Point, 1840; served in California during Mexican war; colonel in Union army, 1861; brigadier-general, 1861; was at Bull Run and Shiloh, and made major-general of volunteers, May 1, 1862; served at Chattanooga and Vicksburg, won battles of Dalton, Resaca, Kenesaw Mountain, and Peachtree Creek; made major-general in regular army, August 12, 1864; occupied Atlanta, September 2, 1864; started on march to the sea, November 12, 1864; entered Savannah, December 21, 1864; received surrender of Johnston's army, April 26, 1865; lieutenant-general, 1866; general and commander of the army, 1869; retired, 1884; died at New York City, February 14, 1891.

SHERIDAN, PHILIP HENRY. Born at Albany, New York, March 6, 1831; graduated at West Point, 1853; captain, 1861; colonel of cavalry, 1862; at Perryville, Murfreesboro, Chickamauga and Missionary Ridge; commander of cavalry corps of Army of the Potomac, April, 1864; at Wilderness, Hawe's Shop and Trevellian; won victories of Winchester, Fisher's Hill, Cedar Creek, and devastated Shenandoah Valley, 1864; major-general, November 8, 1864; commanded at Five Forks, March 31, April 1, 1865; took leading part in pursuit of Lee; lieutenant-general, 1867; succeeded Sherman as Commander-in-chief, 1883; general, 1888; died at Nonquith, Massachusetts, August 5, 1888.

THOMAS, GEORGE HENRY. Born in Southampton County, Virginia, July 31, 1816; graduated at West Point, 1840; served in Seminole and Mexican wars; brigadier-general of volunteers, August, 1861; at Mill Springs, Perryville and Murfreesboro; became famous for his defense of Union position at Chickamauga, September 19-20, 1863; with Sherman in Georgia, 1864; defeated Hood at Nashville, December 15-16, 1864; died at San Francisco, March 28, 1870.

LEE, ROBERT EDWARD. Born in Westmoreland County, Virginia, January 19, 1807; graduated at West Point, 1829; served with distinction in Mexican war; superintendent of West Point Academy, 1852-55; commanded forces which captured John Brown, 1859; resigned commission in United States Army, April, 1861; appointed major-general of Virginia forces, April, 1861; commander of the Army of Northern Virginia, June 3, 1862; commanded in Seven Days' Battles, Manassas campaign, at Antietam and Fredericksburg, 1862; Chancellorsville and Gettysburg, 1863; against Grant at Wilderness, Spottsylvania, Cold Harbor and Petersburg, 1864-65; surrendered to Grant at Appomattox, April 9, 1865; president of Washington College, Lexington, Virginia, 1865-70; died at Lexington, Virginia, October 12, 1870.

JACKSON, THOMAS JONATHAN. Born at Clarksburg, West Virginia, January 21, 1824; graduated at West Point, 1846; served through Mexican war and resigned from army, 1851; professor of philosophy and artillery tactics Virginia Military Institute, 1851-61; joined Confederate army at opening of Civil War; brigadier-general at Bull Run, July 21, 1861; major-general, November, 1861; at Winchester, Cross Keys, Gaines's Mill, Malvern Hill, Cedar Mountain, Harper's Ferry, Antietam and Fredericksburg, 1862; mortally wounded by his own men at Chancellorsville, May 2, 1863; died at Chancellorsville, Virginia, May 10, 1863.

JOHNSTON, ALBERT SIDNEY. Born at Washington, Mason County, Kentucky, February 3, 1803; graduated at West Point, 1826; served in Black Hawk war, 1832; resigned from army, 1834; enlisted as private in Texan army, 1836; succeeded Felix Houston as commander of Texan army, 1837; secretary of war for Republic of Texas, 1838-40; served in Mexican war, 1846-47; commanded successful expedition against revolted Mormons in Utah, 1857; appointed commander of Department of Kentucky and Tennessee in Confederate service, 1861; attacked Grant's army at Shiloh, April 6, 1862, and killed there while leading his men.

BEAUREGARD, PIERRE GUSTAVE TOUTANT. Born near New Orleans, May 23, 1818; graduated at West Point, 1838; served with distinction in Mexican war; superintendent of West Point Academy, 1860-61; resigned to accept appointment as brigadier-general in Confederate army, 1861; bombarded and captured Fort Sumter, April 12-14, 1861; commanded at battle of Bull Bun, July 21, 1861; general, 1861; assumed command of army at Shiloh on death of Johnston, April 6, 1862; surrendered to Sherman, 1865; president of New Orleans and Jackson Railroad Company, 1865-70; adjutant-general of Louisiana, 1878; died at New Orleans, February 20, 1893.

JOHNSTON, JOSEPH ECCLESTON. Born near Farmville, Virginia, February 3, 1807; graduated at West Point, 1829; served in Mexican war, 1846-47; entered Confederate service as brigadier-general, 1861; took part in battle of Bull Run, opposed McClellan in Peninsular campaign, fought battles of Resaca and Dallas against Sherman, and surrendered to Sherman at Durham Station, North Carolina, April 26, 1865; member of Congress, 1876-78; United States Commissioner of Railways, 1885-89; died at Washington, D.C., March 21, 1891.

LONGSTREET, JAMES. Born in Edgefield District, South Carolina, January 8, 1821; graduated at West Point, 1842; served in Mexican war, 1846-47; entered Confederate service as brigadier-general, 1861; promoted major-general, 1861; was present at second battle of Bull Run, Antietam, Gettysburg, Chickamauga, Knoxville and the Wilderness; United States minister to Turkey, 1880-81; United States Commissioner of Pacific Railroads, 1897; died January 2, 1904.

STUART, JAMES EWELL BROWN. Born in Patrick County, Virginia, February 6, 1833; graduated at West Point, 1854; entered Confederate service, 1861, and became leading cavalry officer in Army of Northern Virginia; at Bull Run, Peninsula, Manassas Junction, Antietam, Fredericksburg and Chancellorsville; mortally wounded at battle of Yellow Tavern, and died at Richmond, May 12, 1864.

WHEELER, JOSEPH. Born in Augusta, Georgia, September 10, 1836; graduated at West Point, 1859; entered Confederate army as colonel; at Shiloh, Green River, Perryville; brigadier-general, 1862; major-general, 1863; at Murfreesboro, commanded cavalry at Chickamauga, fought Sherman almost daily on the march to the sea; included in Johnston's surrender, April 26, 1865; member of Congress, from Alabama, 1881-99; appointed major-general of volunteers, U.S.A., May 4, 1898; in command of cavalry at Las Guasimas and before Santiago; in Philippine Islands, 1899-1900; died at Brooklyn, New York, January 25, 1906.

MILES, NELSON APPLETON. Born at Westminster, Massachusetts, August 8, 1839; entered Union army as volunteer, 1861, attaining rank of major-general of volunteers; enlisted in regular army at close of war, rising grade by grade to major-general, and commander-in-chief, 1895-1903; conducted campaigns against Geronimo and Natchez, 1886; in command of United States troops at Chicago strike, 1884; lieutenant-general, June 6, 1900; retired, August 8, 1903.

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CHAPTER VIII

GREAT SAILORS

We have said that America has produced no soldier of commanding genius, but her sailors outrank the world. Even Great Britain, mighty seafaring nation as she has been, cannot, in the last hundred and fifty years, show any brighter galaxy of stars. Just why it would be difficult to say. Perhaps America inherited from England the traditions of that race of heroes who made the age of Elizabeth, so memorable on the ocean, and who started their country on her career as mistress of the seas—Raleigh, Drake, Hawkins, Frobisher, Gilbert, and Howard of Effingham.

Surely in direct descent from these daring adventurers was that earliest of America's naval commanders, John Paul Jones, well called the "Founder of the American Navy." He it was who first carried the Stars and Stripes into foreign waters, and who made Europe to see that a new nation had arisen, in the west. He it was who first scouted the tradition of England's invincibility on the sea, and carried the war into her very ports. He it was who proved that American valor yielded no whit to British valor—who, when Captain Pearson, of the Serapis, asked if he had struck his colors, shouted back that he had not yet begun to fight, although his ship had been shot to pieces and was sinking; but who thereupon did begin, and to such good purpose that he captured his adversary and got his crew aboard her as his own ship sank. Truly a remarkable man and one worth looking at closely.

In the middle of the eighteenth century, there lived in the county of Kirkcudbright, Scotland, a poor gardener named John Paul. He had a large family, and finding it no small task to feed so many mouths, accepted the offer of a distant relative named William Jones to adopt his oldest son, William, named in honor of that same relative. Jones owned a plantation in Virginia, and thither the boy accompanied him, being known thereafter as William Paul Jones. None of John Paul's numerous children, however, would have figured on the pages of history but for the youngest son, born in 1747, and named after his father, John Paul.

Little John Paul had a short childhood, for as soon as he could handle a line, he was put to work with the fishermen on Solway Firth to help earn a living for the family. By the time that he was twelve years old, he was a first-class sailor, and had developed a love for the sea and a disregard of its perils which never left him. Securing his father's consent, he shipped as apprentice for a voyage to Virginia, and visited his brother, who was managing his adopted father's estate near Fredericksburg. The old planter took a great fancy to the boy, and offered to adopt him also, but young John Paul preferred the adventurous life of the ocean to humdrum existence on a Virginia plantation. For the next fifteen years, he followed the sea, studying navigation and naval history, French and Spanish, and fitting himself in every way for high rank in his profession.

On the seventeenth of April, 1773, John Paul anchored his brig, the Two Friends, in the Rappahannock just below his brother's plantation, and rowed to shore to pay him a visit. He found him breathing his last. He died childless, and John Paul found himself heir to the estate, which was a considerable one. Resigning command of his vessel, he settled down to the life of a Virginia planter, adding to his name the last name of his family's benefactor, and being known thereafter as John Paul Jones.

Events were at this time hurrying forward toward war with Great Britain; Virginia was in a ferment, and Paul Jones was soon caught up by this tide of patriotism. When, in 1775, the Congress decided to "equip a navy for the defence of American liberty," Jones at once offered his services, and was made a senior first lieutenant. It is amusing to run over the names of those first officers of the American navy. As was the case with the first generals, out of the whole list only two names live with any lustre—Paul Jones and Nicholas Biddle.

Paul Jones was the first of these officers to receive his commission, John Hancock handing it to him in Independence Hall, Philadelphia, shortly after noon on December 22, 1775. Immediately afterwards, the new lieutenant, accompanied by a distinguished party, including Hancock and Thomas Jefferson, proceeded to the Chestnut street wharf, where the Alfred, the first American man-of-war was lying moored. Captain Saltonstall, who was to command the ship, had not yet arrived from Boston, and at Hancock's direction, Lieutenant Jones took command, and ran up the first American flag ever shown from the masthead of a man-of-war. It was not the Stars and Stripes, which had not yet been adopted as the flag of the United States, but a flag showing a rattlesnake coiled at the foot of a pine-tree, with the words, "Don't tread on me."

Three other small vessels were soon placed in commission, and the squadron started out on its first cruise on February 17, 1776. Through the inexperience and incompetency of the officers, the cruise was a complete failure, and resulted in the dismissal of "Commander-in-Chief" Ezekial Hopkins, and the retirement of Jones's immediate superior, Captain Dudley Saltonstall. It was a striking example of how the first blast of battle winnows the wheat from the chaff, and its best result was to give Paul Jones a command of his own. Never thereafter was he forced to serve under an imbecile superior, but was always, to the end of his career, the ranking officer on his station.

His first command was a small one, the sloop-of-war Providence, with fourteen guns and 107 men, but in six weeks he had captured sixteen prizes, of which eight were manned and sent to port, and eight destroyed at sea; was twice chased by frigates, escaping capture only by the most brilliant manoeuvring; and made two descents on the coast of Nova Scotia, releasing some American prisoners, capturing arms and ammunition, dispersing a force of Tories, and destroying a number of fishing smacks; and finally reached port again with a crew of forty-seven, all the rest having been told off to man his prizes.

Work of so brilliant a description won instant recognition, especially as contrasted with the failure of the first cruise, and Jones was promoted to a captaincy, and the Alfred, a ship mounting twenty-eight guns, added to his command. A cruise of thirty-three days in these two vessels resulted in seven prizes, two of them armed transports loaded with supplies for the British army.

Fired by these successes, Jones's great ambition was for a cruise along the coast of England. He argued that the time had come when the American flag should be shown in European waters, and that the moral effect of a descent upon the English coast would be tremendous. It would have this further advantage, that England was expecting no such attack, that her ports would be found unprepared for it, and that great damage to her shipping could probably be done. Lafayette, who had become a warm friend of the daring captain, heartily approved the plan, and on June 14, 1777, the Congress passed the following resolution:

Resolved, That the Flag of the Thirteen United States of America be Thirteen Stripes, Alternate Red and White; that the Union be Thirteen Stars in a Blue Field, Representing a New Constellation.

Resolved, That Captain John Paul Jones be Appointed to Command the Ship Ranger.

That these two acts should have been joined in one resolution seems a remarkable coincidence. "The flag and I are twins," Jones used to say; "we cannot be parted in life or death"; and it was this flag he carried with him when he sailed from Portsmouth in the dawn of the first day of November, 1777. Something else he carried, too—dispatches which had been placed in his hands only a few hours before, telling of Burgoyne's surrender. "I will spread the news in France in thirty days," Jones promised, as his ship cast loose, and he actually did land at Nantes thirty-one days later. The news he brought decided France in favor of an alliance with the United States, and the Treaty of Alliance was signed two months later.

Jones, meanwhile, had overhauled and refitted his ship, and on the tenth of April, set sail from Brest, intending to make a complete circuit of the British Isles. Entering the Irish Sea, he spread terror along its shores, where his coming was like a bolt from the blue, engaged and captured the British ship-of-war Drake, took a number of prizes, and sailed into Brest again after an absence of twenty-eight days.

It has been the fashion in some quarters to call Jones a pirate, but it is difficult to see any argument for such a characterization of him. He sailed under the flag of the United States, held a commission from the United States, and attacked an enemy with whom the United States was at war. There is no hint of piracy about that; but Jones came to be a sort of bogeyman to the coast towns of the British Isles, who never knew when to expect an attack from him, and no name was too hard for their frightened inhabitants to apply to him.

But it was some time before Jones was able to strike another blow. He realized that he must have a more effective squadron for his second cruise, and more than a year was spent in getting it together. Finally, on August 14, 1779, he got to sea again with a squadron of four vessels—not a very effective one, but the best that could be had. The flagship was an unwieldy old Indiaman which Jones had named the Bon Homme Richard, in honor of his good friend, Benjamin Franklin, whose Poor Richard was almost as famous in France as in America. The other three ships were commanded by Frenchmen, and all the crews were of the most motley description. On September 23, the squadron sighted a great fleet of English merchantmen, under convoy of the Serapis, a powerful frigate mounting forty-four guns, and the Countess of Scarborough, mounting twenty-eight. Jones signalled his squadron to give chase and himself closed with the Serapis.

Captain Pearson, of the Serapis, was very willing for the contest, since his ship was greatly superior to Jones's old boat in fighting qualities; but Jones succeeded in depriving the Serapis of some of this advantage by running his vessel into her and lashing fast. So close did they lie that their yardarms interlocked, and their rigging was soon so fouled that Jones could not have got away, even had he wished to do so. For three hours the ships lay there, side by side, pouring broadsides into each other; their decks were soon covered with dead and wounded; two of the Richard's guns burst and her main battery was silenced, but Jones kept fighting on, for a time with so few guns that the captain of the Serapis thought he had surrendered.

"Have you struck?" he shouted, through his trumpet.

"No," Jones shouted back, "I have not yet begun to fight!"

The Serapis was on fire and the Richard was sinking, but at this juncture, one of the men of the Richard crept out along a yardarm, and dropped a hand grenade down a hatchway of the Serapis. It wrought fearful havoc, and Pearson struck his flag.

It was time, for the Richard was on fire in two places, all her main-deck guns were dismounted, and she was sinking fast. She was kept afloat with great difficulty until morning, giving Jones time to place his wounded on the Serapis, and to save such of her fittings as could be removed. The Pallas, another of Jones's ships, had captured the Scarborough, and with these prizes, Jones put back to France. He was welcomed with great enthusiasm there, received the thanks of the Congress, and was designated to command the ship-of-the-line then building. But he fought no more battles under the Stars and Stripes. After a brief service with Russia, he returned to Paris, broken in health, and died there in 1792. His body was only recently brought to this country and interred with national honors at Annapolis.

We have said that there was only one other naval commander of the Revolution whose name shines with any lustre to-day—Nicholas Biddle. His career was a brief and brilliant one. Born in Philadelphia, he had gone to sea at the age of thirteen, was cast away on a desert island, was rescued, and enlisted in the English navy, but returned to America as soon as revolution threatened. He was given command of a little brig called the Andrea Doria, took a number of prizes, and made so good a record that in 1776 he was appointed to command the new frigate, Randolph. Using Charleston, South Carolina, as his base, he captured four prizes within a few days, but on his second cruise, fell in with a British sixty-four, the Yarmouth. After a sharp action of twenty minutes, fire got into the magazine of the Randolph, in some way, and she blew up, only four of her crew of 310 escaping. The blow was a heavy one to the American navy, for Biddle was its best commander, next to Jones, and the Randolph was its best ship. Luckily the French alliance placed the French fleet at the disposal of the colonies—or Cornwallis would never have been captured at Yorktown.

It is one of our polite fictions that the United States has always been victorious in war; but, as a matter of fact, we were not victorious in the second war with England, and, when the treaty of peace came to be signed, abandoned practically all the contentions which war had been declared to maintain. On land, the war was, for the most part, a series of costly blunders, beginning with the surrender of Detroit, and closing with the sack of Washington, and had England had her hands free of Napoleon, the result for us might have been very serious. The only considerable and decisive victory won by American arms was that of Andrew Jackson at New Orleans—a battle fought after the treaty of peace had been signed.

But on the ocean there was a different story—a series of brilliant victories which, while they did not seriously cripple the great English navy, caused Canning to declare in Parliament that "the sacred spell of the invincibility of the British navy is broken." The heaviest blow was struck to British commerce, no less than sixteen hundred English merchantmen falling victims to privateers and ships-of-war.

The group of men who commanded the American vessels was a most remarkable one, and their fighting qualities were worthy in every way of John Paul Jones. First blood was drawn by David Porter, illustrious scion of a family which gave five generations to brilliant service in the navy. On August 13, 1812, Porter, with the Essex, engaged in a sharp battle with the British ship Alert, which, after an action of eight minutes, surrendered in a sinking condition. He had seen hard service before that, had been twice impressed by British vessels and twice escaped, had fought French and pirates, and spent some time in a prison in Tripoli.

After his capture of the Alert, he went on a cruise in the Pacific, destroying the English whale fisheries there, capturing booty valued at two and a half million dollars, and taking four hundred prisoners. So great was the damage he inflicted, that a British squadron was fitted out and sent to the Pacific to capture him, found him in a partially disabled condition in the harbor of Valparaiso, and, disregarding the neutrality of the port, sailed in and attacked him. The engagement lasted two hours and a half, the Essex finally surrendering when reduced to a helpless wreck. On the Essex at the time was a midshipman aged twelve years, who got his first taste of fighting there, and whose name was destined to become, after that of Paul Jones, the most famous in American naval history—David Glasgow Farragut.

Less than a week after Porter's victory over the Alert, another and much more important one was won by Captain Isaac Hull in the frigate Constitution—"Old Ironsides"—the most famous ship-of-war the navy has ever possessed. Isaac Hull was a nephew of General William Hull, who, on August 16, 1812, surrendered Detroit and his entire army to the British without striking a blow. Three days later, Isaac Hull, having sailed from Boston without orders, in his anxiety to meet the enemy and for fear the command of the Constitution would be given to some one else—a breach of discipline for which he would probably have been court-martialled and shot, had the cruise ended disastrously—fell in with the powerful British frigate Guerriere. Inscribed across the Guerriere's mainsail in huge red letters were the words:

All who meet me have a care, I am England's Guerriere.

She was a powerful vessel, but neither the vessel nor the menace frightened Hull, and he sailed straight for her, holding his fire until he was within fifty yards, when he let fly a broadside and then another, which sent two of her masts by the board, and the third soon followed, leaving her unmanageable. Within a very few minutes, under Hull's raking fire, she was reduced to a "perfect wreck"—so perfect, in fact, that she had to be blown up and sunk, as there was no chance of getting her back to port. The Constitution was practically uninjured, and Hull sailed back to Boston, with his ship crowded with British prisoners. He was welcomed with the wildest enthusiasm, banquets were given in his honor, swords voted him by state legislatures, New York ordered a portrait painted of him, and Congress gave him a gold medal. The War Department discreetly permitted his disobedience of orders to drop out of sight.

Hull's victory was not the result of accident, but of long and careful training. He had begun his sea career in the merchant service at the age of fourteen, was a captain at the age of twenty, and entered the navy in 1798. He soon gained a high reputation for seamanship, and his genius for handling a ship under all conditions was one of the most important factors in his success. He saved his ship on one occasion, when she was becalmed and practically surrounded by a powerful British fleet, by "kedging"—in other words, sending a row-boat out with an anchor, which was dropped as far ahead as the boat could take it, and the ship pulled up to it by means of the windlass. As soon as the British saw him doing this, they tried it too, but Hull managed to get away from them by almost superhuman exertions. He served in the navy for many years after his memorable victory over the Guerriere, but never achieved another so notable.

The second capture of a British frigate in the war of 1812 was made by Stephen Decatur, who had distinguished himself years before by an exploit which Lord Nelson called "the most daring act of the age." Decatur, who possessed in unusual degree the dash and brilliance so valuable in a naval commander, came naturally by his love of the sea, for his grandfather had been an officer in the French navy, and his father was a captain in the navy of the United States.

Entering the service at the age of eighteen, his first cruise was in the frigate, United States, which he was afterwards to command. He rose steadily in the service and got his first command six years later, being given the sixteen-gun brig Argus, and sent with Commodore Preble to assist in subduing the Barbary corsairs.

It is difficult to-day to realize that there was a time when the United States paid tribute to anybody, more especially to a power so insignificant as the Barbary States. Yet such was the fact. Lying along the north coast of Africa were the half-civilized states of Morocco, Tunis, Tripoli, and Algiers, and most of their income was from piracy. All merchantmen were their prey; they divided the loot and sold the crews into slavery. Many nations, to secure immunity from these outrages, paid a stated sum yearly to these powers, and the United States was one of them.

Why the nations did not join together and wipe the pirates out of existence is difficult to understand, but so it was. On one occasion, Congress actually revoked an order for some new ships for the navy, and used the appropriation to buy off the Barbary powers. The fund was known as the "Mediterranean Fund," and was intrusted to the secretary of state to expend as might be necessary. But after a while, the Barbary powers became so outrageous in their demands, that it occurred to the State Department that there might be another way of dealing with them, and a squadron under Commodore Preble was sent to the Mediterranean for the purpose.

Shortly before he reached there, the U.S. frigate Philadelphia, commanded by Captain Bainbridge, had gone upon a reef just outside the harbor of Tripoli and had been surrounded and captured, with all her crew, by the Tripolitan gunboats. The Tripolitans got her off the rocks, towed her into the harbor, and anchored her close under the guns of their forts. They also strengthened her batteries, and prepared her for a cruise, which could not but have been disastrous to our shipping. It was evident that she must be destroyed before she got out of the harbor, and Stephen Decatur volunteered to lead a party into the harbor on this desperate mission. Commodore Preble hesitated to accept Decatur's offer, for he knew how greatly against success the odds were, but finally, in January, 1804, he told him to go ahead.

A small vessel known as a ketch had recently been captured from the Tripolitans, and Decatur selected this in which to make the venture. He took seventy men from his own vessel, and, on the night of February 15, sailed boldly into the harbor of Tripoli. Let us pause for a minute to consider the odds against him. First there was the Philadelphia with her forty guns double-shotted and ready to fire; half a gunshot away was the Bashaw's castle, the mole and crown batteries, while within range were ten other batteries, mounting, all told, a hundred and fifteen guns. Between the Philadelphia and the shore lay a number of Tripolitan cruisers, galleys and gunboats. Into this hornet's nest, Decatur steered his little vessel of sixty tons, carrying four small guns, and having a crew of only seventy men.

The Tripolitans saw the vessel entering the harbor, but supposed it to be one of their own until it was alongside the Philadelphia. Then there was a cry of "Americanos!" and a rush to quarters, but it was too late, for Decatur and his men swarmed up the side and over the rail of the Philadelphia, and charged the dismayed and panic-stricken Tripolitans. There was a short and desperate struggle, and five minutes later, the ship was cleared of the enemy.

It was manifestly impossible to get the Philadelphia out of the harbor, so Decatur gave the order to burn her. Combustibles had been prepared in advance, and in a moment, flames began to break out in all parts of the ship. Then the order was given to return to the ketch, the cable was cut, the sweeps got out, and the ketch drew rapidly away from the burning vessel. The sounds of the melee had awakened the troops on shore, and, as the harbor was lighted by the flames from the Philadelphia, the shore batteries opened upon the little vessel, but without doing her any serious damage, and Decatur got safely out of the harbor and back to the fleet without losing a man.

Shortly afterwards his life was saved by one of those acts of heroism which stir the blood. In a general attack upon the Tripolitan gunboats, Decatur laid his ship alongside one of the enemy, grappled with her and boarded. Decatur was the first over the side and a desperate hand-to-hand combat followed. The pirate captain, a gigantic fellow, soon met Decatur face to face, and stood on tiptoe to deal him a tremendous blow with his scimitar. Decatur rushed in under the swinging sword, grappled with him, and they fell to the deck together, when another Tripolitan raised his scimitar to deal the American a fatal blow. A young sailor named Reuben James, himself with both arms disabled from sword cuts, seeing his beloved captain's peril, interposed his own head beneath the descending sword and received a wound which marked him for life. An instant later, Decatur's crew rallied to him, killed the pirate captain and drove the remainder of his crew over the side into the sea.

At the outbreak of the war of 1812, Decatur was given command of the United States, and on the morning of October 25, overhauled the British frigate Macedonian near the Canary Islands. Seventeen minutes later, the Macedonian, with a third of her crew dead, hauled down her colors. Decatur had lost only twelve men killed and wounded, and placing a crew aboard his prize, got her safely to New York. This victory was soon followed by disaster, for, securing command of the President, a frigate mounting forty-four guns, he attempted to get past the British blockade of New York harbor, but ran into a squadron of the enemy, and, after a running fight lasting thirty hours, was overhauled by a superior force and compelled to surrender. Decatur was taken captive to Bermuda, but was soon parolled, and, after commanding a squadron in the Mediterranean, built himself a house at Washington, expecting to spend the remainder of his days there in honorable retirement.

But it was not to be. In 1816, Decatur, while a member of the board of navy commissioners, had occasion to censure Commodore James Barron. Barron considered himself insulted, and a long correspondence followed, which finally resulted in Barron challenging Decatur to fight a duel. Under the code of honor then in vogue, Decatur could do nothing but accept, and the meeting took place at Bladensburg, Maryland, March 22, 1820. At the word "fire," Barron fell wounded in the hip, where Decatur had said he would shoot him, while Decatur himself received a wound in the abdomen from which he died that night. He was, all in all, one of the most brilliant and efficient men the navy ever boasted; and he will be remembered, too, for his immortal toast: "My country: may she be always right; but, right or wrong, my country!"

Closely associated with Decatur in some of his exploits was William Bainbridge, as handsome, impetuous and daring a sailor as ever trod a deck. Bainbridge, who was five years younger than Decatur, began his seafaring career at the age of sixteen, and three years later was in command of a merchantman. He entered the navy at its reorganization in 1798, and two years later was appointed to command the George Washington, a ship of twenty-eight guns.

Bainbridge's first duty was to carry a tribute of half a million dollars to the Dey of Algiers, according to the arrangement made by the Secretary of State which we have already mentioned. The errand was a hateful one to Bainbridge, as it would have been to any American sailorman; but he was in the navy to obey orders, and in September, 1800, he reached Algiers and anchored in the harbor and delivered the tribute. But when he had done this, the Dey sent word that he had a cargo of slaves and wild beasts for the Sultan of Turkey at Constantinople, and that Bainbridge must take them, or his ship would be taken from him and he and his crew sold into slavery.

There was nothing to do but consent, since the ship was wholly in the Dey's power, so to Constantinople Bainbridge sailed her. When a boat was sent ashore there to announce her arrival, the Turks were greatly astonished, for they had never heard of a nation called the United States, and did not know that there was a great continent on the other side of the world. It makes us feel less self-important, sometimes, when we stop to consider that about one half the human race, even at the present day, have no idea of our existence.

Well, Bainbridge delivered his cargo, and then sailed back to Algiers with orders from the Sultan to the Dey. He delivered these to the Dey, and in accordance with them, the Dey immediately declared war on France, and notified all the French in Algiers that if they had not left his dominions within forty-eight hours, they would be sold into slavery. There was no French ship in the harbor, and it looked, for a time, as though, the French would not be able to get away, but as soon as he learned of their predicament, Bainbridge gathered them together and took them over to Spain—an act for which he received the personal thanks of Napoleon Bonaparte.

Bainbridge was, of course, glad to get away from Algiers, but he had by no means seen the last of the Barbary pirates. Returning to the United States, he was given command of the Philadelphia, and sent back to the Mediterranean with Commodore Preble's squadron to give the pirates a lesson. The Philadelphia went on ahead to Tripoli and began a vigorous blockade of that port, but, in chasing a Tripolitan vessel which was trying to enter the harbor, ran hard and fast on an uncharted reef, and keeled over so far that her guns were useless. The Tripolitans were not long in discovering her predicament, swarmed out of the harbor in their gunboats, and soon had the American vessel at their mercy.

With what bitterness of spirit Bainbridge hauled down his flag may be imagined. He and his men were taken ashore and imprisoned and their vessel was got off the reef and towed into the harbor. From the window of their prison, the Americans could see her riding at anchor, flying the flag of Tripoli, and the sight did not render their imprisonment more pleasant. But one night, they heard shots in the harbor, and, looking out, beheld the Philadelphia in flames, and the little ketch bearing Decatur and his men fading rapidly away through the darkness toward the harbor mouth. Six months later, they watched the American assault upon the harbor, but their hearts fell when the American squadron finally gave up the attempt and withdrew. It was not until the following year that peace was made, and Bainbridge and his men released, after a captivity of nineteen months. Never since that time has the United States paid tribute to any nation.

When the second war with England began, President Madison and his advisers thought it foolhardy to attempt to oppose Great Britain on the ocean, for she had the strongest fleet of any nation in the world, and so decided to confine the war entirely to land. It was Bainbridge who brought about a change of this unwise policy by impassioned pleading, to the everlasting glory of the American navy. Hull resigned the Constitution to him, after his victory over the Guerriere—it was really for fear that Bainbridge would get command of the ship that Hull had sailed from Boston without orders—and Bainbridge sailed for the South Atlantic, and captured the British frigate Java, after a terrific fight, in which he was himself seriously wounded. This was his last fight, though the years which followed saw him in many important commands. For sheer romance and adventure, his career has seldom been excelled.

Another hero of the war of 1812, whose name is associated with a deed of imperishable gallantry, was James Lawrence. He had entered the navy as midshipman in 1798, at the age of eighteen, and served in the war against Tripoli, first under Hull and then under Decatur, and accompanied the latter on the expedition which destroyed the Philadelphia. But the deed by which he is best remembered is his fight with the British frigate Shannon. In the spring of 1813, he was assigned to the command of the frigate Chesapeake, a vessel hated by the whole navy because of the bad luck which seemed to pursue her. Lawrence accepted the command reluctantly, and proceeded to Boston, where she was lying, to prepare her for a voyage.

A crew was secured with great difficulty, most of them being foreigners, and his officers were all young and inexperienced. What the crew and officers alike needed was a practice cruise to put them in shape to meet the enemy, and Lawrence knew this better than anybody, but when the British frigate Shannon appeared outside the harbor with a challenge for a battle, Lawrence, feeling that to refuse would be dishonorable, hoisted anchor and sailed out to meet her.

The Shannon was one of the finest frigates in the English navy, manned by an experienced crew, and commanded by Philip Broke, one of the best officers serving under the Union Jack. The ships ranged up together and broadsides were delivered with terrible effect. Lawrence was wounded in the leg, but kept the deck. Then the ships fouled, and Lawrence called for boarders, but his crew, frightened at the desperate nature of the conflict, did not respond, and a moment later he fell, shot through the body. As he was borne below, he kept shouting, "Don't give up the ship! Fight her till she strikes or sinks! Don't give up the ship!" his voice growing weaker and weaker as his life ebbed away.

The battle was soon over, after that, for the British boarded, the Chesapeake's foreign crew threw down their arms, and the triumphant enemy hauled down the Chesapeake's flag. A few days later, the two ships sailed into the harbor of Halifax, Lawrence's body, wrapped in his ship's flag, lying in state on the quarter-deck. He was buried with military honors, first at Halifax, and then at New York, where Hull, Stewart and Bainbridge were among those who carried the pall. His cry, "Don't give up the ship!" was to be the motto of another battle, far to the west, where Great Britain experienced the greatest defeat of the war.

Before describing it, however, let us speak briefly of four other valiant men, whose deeds redounded to the honor of their country—Edward Preble, Charles Stewart, Johnston Blakeley, and Thomas Macdonough. It was said of Preble that he had the worst temper and the best heart in the world. At sixteen years of age he ran away to sea, and two years later, he actually saw a sea-serpent, a hundred and fifty feet in length and as big around as a barrel, and got close enough to fire at it. He saw service in the Revolution, and in 1803, was appointed to command the expedition against the Barbary corsairs, of which we have already spoken, and which resulted in bringing those pirates to their knees. The trials of that expedition ruined his health, and he survived it but a few years.

To Charles Stewart belongs the remarkable exploit of engaging and capturing two British ships at the same time. Enlisting in 1798, he was with Preble at Tripoli, and was given command of the Constitution, after Bainbridge's successful cruise in her, and started out in search of adventure on December 17, 1814. Two months later, off the Madeira Islands he sighted two British ships-of-war and at once gave chase. He overhauled them at nightfall, and, running between them, gave them broadside after broadside, until both struck their colors. They were the Cyane and the Levant. Stewart got back to New York the middle of May to find out that peace had been declared over a month before his encounter with the British ships.

He was received with enthusiasm, and "Old Ironsides" got the reputation of being invincible. Her career had, indeed, been remarkable. She had done splendid work before Tripoli, escaped twice from British squadrons and seven times run the blockade through strong British fleets; she had captured three frigates and a sloop-of-war, besides many merchantmen, and had taken more than eleven hundred prisoners. From all of these engagements she had emerged practically unscathed, and in none of them had she lost more than nine men. Stewart was the last survivor of the great captains of 1812, living until 1869, having been carried on the navy list for seventy-one years.

Johnston Blakeley was a South Carolinian, and won renown by a remarkable cruise in the Wasp. The Wasp was a stout and speedy sloop, carrying twenty-two guns and a crew of one hundred and seventy men, and in 1814 she sailed from the United States, and headed for the English Channel, to carry the war into the enemy's country, after the fashion of Paul Jones. The Channel, of course, was traversed constantly by English fleets and squadrons and single ships-of-war, and here the Wasp sailed up and down, capturing and destroying merchantmen, and, by the skill and vigilance of her crew and commander, escaping an encounter with any frigate or ship-of-the-line.

But one June morning, while chasing two merchantmen, she sighted the British brig Reindeer, and at once prepared for action. The Reindeer accepted the challenge, and after some broadsides had been exchanged, the ships fouled and the British boarded. A desperate struggle followed, in which the English commander was killed. Then the boarders were driven back, and the Americans boarded in their turn, and in a minute had the Reindeer in their possession. Her colors were hauled down, she was set afire, and the Wasp continued her cruise.

Late one September afternoon, British ships of war appeared all around her, and selecting one which seemed isolated from the others, Captain Blakeley decided to try to run alongside and sink her after nightfall. She was the eighteen-gun brig Avon, a bigger ship than the Wasp, but Blakeley ran alongside, discharged his broadsides, and soon had the Avon in a sinking condition. She struck her flag, but before Blakeley could secure his prize, two other British ships came up and he was forced to flee.

Soon afterwards, he encountered a convoy of ships bearing arms and munitions to Wellington's army, under the care of a great three-decker. Blakeley sailed boldly in, and, evading the three-decker's movements, actually cut out and captured one of the transports and made his escape. Then she sailed for home, and that was the last ever heard of the Wasp. She never again appeared, and her fate has never been determined. But when she sank, if sink she did, there went to the bottom one of the gallantest ships and bravest captains in the American navy.

All of the battles which we have thus far described were fought on salt water, but two great victories were won on inland waters, and of one of these Thomas Macdonough was the hero. He had entered the navy in 1800, at the age of seventeen, served before Tripoli, and accompanied Decatur on the expedition which burned the Philadelphia. At the outbreak of the second war with England, he was sent to Lake Champlain, and set about the building of a fleet to repel the expected British invasion from Canada. The British were also busy at the other end of the lake, and on September 9, 1814, Macdonough sailed his fleet of fourteen boats, ten of which were small gunboats, and the largest of which, the Saratoga, was merely a corvette, into Plattsburg Bay, and anchored there.

The abdication of Napoleon had enabled England to turn her undivided attention to America, and one great force was sent against New Orleans, while another was concentrated in Canada, for the purpose of invading New York by way of Lake Champlain. On this latter enterprise, a force of twelve thousand regulars started from Montreal early in August, while the British naval force on the lake was augmented to nineteen vessels. On September 11, this fleet got under way, and, certain of victory, sailed into Plattsburg Bay and attacked Macdonough. A terrific battle followed, in which the Saratoga had every gun on one side disabled and had to wear around under fire in order to use those on the other side. But three hours later, every British flag had been struck, and the land force, seeing their navy defeated, retreated hastily to Canada. So riddled were both squadrons that in neither of them did a mast remain upon which sail could be made.

But the greatest victory of the war, the one which had the most important and far-reaching consequences, had been won a year before, far to the west, on the blue waters of Lake Erie, by Oliver Hazard Perry, at that time only twenty-eight years of age. Perry came of a seafaring stock, for his father was a captain in the navy, and the boy's first voyage was made with him in 1799. At the outbreak of the war of 1812, he was in command of a division of gunboats at Newport, but finding that, owing to the British blockade, there was little chance of his seeing active service in that position, he asked to be sent to the Great Lakes, whose possession we were preparing to dispute with England.

The importance of this mission can hardly be overestimated. By the capture of Detroit, earlier in the war, the English had obtained undisputed control of Lake Erie, and were in position to carry out their plan of extending the Dominion of Canada along the Ohio and Mississippi rivers down to the Gulf, and so shutting in the United States upon the West. To Perry was assigned the task of stopping this project, and of regaining control of the lake.

He arrived at Lake Erie in the spring of 1813, and proceeded at once to build the fleet which was to sail under the Stars and Stripes. He showed the utmost skill and energy in doing this, and by the middle of July, in spite of many difficulties, had nine vessels ready to meet the enemy—two brigs and two gunboats which he had built, and five small boats which were brought up from the Niagara river. On the third of August, he sailed out to meet the British, his ships being manned by a motley crew of "blacks, soldiers, and boys."

The flagship had been named the Lawrence, after the heroic commander of the Chesapeake. Luckily the English were not ready for battle, and Perry had a month in which to drill his men before the enemy sailed out to meet him. At last, on the morning of Saturday, September 10, 1813, the British fleet was seen approaching, and Perry formed his ships in line of battle.

The British squadron consisted of six vessels, mounting 63 guns, and manned by 502 men. The American ships mounted 54 guns, with 490 men. Although of smaller total weight than the American guns, the British guns were longer and would carry farther, and so were much more effective. The British crews, too, were better disciplined, a large number of the men being from the royal navy, and the squadron was commanded by Robert Heriot, a man of much experience, who had fought under Nelson at Trafalgar.

The American shore was lined with an anxious crowd, who appreciated the great issues which hung upon the battle. Perry, calling his men aft, produced a blue banner bearing in white letters the last words of the man after whom the Lawrence was named: "Don't give up the ship!"

"Shall I hoist it, boys?" he asked.

"Aye, aye, sir!" they shouted, and the bunting was run up to the main-royal masthead. Then a hush fell upon the water as the two fleets drew together. A few minutes before noon the engagement began, Perry heading straight for the flagship of the enemy, and drawing the fire of practically the whole British squadron by running ahead of the other ships, which, owing to the light breeze, could not get within range. For two hours, he fought against these hopeless odds, and almost without support, until his ship was reduced to a wreck and only one of her guns could be worked, while of her crew of 103, only twenty were left on their feet. Every nook and corner of the brig was occupied by some wounded and dying wretch seeking vainly to find shelter from the British fire. Even the cockpit, where the wounded were carried for treatment, was not safe, for some of the men were killed while under the surgeon's hands. No fewer than six cannon balls passed through the cockpit, while two went through the magazine, which, by some miracle, did not explode. The ship was so disabled, at last, that it drifted out of action, and Perry, taking his pennant and the blue flag bearing the words "Don't give up the ship!" under his arm, got into a boat with four seamen, and started for the Niagara, his other brig.

The British saw the little boat dancing over the waves, and after a moment of dazed astonishment at a manoeuvre unheard of in naval warfare and daring almost to madness, concentrated their fire on it. One cannon ball penetrated the boat, but Perry, stripping off his coat, stuffed it into the hole and so kept the boat afloat until the Niagara was reached. Clambering on board, Perry ran up his flags, reformed his line, closed with the enemy, raked them, engaged them at close quarters, where their long guns gave them no advantage, and conducted an onslaught so terrific that, twenty minutes later, the entire British squadron had hauled down their flags.

Perry at once rowed back to the Lawrence, and upon her splintered and bloodstained deck, received the surrender of the British officers. Then, using his cap for a desk, he wrote with a pencil on the back of an old letter the famous message announcing the victory: "We have met the enemy and they are ours—two ships, two brigs, two schooners and one sloop." More than that was ours, for the victory, and the prompt advance of General Harrison which followed it, compelled the British to evacuate Detroit and Michigan, and to abandon forever the attempt to annex the West to Canada. Half a century later, when the great Erie canal was opened, the guns of Perry's fleet, placed at ten-mile intervals along its banks, announced the departure of the first fleet of boats from Buffalo, carrying the news to New York City, a distance of 360 miles, in an hour and twenty minutes.

Perry lived only six years longer, dying while still a young man, in the saddest possible manner. In June, 1819, he was given command of a squadron designed to protect American trade in South American waters, and while ascending the Orinoco, contracted the yellow fever, and died a few days later. He was buried at Trinidad, but some years afterwards, a ship-of-war brought him home, and he sleeps at Newport, Rhode Island, near the spot where he was born.

So ends the story of that group of naval commanders, who dealt so surprising and terrific a blow at the tradition of English supremacy on the ocean.

* * * * *

The brother of the victor of Lake Erie, Matthew Calbraith Perry, must also be mentioned here, for his was a unique achievement—the peaceful conquest of a great Eastern empire. Born in 1794, and educated in the best traditions of the navy, he was selected to command the expedition which, in 1853, was ordered to visit Japan, that strange nation of the Orient which, up to that time, had kept her ports closed to foreign commerce. Perry's conduct of this delicate mission was notable in the extreme, and its result was the signing of a treaty between Japan and the United States which has long been regarded as one of the greatest diplomatic triumphs of the age.

* * * * *

In the spring of 1861, a captain of the United States navy was living at Norfolk, Va., his home, the home of his wife's family, and the home of his closest friends. Excitement ran high, for it was as yet an open question whether or not the great state of Virginia would join her sisters farther south and renounce her allegiance to the Union. It was a time of searching of hearts, and this man of sixty years was brought face to face with the bitterest moment of his life. He must choose between his country and his state; between his flag and the love and respect of his relatives and friends.

In the end, the flag won. It was the flag he had taken his boyish oath to honor; on more than one occasion, he had seen the haughtiest colors on the ocean bow with respect before it; he had seen men, writhing in the agony of death, expend their last breath to defend it. It had wrapped itself about his heart, and meant more to him than home or friends or kindred. So the flag won.

On the seventeenth day of April, 1861, Virginia seceded from the Union. The day following, our gray-haired captain, expressing the opinion that secession was not the will of the majority of the people, but that the state had been dragooned out of the Union by a coterie of politicians, was told that he could no longer live in Norfolk.

"Very well," he answered, "I can live somewhere else."

He went home and told his wife that the time had come when she must choose whether she would remain with her own kinsfolk or follow him. Her choice was made on the instant, and within two hours, David Glasgow Farragut, his wife and their only son, were on a steamer headed for the North. A few days later, he offered his services to the Union.

Before going forward with him upon his great career, let us cast a glance over his boyhood—such a boyhood as falls to the lot of not one in a million. Born in 1801, of a father who had served in the Revolution and who was afterwards to become a friend and companion of Andrew Jackson, his childhood was passed amid the dangers and alarms of the Tennessee frontier. In 1808 occurred the incident which paved the way for his entrance into the navy. While fishing on Lake Pontchartrain, his father fell in with a boat in which was lying an old man prostrated by the heat of the sun. Farragut took him at once to his own home, where he was tenderly cared for, but he died a few days later. The sufferer was David Porter, father of Captain Porter of the Essex, at that time in charge of the naval station at New Orleans.

Captain Porter was informed of the accident to his father, and hastened to the home of the Farraguts. He felt deeply their kindness, and as some slight return, offered to adopt one of the Farragut children, take him North with him, and do what he could for his advancement. Young David promptly said that he would go, the arrangements were concluded, and the boy of seven accompanied his new protector to Washington. He spent two years at school there, and then, on December 17, 1810, at the age of nine, received an appointment as midshipman in the United States navy. Two years later, he accompanied Porter in the Essex on that memorable trip around Cape Horn.

Porter took so many prizes in the South Pacific that his supply of older officers ran out, and twelve-year old David Farragut was appointed prize-master of one of them, with orders to take her to Valparaiso. When Farragut gave his first order, her skipper, a hot-tempered old sea-dog, flew into a rage, and declaring that he had "no idea of trusting himself with a blamed nutshell," rushed below for his pistols. The twelve-year-old commander shouted after him that, if he came on deck again, he would be thrown overboard, and thenceforth was master of the ship. He was back on the Essex again when she was attacked in Valparaiso harbor by a British squadron, and got his baptism of fire in one of the hardest-fought naval battles in history.

From that time until the outbreak of the Civil War, his life was spent in the most active service, and he rose to the rank of captain. As has been seen, he cast in his lot with the North, and asked for active duty at once, but it was not until eight months later that the summons came. When it did come, it was of a nature to fill him with the most unbounded enthusiasm. The national government had determined to attempt to send a fleet past the formidable forts at the mouth of the Mississippi, for the purpose of capturing New Orleans. Farragut was sent for, shown the list of vessels which were preparing for the expedition, and asked if he thought it could succeed. He answered that he would undertake to do it with two-thirds the number, and when he was told that he was to command the expedition, his delight knew no bounds. He felt that his chance had come. On the second of February, 1862, he sailed out of Hampton Roads with a squadron of seventeen vessels, and turned his prow to the south.

The task which had been set him was one to give the stoutest heart pause. Twenty miles above the mouth of the Mississippi were two formidable forts and a number of water batteries, with combined armaments greatly superior to those of Farragut's fleet. A great barrier of logs stretched across the river, while farther up lay a Confederate fleet of fifteen vessels, one of which was an ironclad ram. A strong force of Confederate sharpshooters was stationed along either bank, and a number of fire-rafts were ready to be lighted and sent down against the Union fleet. It was against these obstacles that Farragut, after a week of preliminary attack, started up the river in his wooden vessels at three o'clock in the morning of April 24, 1862.

As soon as the Confederates descried the advancing fleet, they lighted great fires along the banks and opened a terrific cannonade. Blazing fire-rafts threw a lurid glare against the sky. The fleet, pausing a few minutes to discharge their broadsides into the forts, steamed on up the river; Farragut's flagship grounded under the guns of Fort St. Philip, and a fireship, blazing a hundred feet in the air, floated against her and set her on fire, but the flames were extinguished, the flagship backed off, and headed again up the stream. Before the coming of dawn, the entire fleet, with the exception of three small boats, had passed the forts and were grappling with the Confederate squadron above. Of this, short work was made. Some of the enemy's vessels were driven ashore, some were run down, others were riddled with shot—and the proudest city of the South lay at Farragut's mercy.

On the first day of May, the United States troops under General Butler, marched into the city, and Farragut, glad to be relieved of an unpleasant task, proceeded up the river, ran by the batteries at Vicksburg, assisted at the reduction of Port Hudson, and finally sailed for New York in his flagship, the Hartford, arriving there in August, 1863. He had already been commissioned rear-admiral, and he was given a most enthusiastic reception, for his passage of the Mississippi was recognized as an extraordinary feat. An examination of his ship showed that she had been struck 240 times by shot and shell in her nineteen months of service.

Immediately after the surrender of New Orleans, Farragut had desired to proceed against the port of Mobile, Alabama, which was so strongly fortified that all attempts to close it had been in vain, and which was the only important port left open to the Confederates. But the government decided that Mobile could wait a while, and sent him, instead, to open the Mississippi. That task accomplished, the time had come for him to attempt the greatest of his career—greater, even, than his capture of New Orleans, and much more hazardous. In the spring of 1864, he was in the Gulf, preparing for the great enterprise.

Mobile harbor was defended by works so strong and well-placed that it was considered well-nigh impregnable. The Confederates had realized the importance of keeping this, their last port, open, so that they could communicate with the outer world, and had spared no pains to render it so strong that they believed no attack could subdue it. Two great forts, armed with heavy and effective artillery, guarded the entrance; the winding channel was filled with torpedoes, and in the inner harbor was a fleet of gunboats, and, most powerful of all, the big, ironclad ram, Tennessee. In charge of the Tennessee was the same man who had guided the Merrimac on her fatal visit to Hampton Roads, Franklin Buchanan, but the Tennessee was a much more powerful vessel than the Merrimac had ever been, and it was thought that nothing afloat could stand against her.

It was this position, then, which, at daybreak of August 5, 1864, Farragut sailed in to assault. His fleet consisted of four ironclad monitors, and fourteen wooden vessels, and his preparations were made most carefully, for he fully realized the gravity of the task before him. He himself was in his old flagship, the Hartford, and mounting into the rigging to be above the smoke, he was lashed fast there, so that he would not fall to the deck, in case a bullet struck him. The thought of that brave old leader taking that exposed position so that he might handle his fleet more ably will always be a thrilling one—and the event proved how wise he was in choosing it.

The word was given, and, at half past six in the morning, the monitors took their stations, while the wooden ships formed in column, the plan being for the monitors, with their iron sides, to steam in between the wooden ships and the forts, and so protect them as much as possible. The light vessels were lashed each to the left of one of the heavier ones, so that each pair of ships was given a double chance to escape, should one be rendered helpless by a shot in the boiler, or in some other vital portion of her machinery. The Brooklyn was at the head of the column, while the Hartford came second, and the others followed. In this order, the fleet advanced to the attack.

There was an unwonted stillness on the ships as they swung in towards the harbor mouth, for every man felt within him a vague unrest caused by one awful and mysterious peril, the torpedoes. For the forts, the gunboats, even the great ironclad, the men cared nothing—they had met such perils before—but lurking beneath the water was a horror not to be guarded against. They knew that these deadly mines were scattered along the channel through which they must make their way, and that any moment might be the end of some proud vessel.

The ships were all in fighting trim, with spars housed and canvas furled, and decks spread with sawdust so that they would not grow slippery with the blood which was soon to flow. As the fleet came within range of the forts, a terrific cannonade began, in which the Confederate ships, stationed just inside the harbor, soon joined. One of them was the great ram, Tennessee, and the commander of the leading monitor, the Tecumseh, noted her and determined to give her battle. So he swung his ship toward her and ordered full steam ahead; but an instant later, there came a sudden dull roar, an uplifting of the water, the boat quivered from stem to stern, and then plunged, bow first, beneath the waves.

Farragut, from his lofty station, saw the Tecumseh disappear, and then saw the Brooklyn, the ship ahead of him in the battle line, stop and begin to back. It was an awful moment—the crisis of the fight and of Farragut's career as well. The ships were halted in a narrow channel, right beneath the forts; a few moments' delay meant that they would be blown out of the water.

"What's the matter there?" he roared.

"Torpedoes!" came the cry from the Brooklyn's deck, for her captain had perceived a line of little buoys stretching right across her path.

"Damn the torpedoes!" shouted the admiral. "Go ahead, Captain Drayton," he continued, addressing his own captain. "Four bells!" and the Hartford, swinging aside, cleared the Brooklyn and took the lead.

On went the flagship across the line of torpedoes, which could be heard knocking against her bottom as she passed, but not one of them exploded, and a moment later, one of the most daring feats in naval history had been accomplished. Farragut had seen, instantly, that the risk must be taken, and so he took it.

The remainder of the fleet followed the flagship, the forts were passed, and the battle virtually won. The Confederate fleet, and especially the great ram, was still to be reckoned with, but before proceeding to that portion of the task, Farragut steamed up the harbor and served breakfast to his men. Just as this was finished, the Tennessee attacked, and put up a desperate fight, but finally became unmanageable and was forced to surrender.

So ended the battle of Mobile Bay. It left Farragut's fame secure as one of the greatest sea-captains of all time; great in daring, in skill, in foresight, and with a coolness and presence of mind which no peril could shake. Congress created for him the grade of admiral, before unknown in the United States navy, and the whole country joined in honoring him.

Swinging to and fro with the ebb and flow of the tide at the entrance of Mobile Bay, is a buoy which marks the spot of a deed of purest heroism. A few fathoms below that buoy lies the monitor Tecumseh, sunk by a torpedo at the beginning of the battle, as we have seen, and the buoy commemorates, not the sinking of the ship, but the self-sacrifice of her commander, Tunis Augustus Craven.

Craven had entered the navy at the age of sixteen and had seen much service and distinguished himself in many ways before he was given command of the Tecumseh and ordered to join Farragut's squadron. On the morning of the attack, he was given the post of honor at the head of the column, and determined to come to close quarters with the Tennessee, if he could. But fate intervened, when his quarry was almost within reach. Craven had stationed himself in the little pilot-house beside the pilot, the better to direct the movements of his ship, and when he and the pilot felt that sudden shock and saw the Tecumseh sinking, both of them sprang for the narrow opening leading from the pilot-house to the turret chamber below. They reached the opening at the same instant; it was so small that only one could pass at a time, and Craven, with a greatness of soul found only in heroes, drew back, saying quietly, "After you, pilot."

"There was nothing after me," said the pilot afterwards, "for when I reached the last round of the ladder, the vessel seemed to drop from under me."

* * * * *

At the outbreak of the Civil War, the commerce of the United States was the next to the largest in the world. The North destroyed southern commerce by capturing or blockading southern ports, while the South retaliated by fitting out a large number of commerce-destroyers, to range the seas and take what prizes they could—a plan which had been adopted by America in both wars with England, and which is the only resource of a power whose navy is greatly inferior to that of its antagonist.

The bright particular star of the Confederate service was Raphael Semmes, who had been trained in the United States navy, and who, first in the Sumter and afterwards in the Alabama, captured a total of seventy-seven prizes, nearly all of which he destroyed. To his capture, the United States devoted some of its best ships, but it was not until the summer of 1864, that he was finally cornered.

On Sunday, June 12, 1864, the United States sloop-of-war Kearsarge lay at anchor off the sleepy town of Flushing, Holland. Her commander, John Ancrum Winslow, had served in the navy of the United States for thirty-seven years, and had done good work off Vera Cruz in the war with Mexico, but the crowning achievement of his life was at hand. As his ship lay swinging idly at her anchor, a boat put off to her, a messenger jumped aboard, and three minutes later a gun was fired, recalling instantly every member of the ship's company ashore. The message was from our minister to France and stated that the long-sought Alabama had arrived at Cherbourg. For nearly two years, Winslow had been searching for that scourge of American shipping, but Semmes had always eluded him, so it may well be believed that Winslow lost no time in getting under way. On Tuesday morning, he reached Cherbourg, and breathed a great sigh of relief as he saw, beyond the breakwater, the flag of the Alabama. He took his station off the port, and kept a close lookout for fear his enemy would again elude him. But the precaution was unnecessary, for Semmes had decided to offer battle.

Four days passed, however, with the Kearsarge keeping grim guard. Then, on Sunday morning, June 19, as the crew of the Kearsarge was at divine service, the officer of the deck reported a steamer at the harbor-mouth. A moment later, the lookout shouted, "She's coming, and heading straight for us!" Captain Winslow, putting aside his prayer-book, seized the trumpet, ordered the decks cleared for action, and put his ship about and bore down on the Alabama.

The two vessels were remarkably well-matched, but the engagement was decisive evidence of the superior qualities of northern marksmanship. It was, in fact, an exhibition of that magnificent gunnery which was so evident in the war of 1812, and which was to be shown again in the war with Spain. Nearly all of the 173 shots fired by the Kearsarge took effect, while of the 370 fired by the Alabama, only 28 reached their target. As a result, at the end of an hour and a half, the Alabama was sinking, while the Kearsarge was practically uninjured and had lost only three men. Hauling down her flag, the Alabama tried to run in shore, but suddenly, settling by the stern, lifted her bow high in the air and plunged to the bottom of the sea. So ended the career of the Alabama. Winslow received the usual rewards of promotion and the thanks of Congress, and passed the remainder of his life unadventurously in the navy service.

One other battle remains to be recorded—in some respects the most important in history, because it revolutionized the construction of battleships, and suddenly rendered all the existing navies of the world practically useless.

On the eighth day of March, 1862, a powerful squadron of Union vessels lay at anchor in Hampton Roads, consisting of the Congress, the Cumberland, the St. Lawrence, the Roanoke, and the Minnesota. It was a beautiful spring morning, and the tall ships rocked lazily at their anchors, while their crews occupied themselves with routine duties. Shortly before noon, a strange object was seen approaching down the Elizabeth river. To the Union officers, it looked like the roof of a large barn belching forth smoke. In reality, it was the Confederate ironclad, Merrimac, under command of Captain Franklin Buchanan.

Buchanan had, in his day, been one of the most distinguished officers in the United States navy. He had entered the service in 1815, as midshipman, and won rapid promotion. In 1845, he was selected by the secretary of the navy to organize the naval academy at Annapolis, and was its first commandant. He commanded the Germantown at the capture of Vera Cruz, and the Susquehanna, the flagship of Commodore Perry's famous expedition to Japan. At the outbreak of the Civil War, he was commandant of the Washington navy-yard, and, being himself a Baltimore man, resigned from the service after the attack made in Baltimore on the Massachusetts troops passing through there. Finding that his state did not secede, he withdrew his resignation and asked to be restored, but for some reason, the secretary of the navy, Gideon Welles, refused this request, and Buchanan was fairly driven into the enemy's service.

The Confederacy was glad to get him, gave him the rank of captain and put him in charge of the work at the Norfolk, Virginia, navy-yard. The most important business going forward there was the reconstruction of the United States frigate, Merrimac. This consisted in building above her berth-deck sloping bulwarks seven feet high, covered with four inches of iron, and pierced for ten guns. To her bow, about two feet under water, a cast-iron ram was attached, and on the eighth of March, she cast loose from her moorings and started down the river. She was scarcely complete, her crew had never been drilled, she had never fired a gun, nor had her engines made a single revolution, while the ship itself was merely a bold experiment, which had never made a trial trip. Yet Buchanan, on reaching Hampton Roads, headed straight for the Union fleet.

There, as soon as the identity of the stranger was discovered, hurried preparations for battle were made. Decks were cleared, magazines opened, and guns loaded, and as soon as the Merrimac was in range, the Union ships and shore batteries opened upon her, but such projectiles as struck her, glanced harmlessly from her iron mail. Not until she was quite near the Cumberland did the Merrimac return the fire. Then she opened her bow-port and sent a seven-inch shell through the Cumberland's quarter. The Cumberland answered with a broadside which would have blown any wooden vessel out of the water, but which affected the Merrimac not at all. Buchanan had determined to test the power of his ram, and keeping on at full speed, crashed into the Cumberland's side. Then he backed out, leaving a yawning chasm, through which the water poured into the doomed ship. She settled rapidly and sank with a roar, her crew firing her guns to the last moment.

The Merrimac then turned her attention to the Congress, with such deadly effect that that vessel was forced to surrender after an hour's fighting, in which she was repeatedly hulled and set on fire. Most of her crew escaped to the shore, and the Confederates completed her destruction by firing hot shot into her. Evening was at hand by this time, and the Merrimac withdrew, intending to destroy the other ships in the harbor next morning.

So ended the most disastrous day in the history of the United States navy. Two ships were lost, and over three hundred men killed or wounded. On the Merrimac, two had been killed and eight wounded, but the vessel herself, though she had been the target for more than a hundred heavy guns, was practically uninjured and as dangerous as ever.

Among the wounded was Captain Buchanan, who was forced to relinquish the command of the Merrimac. For his gallantry, he was thanked by the Confederate Congress, and promoted to full admiral and senior officer of the Confederate navy. As soon as he recovered from his wound, he was placed in charge of the naval defenses of Mobile, Alabama, and there superintended the construction of the ram Tennessee, which he commanded during the action with Farragut two years later. His handling of the vessel was daring almost to madness, but she became disabled and was forced to surrender. Buchanan was taken prisoner, and never again took part in any naval action.

Let us return to Hampton Roads.

The news of the disaster to the Union fleet spread gloom and consternation throughout the North, and corresponding rejoicing throughout the South. The remaining ships in Hampton Roads plainly lay at the Merrimac's mercy, and after they had been destroyed, there was nothing to prevent her steaming up the Potomac and attacking Washington. It seemed as if nothing but a miracle could save the country from awful disaster.

And that miracle was at hand.

Among the coincidences of history, none is more remarkable than the arrival at Hampton Roads on the night of March 8, 1862, of the strange and freakish-looking craft known as the Monitor. Proposed to the Navy Department in the preceding fall by John Ericsson, in spite of sneers and doubts, a contract was given him in October to construct a vessel after his design. The form of the Monitor is too well known to need description—"a cheese-box on a raft," the name given her in derision, describes her as well as anything. She was launched on the last day of January, and three weeks later was handed over to the Government, but it was not until the fourth of March that her guns were mounted, two powerful rifled cannon. At the request of Ericsson, she was named the Monitor, and this name came afterwards to be adopted to describe the class of ships of which she was the first. So dangerous was service in her considered, that volunteers were called for, and Lieutenant John Lorimer Worden was given command of her.

Worden had entered the navy twenty-seven years before, and at the opening of the Civil War, had delivered the orders from the secretary of the navy which saved Fort Pickens, in the harbor of Pensacola, to the Union. Attempting to return North overland, he was arrested and held as a prisoner seven months, being exchanged just in time to enable him to procure command of the Monitor. Rumors of the construction of the Merrimac had reached the North, and two days after her guns were aboard, the Monitor left New York harbor for Hampton Roads. Just after she passed Sandy Hook, orders recalling her were received there, fortunately too late to be delivered. By such slight threads do the events of history depend.

Meanwhile, Captain Worden was making such progress southward as he could with his unwieldy and dangerous craft, which had been designed only for the smooth waters of rivers and harbors and which was wholly unable to cope with the boisterous Atlantic. There was a brisk wind, and the vessel was soon in imminent danger of foundering. The waves broke over her smoke-stack and poured down into her fires, so that steam could not be kept up; the blowers which ventilated the ship would not work, and she became filled with gas which rendered some of her crew unconscious. Undoubtedly she would have gone to the bottom very shortly had not the wind moderated. Even then, it was almost a miracle that she should win through, but win through she did, and at four o'clock on the afternoon of Saturday, March 8, as she was passing Cape Henry, Captain Worden heard the distant booming of guns. As darkness came, he saw far ahead the glare of the burning Congress.

About midnight, the little vessel crept up beside the Minnesota and anchored. Her crew were completely exhausted. For fifty hours, they had fought to keep their ship afloat, and on the morrow they must be prepared to meet a formidable foe. All that night they worked with their vessel, making such repairs as they could. At eight o'clock next morning, the Merrimac appeared, and the Monitor started to meet her.

Amazed at sight of what appeared to be an iron turret sliding over the water toward him, the commander of the Merrimac swung toward this tiny antagonist, intending to destroy her before proceeding to the work in hand. Captain Worden had taken his station in the pilot-house, and reserved his fire until within short range. Then, slowly circling about his unwieldy foe, he fired shot after shot, which, while they did not disable her, prevented her from destroying the Union ships in the harbor. Finding the Monitor apparently invulnerable, and with her machinery giving trouble, the Merrimac at last withdrew to Norfolk.

That the battle was a victory for the Monitor cannot be questioned; she had prevented the destruction of the Union ships, and this she continued to do, until, in the following May, the Confederates, finding themselves compelled to abandon Norfolk, set the Merrimac on fire and blew her up. Six months later, the Monitor met a tragic fate, foundering in a storm off Cape Hatteras, a portion of her crew going down with her.

Honors were showered upon Worden for his gallant work. He was given command of the monitor Montauk, and later on destroyed the Confederate privateer Nashville. After the war, he was promoted to rear-admiral, and remained in the service until 1886.

There were others in the war whose deeds brought glory to themselves and to the navy—Lieutenant William B. Cushing, who destroyed the Confederate ram Albemarle in Plymouth harbor, a deed comparable with the burning of the Philadelphia early in the century; David Dixon Porter, whose work on the Mississippi was second only to Farragut's, who four times received the thanks of Congress, and who, in the end, became admiral of the navy; Charles Stuart Boggs, who, in the sloop-of-war Varuna, sank five Confederate vessels in the river below New Orleans, before he was himself sunk—but none of them, and, indeed, none of those whose exploits we have given, measured up to the stature of Farragut, one of the greatest commanders of all time, and, all things considered, the very greatest in the history of America.

* * * * *

Thirty years and more passed after that epoch-making contest between the Monitor and the Merrimac before the world witnessed another battle to the death between ironclads. Theoretically, wood had long since been displaced by iron, iron by steel, and steel by specially-forged armor-plate, battleship designers struggling always to build a vessel which could withstand modern projectiles. But as to the actual results in warfare, there was nothing but theory to go upon until that first day of May, 1898, when George Dewey steamed into the harbor of Manila, at the head of his squadron, and opened fire upon the Spanish fleet.

Dewey had received his training under the best of masters, Farragut. Graduating from Annapolis in 1858, he served as lieutenant on the Mississippi, when that vessel, as part of Farragut's fleet, ran past the forts below New Orleans. A short time later, in trying to pass the Confederate batteries at Port Hudson, the Mississippi ran hard and fast aground. Half an hour was spent, under a terrific fire, in trying to get her off; then Dewey, after spiking her guns, assisted in scuttling her and escaped with her captain in a small boat. He saw other active service, and got his first command in 1870. He was commissioned commodore in 1896, and on January 1, 1898, took command of the Asiatic squadron.

Few people in the world beside himself suspected, even in the dimmest manner, the task which lay before him; but with a rare sagacity, he had foreseen that, in the event of war with Spain, the far East would be the scene of operations of the first importance. He thereupon applied for the command of the Asiatic squadron, and his application was granted. Dewey proceeded immediately to Hong Kong, and began to concentrate his forces there and to get them into first-class condition. He spent much of his time studying the charts of the Pacific, and his officers noticed that the maps of the Philippine Islands soon became worn and marked. On Tuesday, April 26, came the explanation of all this in a cablegram stating that war had been declared between the United States and Spain, and ordering Dewey to proceed at once to the Philippine Islands and capture or destroy the Spanish fleet which was stationed there.

Early the next afternoon, the squadron started on its six hundred mile journey. What lay at the end of it, no one on the fleet knew. Of the Spanish force, Dewey knew only that twenty-three Spanish war vessels were somewhere in the Philippines; he knew, too, that they were probably at Manila, and that the defenses of the harbor were of the strongest description. But he remembered one of Farragut's sayings, "The closer you get to your enemy, the harder you can strike," and he lost no time in getting under way.



Dewey's squadron consisted of seven vessels, of which one was a revenue cutter, and two colliers. He was many thousands of miles from the nearest base of supplies and to fail would mean that he would have to surrender. So, on that momentous voyage, he drilled and drilled his men, until their discipline was perfect. On April 30, land was sighted, and precautions were redoubled, since the enemy might be encountered at any moment. Careful search failed to reveal the Spaniards in Subig Bay, and at six o'clock in the evening, Dewey announced to his officers that he had determined to force Manila Bay that night. At nine o'clock the fleet was off the bay, all lights were extinguished save one at the stern of each ship to serve as a guide for the one following, and even that light was carefully screened on both sides so that it could not be seen from the shore. Then the fleet headed for the harbor mouth.

What the defenses of the channel were, no one knew. It was reported to be full of torpedoes. But perhaps Dewey remembered Farragut at Mobile Bay. At any rate, he did not hesitate, but kept straight on, and the fleet had almost passed the harbor mouth, before its presence was discovered. Then the shore batteries opened, but without effect, and the entire squadron passed safely into the harbor. Then followed long hours of waiting for the dawn, and at five o'clock came the signal, "Prepare for action," for the Spanish fleet had been sighted at anchor far down the harbor.

Fifteen minutes later, the Spaniards opened fire, but Dewey went silently on toward his goal. Suddenly, a short distance away, there was a dull explosion, and a great mass of water and mud sprang into the air. A mine had been exploded; the fleet had entered the mine fields. Now, if ever, it would be blown into eternity, but there was no pause in the progress of that silent line of battle. From the bridge of the Olympia, the most exposed position in the squadron, Dewey watched the progress of his ships. In the conning tower, eagerly awaiting the word to fire, was Captain Gridley. At last, with a final glance at the shore, Dewey bent over the rail.