In the spring of 1807, a crisis approached. A small British squadron lay in American waters near the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay, watching some French frigates blockaded at Annapolis. Three of the crew of one of the vessels and one of another had deserted and enlisted on board the United States frigate Chesapeake, lying at the Washington Navy yard. The British minister made a formal demand for their surrender. Our government refused compliance because it was ascertained that two of the men were natives of the United States, and there was strong presumptive evidence that a third was, likewise. No more was said; but the commander of the British squadron took the matter into his own hands.

The Chesapeake, on going to sea on the morning of June 22, 1807, was intercepted by the British frigate Leopard, whose commander hailed the commodore and informed him that he had a despatch for him. Unsuspicious of unfriendliness, the Chesapeake was laid to, when a British boat, bearing a lieutenant, came alongside. Barron politely received him in his cabin, when the lieutenant presented a demand from the commander of the Leopard that the bearer be allowed to muster the crew of the Chesapeake, that he might select and carry away the deserters. The demand was authorized by instructions received from Vice-Admiral Berkeley, at Halifax. Barron told the lieutenant that his crew should not be mustered, excepting by his own officers, when the lieutenant withdrew and the Chesapeake moved on.

Having some fear of mischief, Barron made some preparation to resist; but it was too late to prepare to cope with the Leopard, which followed close in her wake, and the commander called out through his trumpet:

"Commodore Barron must be aware that the vice-admiral's commands must be obeyed." The Chesapeake held on her course although this was repeated. The Leopard sent two shots athwart her bows. These were followed by a broadside poured into the hull of the Chesapeake. The American vessel, having no priming in her guns, was unable to return the fire, and after being severely bruised by repeated broadsides she surrendered to her assailants. Her crew was mustered by the British officers and the deserters carried away. One of them, a British subject, was hanged at Halifax and the others, being Americans, were spared on their consenting to enlist in the English Navy. Commodore Barron was tried on charge of neglect of duty in not being prepared for action, found guilty, and suspended from the service for five years without pay or emolument.

On March 4, 1809, Mr. James Madison of Virginia succeeded Mr. Thomas Jefferson as president of the United States. His cabinet were Robert Smith, secretary of state; Albert Gallatin, secretary of the treasury; William Eustis, secretary of war; Paul Hamilton, secretary of the navy, and Caesar Rodney, attorney-general. There was a powerful party in the nation hostile to his political creed, and consequently opposed to his administration and the war with England which seemed inevitable.

French and English nations became more embroiled in trouble, which increased the trouble between the United States and Great Britain.

At last the English government sent men-of-war to cruise off the principal ports of the United States to intercept American merchant-vessels and send them to England as lawful prizes. In this business, the Little Belt, a British sloop-of-war, was engaged off the coast of Virginia in the spring of 1811, where, on the 16th of April, she met the American frigate President, under Captain Ludlow, bearing the broad pennant of Commodore Rodgers. Commodore Rodgers, being aboard the President, hailed the sloop and asked:

"What sloop is that?"

A cannon-shot was his reply.

"Captain Ludlow," said the commodore, "we will teach that fellow good manners. Are your guns in order?"

"They are."

"We have been taught a lesson by Barron's mishap. Train the guns and be ready to fire."

With a speaking trumpet, the commodore once more hailed the sloop with:

"What sloop is that?"

This time he was greeted with a broadside.

"Fire!" cried the commodore, and the cannon of the President sent a broadside of heavy shot against the impudent stranger.

The conflict lasted only about ten minutes, when Captain Bingham, after losing eleven killed and twenty-one wounded, gave a satisfactory answer. The vessels parted company, the Little Belt sailing for Halifax for repairs.

It was in the year 1809 that the American brig Dover, one of the few of American merchant vessels which had managed to escape the ruin of Jefferson's embargo act, was sailing among the lesser Antilles. The master-captain Parson was a thorough seaman with a heart as big as an ox.

British cruisers were a greater bugbear to American vessels than pirates, and Captain Parson kept a constant lookout for them.

On the afternoon of an Autumnal day, when he found himself becalmed off a small island not down on the chart, the skipper felt no little uneasiness. He paced his deck impatiently, occasionally turning his eye to every quarter, surveying the horizon for some sign of a gale of wind.

"Mr. Brown, Mr. Brown," he called to his mate.

"Aye, aye, sir," answered Mr. Brown, hurrying forward.

"Mr. Brown, look across that point of land sou-west the island—get your glass."

"Aye, aye, sir!"

The mate ran and got his glass. He came back to the captain and leveled it in the direction indicated by the captain.

"Do you see anything?"

"I do, sir."

"What is it?"

"I see the top gallant of a ship."

"I thought I was not mistaken. Can you make out her colors?"

"I will go aloft, captain, and see."

The mate ascended to the foretop cross-tree, and took a long survey of the stranger. When he descended the captain asked:

"What is she?"

"An English frigate."

"I knew it!" growled the captain. "I felt it in my bones. We shall have the rascals overhauling us anon. Egad, I wish we had an armed crew and heavy guns—I would not wait for congress to declare war."

"But captain, while this dead calm lasts, she cannot move more than ourselves."

"Very true, Mr. Brown, but, egad, she will catch the breeze first, and come up with it. Thank heaven we have no man aboard our ship born out of the United States. They cannot impress any for Englishmen."

The mate answered:

"They care little whether we are English or American born; if they are short of hands, they will take such of our crews as they want."

The captain paced the deck uneasily, occasionally muttering:

"Zounds, don't I wish I had a few heavy guns."

There was but one small brass piece aboard, and it was only a six pounder, unable to render much service. His country was nominally at peace with Great Britain; but that did not prevent honest merchantmen suffering at the hands of the British cruisers.

The afternoon wore away and the sun had set before there was breeze enough to fill a sail. Just as the vessel began to glide slowly away from the small island not more than two miles distant, the mate, who had ascended to the lookout's position cried:

"Boat, ho!"

"Where away?"

"To leeward, heading direct for us."

The captain seized his glass and turned it toward the island. The sombre shades of twilight had already gathered over the scene; but he saw through them quite distinctly a boat pulled by four men, while a fifth sat in the stern holding the tiller. The steersman kept the small island between them and the vessel Captain Parson had discovered.

As the breeze grew stiffer and the Dover began to fill away, the mate, who had never taken his glass off the approaching boat, suddenly cried:

"Captain Parson, they are signalling us to heave to!"

"So they are, by zounds!" the puzzled captain exclaimed.

"What will you do?"

After a moment's hesitation, the captain said:

"Heave to, by Jove, and see what they want!"

The order was given, and the vessel rocked idly on the waves, while the boat drew rapidly nearer. At last it was near enough for them to make out the five men dressed in the uniform of British marines.

"Brown, I don't like this. Those fellows are from his majesty's frigate, there is no doubt, and they mean us trouble."

"Wait and see, captain," the mate answered, coming down to the deck. "There are but five of them, and, so far as I can see, all are unarmed." The deck by this time was crowded with the crew, all waiting in anxious expectation and dread.

"It am de press gang!" said the cook, who was a negro black as the ace of spades named Job. "Dey am comin' to take off everybody dat looks like a Britisher. Golly! do I look like a Britisher?"

Notwithstanding the gravity of the situation, a smile flitted momentarily over the faces of the officers and crew. The boat by this time was within hailing distance, though it had grown so dark the inmates of it could be only dimly seen.

"Boat, ahoy!" cried the captain.

"Aye, aye, sir!" came back the response.

"What boat is that?"

"A boat from his majesty's ship the Sea-Wing. We wish to come aboard your vessel."

When the captain asked them their business, they frankly confessed that they were deserters and had been secreted all day on the island watching an opportunity to reach the American brig.

Their story was a probable one, and the captain and his officers believed it. A rope was tossed to them, and in a few moments five stalwart jack tars in the uniform of the British Navy stood on the deck.

One tall, fine-looking seaman, who was every inch a gentleman, and whose conversation was evidence of education and refinement, told their story.

Three of them were Americans, and two were Swedes. They had been seized by the press gang and made slaves on board the frigate.

"It has been many years," said the tall sailor, "since I saw my native land. I am a native of Hartford, Connecticut."

"Why didn't you escape sooner?" the Captain asked.

"Escape, captain, is no easy matter, and is attended with serious consequences. They usually hang one who tries to desert. I am a gunner, by profession, and but for the fact they need my services against the French, I would have been hung long since for trying to desert."

The gunner impressed Captain Parson favorably. He was a man between forty and forty-five years of age. His eyes were deep blue, his hair light. His round, full face was smooth shaven. As he stood on the deck, his brawny arms folded across his massive chest, he looked a perfect model of a man and a tower of strength.

Captain Parson led him aside and said:

"You are no common sailor."

"I'm only a gunner now, captain."

"But in the past?"

"I once commanded a ship. I will tell you my story on the morrow. It is a sad one, but, thank God, there's nothing in it at which I need blush. For the present, however, let us get along as fast as your ship can make it, for the Sea-Wing is a swift vessel, and if we are not beyond reach of her vision before the dawn of day, we shall be overhauled."

Captain Parson knew that some evil consequences might result from being overhauled by the Sea-Wing, and consequently every stitch of canvas was spread and the brig sped away with a good stiff breeze. It was a long and anxious night; master and crew were all on deck. No one slept. The coming dawn would tell the story. If the frigate were in sight, then they might expect the very worst; even the ship might be captured and borne away as a prize and the entire crew enslaved.

Dawn came at last. Each anxious heart welcomed and yet dreaded to see the new day. Sailors and officers swept the sea as it grew lighter, and, to their dread, just as the sun rose over the glossy surface of the sea, a snowy speck appeared far off to the westward.

The lookout at the mast-head first called their attention to it, and as it drew nearer and nearer the tall handsome gunner went aloft with a glass to see if he could recognize it. In a few moments he came back and said:

"It is the frigate, sir."

That she was in full chase, there could not be a doubt. Captain Parson had little hope of escaping; but he put the Dover on her best sailing point and scudded away before the wind with every stitch of canvas they could carry.

"Oh, golly! I hope dey won't mistake—dey won't mistake dis chile for a Britisher!" groaned Job the cook, who was trembling from head to foot, and whose black skin was almost pale.

The five deserters were pale but calm. They seemed to read their fate and bore it like men. A flogging was the very least they could expect; but the chances were that every one would hang. The frigate was the swifter sailor and overhauled them so rapidly, that, in two hours and a half, she was within a mile of the brig.

Suddenly a wreath of white smoke curled up from the forecastle, and a moment later a ball came skipping over the water under their larboard deck, while the boom of a cannon sounded over the sea. As the fine spray clipped from the crested waves by the shot, flew over the deck, Mr. Brown said:

"Captain, it's no use, she will be near enough to sink us in ten minutes."

"Heave to, Brown. Oh! I wish I had arms and a crew!"

"Captain," interposed the tall, handsome gunner, "I—I know their skill and metal. If you had a gun—a single gun of proper calibre, I could sink her. I am called the best shot in the English navy."

"We have only a six pounder," answered the captain, ruefully, pointing to their only gun. It was but an inferior piece, and when the gunner examined it, he turned to his four anxious companions and said:

"It would be suicide."

Then the five sailors stood near the main gangway with arms folded, heads erect, and resigned like brave men to their fate. The frigate came bearing down upon them like a great mountain, and soon lay alongside. The captain and a score of marines all armed with muskets, came aboard.

"So ho!" cried the captain, "you have my live runaways snug enough. Seize them and carry them aboard, lieutenant."

A young officer with ten men now seized the five deserters, handcuffed them and led them to their ship which lay alongside. As they went over the rail, the brutal captain said something about swinging at the yard arm. Turning to Parson, he said:

"Captain, muster your crew and have them pass before me."

Much as the captain disliked to do so, he was in the power of the brutal Englishman and forced to do his bidding. As the sailors passed slowly before him, the Briton eyed each carefully. Suddenly he pointed to a stout young sailor named Tom, and cried:

"Stop sir, you are an Englishman!"

"I am not, capen, ye's mistaken, I was born at Plymouth, Massachusetts."

"Don't dispute my word, sir. I know you, seize him!"

Though three of Tom's messmates offered to swear that he was a native of Massachusetts, he was seized, ironed and hurried away. Two more were selected, despite the protests of Captain Parson, who was raging like a madman, and hurried aboard the frigate. The fourth man halted in the procession was Job, the colored cook.

"Stop, sir, I want you!" said the English officer.



"Want me, Capen? oh, golly! I ain't a Britisher!" cried Job, gesticulating wildly. "Do I look like I war a Britisher? Do you think dar is any Angler Sacksun blood in dese veins?"

Job howled and appealed in vain. The commander of the Sea Wing declared him to be an English negro, and he was hurried away to try the hard service on board a British war vessel.

Having culled the crew of the Dover to his heart's content, the haughty Briton went aboard his own ship and continued his cruise, leaving Captain Parson expressing his ideas in such language as no parson should use.



CHAPTER V.

FERNANDO'S JOURNEY EAST. HE MEETS WITH QUEER PEOPLE.

From the day Fernando Stevens began to read and learn of the great world beyond the narrow confines of his western home, he was filled with the laudable ambition to know more about it. The solitude of the wilderness may be congenial for meditation; but it is in the moving whirl of humanity that ideas are brightened. Fernando was promised that if he would master the common school studies taught in their log schoolhouse, he should be sent to one of the eastern cities to have his education completed. Albert Stevens, the lad's father, was becoming one of the most prosperous farmers of the west. He had purchased several tracts of land which rapidly increased in value, and his flocks and herds multiplied marvelously. He was in fact regarded as "rich" in those days of simplicity. He had sent several flatboats loaded with grain down the Ohio and Mississippi to New Orleans and sold the cargoes at great profit, so that, in addition to his fields, his stock and houses, he had between three and four thousand dollars in money.

Fernando grew to be a tall, slender youth, and in 1806 having finished his education, so far as the west could afford, his father determined to send him to the East, where it was hoped he would develop into a lawyer or a preacher. The mother hoped the latter. His brother and sister had grown up, married and were settled on farms in the neighborhood, taking on the same existence of their parents; living honest, peaceful and unambitious lives.

The youth Fernando was more inclined to mental than physical activity, and his parents, possessing an abundance of common sense, decided not to force him to engage in an occupation distasteful to him.

What school should he enter? was a question which the father long debated. There were Harvard and Yale, both famous seats of learning, and there were any number of academies all over the country. Captain Stevens finally decided to allow the youth to make his own selection, giving him money sufficient to take a little tour in the eastern States, before settling down.

Captain Stevens had a well-to-do neighbor, who lived across Bear Creek, by the name of Winners. Old Zeb Winners was one of those quaint products of the West. He was an easy-going man, proverbially slow of speech and movement, and certainly the last person on earth one would expect to become rich; yet he was wealthy. With all his slothfulness he was shrewd, and could drive a better bargain than many men twice as active in mind and body. One morning after it had become noised abroad that Fernando was going away to college, Mr. Winners rode up to the house on his big sorrel mare, her colt following, and, dismounting, tied the mare to the rail fence and entered the gate.

"Good mornin', cap'in, good mornin'," said the visitor.

"Come in, Mr. Winners. Glad to see you. Hope you are all well!"

"Oh, yes, middlin' like," answered the farmer entering the house without the ceremony of removing his hat. A chair was offered, and he sat for a moment with his hands spread out before the fireplace, his hat still on his head. There was no fire in the fireplace, for it was late in May; but Mr. Winners held his hands before it, from habit.

"Wall, cap'in, I do hear as how yer goin' ter send yer boy Fernando to college."

"I am."

"Wall, that air a good notion. Now I ain't got no book larnin' myself; but I don't object to nobody else gittin' none. I've made up my mind to send one of my boys along with 'im, ef ye've no objection."

Of course Captain Stevens had no objection. Which of his boys was he going to send?

"I kinder thought az how I'd send Sukey."

Sukey was a nickname given a tall, lazy youth named Richard Winners. Why he had been nicknamed Sukey we have never been able to ascertain; but the sobriquet, attached to him in childhood, clung to him all through life. Sukey was like his father, brave, slow, careful, but a steadfast friend and possessed of considerable dry humor. He took the world easy and thought "one man as good as another so long as he behaved himself."

It was arranged that Sukey and Fernando should start in a week for New York, from which point they might select any college or school they chose. The mail stage passed the door of farmer Winners, crossed the big bridge and then passed the home of Captain Stevens. Captain Stevens' house was no longer a cabin in the wilderness. It was a large, substantial two-story farm mansion, with chimneys of brick instead of sticks and mud. The forests had shrunk back for miles, making place for vast fields, and the place had the appearance of a thrifty farm.

Fernando's trunk was packed, and he sat on the door-step in his best clothes awaiting the appearance of the stage. At last the rumbling thunder of wheels rolling over the great bridge smote his ears, and a few moments later the vehicle came up to the gate. The six prancing horses were drawn up, and the vehicle stopped, while the driver cried:

"All aboard!"

Sukey was in the stage, his dark eyes half closed. He roused himself to drawl out:

"Come on, Fernando, we're off now, for sure."

While two farm hands, assisted by the driver, placed the trunk in the boot, Fernando bade father and mother adieu. Sister had come over with her husband and the baby. His brother with his young wife were present to bid the young seekers after knowledge adieu. They followed Fernando to the stage coach and cried:

"Good bye, Sukey! take good care of Fernando!" and Sukey drawled out:

"Who'll take keer o' me?"

The last good bye's were said, and the great stage coach rolled on. The impressions of the young frontiersmen on approaching the first town were strange and indescribable. The number of houses and streets quite confused them. There seemed to be little or no order in the construction of streets, and everybody seemed in a bustle and confusion. They stopped over night at a tavern, and at early dawn the stage horn awoke them, and after a hasty breakfast they were again on their journey.

Several weeks were spent in traveling from town to town, and on September 1st, 1807, they found themselves in New York City, still undecided where they would go.

One morning Fernando went for his usual walk toward the river, when a large crowd of people at the wharf attracted his attention. Drawing near, he saw a curious-looking boat on the water, the like of which he had never seen before. It was one hundred feet long, twelve feet wide and seven feet deep. There was a staff or mast at the bow, another at the stern. From a tall chimney there issued volumes of smoke, while from a smaller pipe there came the hissing of boiling water and white steam. Two great, naked paddle-wheels were on the boat, one on each side near the middle. Fernando thought this must be the toy of which he had heard so much, being constructed by Robert Fulton and Chancellor Livingston. On one side of the boat was painted the name Clermont.

"What is that?" Fernando asked of a rollicking, fun-loving young Irishman about twenty-two or three years of age, who stood near.

"Faith, sir, it's a steamboat. We have all come to see her launched. They call her the Clermont; but it's mesilf as thinks she ought to be Fulton's Folly, for divil a bit do I believe she'll go a cable's length."

Fernando and his new acquaintance drew nearer. The hissing of the steam and the roaring of the furnaces were fearful.

"Do you know Robert Fulton?" Fernando asked.

"Indade, I do. Would you like to see the greatest lunatic out of Bedlam? Then it's mesilf as will point him out to yez."

"I should like to see him."

There were a number of men at work on the boat, all expressing the wildest eagerness and anxiety. They were rushing forward and aft, above and below, to those ponderous engines and boilers; but no one could see what they did. At last Mr. Fulton, the great inventor, appeared. He was a large, smooth-shaved gentleman, with a long head and melancholy gray eye. On his nose was a smut spot from the machinery. Thousands were now assembled to witness the trial voyage. Mr. Livingston gave the order to cast off, and start the vessel. The lines were loosed and the steam turned on. Loud hissed the confined monster; but the wheels did not move. What was the matter?

"Failure!" was on every tongue, and the crowd assembled already began to hoot and jeer. Mr. Fulton's face expressed the deepest anxiety. He ran below to inspect the machinery. A bolt had caught. This was removed, and then the ponderous wheels began to move. The great paddles churned the water to a mass of foam, and the boat glided forward against wind and tide at a rate of speed astonishing. Fernando saw Robert Livingston standing in the stern waving his handkerchief at the crowd which was now sending up cheer after cheer. The American flag was run up on the staff, and the steamboat continued on her course up the river to Albany, making the distance of one hundred and sixty miles in thirty-six hours against wind and tide; and from that time until now, navigation by steam, travel and commerce, has been steadily increasing in volume and perfection, until such vessels may be seen on every ocean and in almost every harbor of the globe, even among the ice packs of the polar seas. This was the second of the great and beneficent achievements which distinguished American inventors at that early period of our country's struggles. The cotton-gin, invented by Eli Whitney, was the first; an implement that could do the work of a thousand persons in cleaning cotton wool of the seeds. That machine has been one of the most important aids in the accumulation of our national wealth.



Fernando Stevens stood on the wharf among the assembled thousands, watching the steamer until it disappeared far up the river. He was lost in wonder and amazement and was first aroused from his reverie by the young man at his side saying:

"Don't she bate the divil?"

It was his skeptical Irish friend.

Fernando turned to him and asked, "What do you think of it now?"

"Faith, she's a bird, so she is. Don't she cleave the water?"

From this time, the two became acquainted, and Fernando learned that the young Hibernian's name was Terrence Malone. Terrence was a true Irishman of the good old type. He was brave as a lion, full of native wit and humor, and yet an intelligent gentleman. From the first, he took a great fancy to Fernando and when he learned that he had come from the West to enter some academy or college, he informed him that he knew of the place—the very place. It was the Baltimore Academy. He was a member of the Baltimore school himself and he was sure there was not another like it in the world. In short, the dashing young Irishman soon persuaded Fernando to try the Baltimore school.

He went back to the tavern where he had left Sukey writing letters.

"What was all that catterwaulin' and yellin' about down at the river?" Sukey asked.

"The new steamboat began her trial trip," answered Fernando.

"Wonder if that thing I saw with a stovepipe in it was a steamboat?"

"It was."

Sukey shook his head sagely and remarked:

"It don't look as if it would ever amount to much."

"Sukey, I have found a school for us at last."

"Where?"

"At Baltimore."

"What d'you want to go there for?"

"I met a young man who belongs there, and he advised us to go."

"Who is he?"

"His name is Terrence Malone, an Irishman."

"That name's not French any way. How are we going to Baltimore?"

"A schooner sails to-morrow."

"Can we go in her?"

"Yes."

"Plague take the sea! I never tried it, and I don't want to."

"It will be a short voyage."

"Short, yes, but long enough to make me sick. I don't want to be in the game. I am not a water dog. Keep me on the dry land, and I'm all right."

But Fernando knew that a journey by land would take much longer than by sea. Terrence Malone came to see them that evening and informed them that the schooner would sail next day. He was a jolly young fellow and had so many droll stories and jokes, that he kept his companions in a roar of laughter. One joke followed another in such rapid succession that the youngsters had scarce done laughing at one, before he fired another at them.

"Baltimore is the most wonderful city in the world, barin Cork," the fair-haired son of the Emerald Isle declared. "There you find gallant gintlemen and the prettiest girls on earth. Ah! if you could but see my Kitty Malone! She's a beauty, just a trifle older than mesilf, but every inch a darlint. Her head is red, her face a trifle freckled, her body's so stout that the girt of a mule wouldn't encircle her waist," and here Terrence winked, "She plays on the wash-board an illigant tune, for which she charges a half a dime a garment."

"Did you ever meet with such a jolly fellow?" laughed Fernando when he was gone.

"No," Sukey answered. "He has made my sides ache."

Next day found the westerners on board the schooner sailing out from the harbor of New York. The skipper was half tipsy, his crew insubordinate, and for awhile no one seemed to know or care whither they went. The captain had such frequent recourse to his demijohn, that it was evident that he would soon be wholly unfit for duty. At last Terrence declared he would have to take matters in hand himself.

The sea was rough, and both Fernando and Sukey were too sick to leave their bunks long at the time.

"Jist ye lie still there, like a darlint, and lave the skipper to me," said Terrence to Fernando. "Not another divil of a drop shall he have, until we are safe in Baltimore."

Then he went away, leaving Fernando wholly in ignorance of his plan. At last, becoming anxious about him, he went out to see what he was doing. The schooner was rolling heavily and Fernando was so sick he could scarcely stand, yet he crept out under the lee of the cabin and saw a sight that made him smile.

Terrence and the captain were sitting on the deck playing cards. The young Irishman had won two demijohns and three jugs of rum from the captain, and he was now playing for the last pint flask the skipper possessed. The young Irishman won it and carried his property to his stateroom, and when the skipper next applied for a drink, Malone answered:

"Divil a drop will ye get, till we are safe in Baltimore." The captain plead in vain. Terrence was firm, and the skipper in time became sober.

Next morning it was discovered that owing to the drunkenness and carelessness of the captain and crew, they had drifted far out to sea. The waves rolled high, and the little schooner plunged about in a manner frightful to a landlubber.

Fernando was awakened by a groan. It was Sukey, and going to his berth Terrence asked:

"What's the matter, Sukey?"

"I am dying!" he answered.

"Courage, courage, me boy, ye'll get over it."

"I don't want to get over it," answered Sukey, with a hollow groan.

A few moments later the skipper came to beg for a morning dram.

"Divil a drop, cap'in, until we are in Baltimore."

"How long will it take to reach Baltimore, captain?" asked the seasick Sukey.

"Twenty-four hours."

"Oh, Heavens!" groaned Sukey. "Can't you sink the ship?"

"What do you want to sink for?" demanded the astounded skipper.

"I'd rather drown than live twenty-four hours longer in this blamed boat."

"You'll live over it," growled the thirsty skipper.

"I don't want to live over it. I want to die."

Terrence roared with laughter, then he told a funny story which seemed to increase the pangs of poor Sukey.

By the middle of the afternoon, Fernando had recovered enough to go out on deck. He found the captain and his crew huddled up in the fore part of the deck, discussing a large, square-rigged ship, which was bearing toward them. He heard one of the sailors say:

"She flies English colors."

A little later there was a puff of smoke from her forecastle and a ball dashed into the water athwart their bow.

"It's a cruiser, and that means to heave to; but blow my eyes if I do it!" cried the captain, who was opposed to search and impressment. He put the schooner about and, with all sail spread, flew over the water at a rate of speed which defied pursuit. The cruiser fired several shots after them.

"Who is that shootin'?" Sukey asked unconcernedly, as Fernando entered the wretched cabin.

"A British man-of-war."

"What is it shootin' at?"

"At us."

"I hope she will hit us and put me out o' this misery," groaned Sukey.

Fortunately for the chief characters of this story, the man-of-war did not hit them, and next day they reached Baltimore. Sukey recovered his health with remarkable rapidity, and a few hours on shore made him quite himself.

Terrence, who seemed to know the town thoroughly, conducted them to an inn where they were to remain until arrangements could be made for entering the school. Terrence took the two young men under his care in a fatherly way, assuring them it would be bad luck to any who spoke ill of them; but Terrence could not be with them for several days. He had urgent business in Philadelphia, which would require his absence.

For a week after their arrival at Baltimore, their lives were of the most dreary monotony. The rain, which had begun to fall soon after their arrival, continued to descend in torrents, and they found themselves close prisoners in the sanded parlors of the miserable inn. They could but compare this wretched place with the grand old forests and broad prairies of the West, and Sukey began to sigh for home.

"Are you homesick already, Sukey?" asked Fernando.

"I am not homesick—blast such a place as this—give me a country where it don't rain 365 days out o' the year, and I'm content, home or abroad," growled Sukey.

Their situation was by no means pleasant. Their front window looked out upon a long, straggling, ill-paved street, with its due proportion of mud heaps and duck pools. The houses on either side were, for the most part, dingy-looking edifices, with half-doors, and such pretensions to being shops as the display of a quart of meal, salt, or string of red peppers confers. A more wretched, gloomy-looking picture of woe-begone poverty one seldom beheld.

It was no better if they turned for consolation to the rear of the house. There their eyes fell upon the dirty yard of a dirty inn, and the half-covered cowshed, where two famishing animals mourned their hard fate as they chewed the cud of "sweet and bitter fancy." In addition, they saw an old chaise, once the yellow postchaise, the pride and glory of the establishment, now reduced from its wheels and ignominiously degraded to a hen house. On the grass-grown roof, a cock had taken his stand, with an air of protective patronage to the feathered inhabitants beneath.

Sukey stood at the narrow window gazing out on the dreary and melancholy scene, while he heaved an occasional sigh.

"If this is what you call gitten an education I don't want it," he drawled at last. "I would rather go back to Ohio and hunt for deer or black bear, than enjoy such amusement as this is."

"Oh, it will get better," said Fernando.

"It has great room for growing better."

"But it might be worse."

"Yes, we might be at sea."

Their landlady, a portly woman with two marriageable daughters, did all in her power to make their stay pleasant. She praised Baltimore for its beauty and health, its picturesqueness and poetry. It was surely destined to be the greatest city in the United States.

When they were alone, Sukey pointed to the mud heaps and duck pools and gravely asked:

"Do they show the poetry and picturesk of which she speaks? Is that old chaise a sign of health or prosperity?"

"Be patient, Sukey; we have seen little or none of Baltimore."

"Plague take me if I haven't seen more than I want to see of it now," growled Sukey.

At last the weather cleared a little, and the sun shone brilliantly on the pools of water and muddy street. The young gentlemen strolled forth to look about the town.

When about to start from the inn, Sukey asked:

"Say, Fernando, how are we goin' to find our way back?"

This was a serious question for even Fernando. He reflected over it a moment and then said:

"It's the house at the foot of the second hill with the road or street that winds around the cliff."

"Wouldn't it be better to take hatchets and blaze the corners of the houses as we go along?" suggested Sukey. Fernando smiled and thought the owners might raise some serious objections to having their houses blazed. They were still somewhat undecided in regard to the matter, when their landlady, with a movement about as graceful as the waddle of a duck, came down the rickety stairs, and they in despair appealed to her. She relieved them of their trouble in short order. On a piece of tin over her door was the number 611. She told them the name of the street, and assured them if they would remember that and the number, any one would point it out to them. Besides they had only to remember the widow Mahone, everybody in the town knew the widow Mahone.

With this assurance of safe return, the two youngsters ventured forth into the city. They were not as verdant as the reader may imagine. Both had been reared in the western wilderness and retained much of the pioneer traits about them; but books had been society for them, and their four months spent in New York and Boston had given them an urbane polish. Sukey, however, had many inherent traits, which all the schools could not wholly eradicate.

"I don't like towns," he declared, as they ascended a hill, which gave them an excellent view of the harbor and shipping. "They are too close. I want elbow room, and as soon as I get through my college course, I am going back to the woods."

"Won't your education be lost there?"

"No; can't I be a lawyer, or a doctor, or a preacher as well there as here? Besides, if we only sit down and wait awhile in Ohio, the cities will come to us."

"Yes, Sukey, you are right. Civilization is going West, and in course of time the largest part of the republic will be west of the mountains." Of course Fernando referred to the Alleghany Mountains, for the Rocky Mountains were hardly thought of at this date. "But come; we don't seem to be in the most populous part of the town. Let us go over the hill where the houses are better and look cleaner."

"I am willing, for, to tell you the truth, this place smells too much of the sea."

They went along a narrow street, which had a decidedly fishy odor, for there were two markets on it. They passed an old woman carrying on her back a great bag which seemed filled with rags and waste papers gathered up from the refuse of the street. Sukey wondered if that was the way she made her living. At the corner was a low public house in which were some sailors drinking and singing songs.

"Fernando, there is a fellow with a plaguy red coat on!" suddenly cried Sukey, seizing his companion's arm.

"Yes, he is an officer of the English army or navy."

"Do they allow him here?"

"Of course; we are at peace with England."

"Well, I'd like to take that fellow down a bit. He walks too straight. Why he thinks he could teach Alexander somethin' on greatness."

"Never mind him; come on."

Next they met a party of half-drunken marines, who began to chafe them, and Sukey, though slow to wrath, was about to give them an exhibition of frontier muscle, when his friend got him away, and they hastened to a better part of the city.

Here they found beautiful residences, and on the next street were magnificent stores and shops. Elegant carriages, drawn by horses in shining harness, indicating wealth, were seen. Elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen were premenading the street, or exchanging congratulations. Sukey thought this would "sort o' do," and he wondered why Terrence Malone had quartered them down in that miserable frog pond, when there was higher ground and better houses.

While standing on the corner watching the gay equipages and handsomely dressed people, a carriage drawn by a pair of snow-white horses came suddenly dashing down the street. The equipage, though one of the finest they had ever seen, was stained with travel as if it had come from a distance.

"There, Fernando, by zounds, there is some rich fellow you can be sure!" said Sukey as the vehicle drove by. "Egad! I would like to see who is inside of it."

He had that privilege, for the carriage paused only half a block away, and an elderly man with a rolling, sailor-like movement got out and assisted a young girl of about sixteen to alight.

"Jehosophat—Moses and Aaron's rod, my boy! do you see her?" gasped Sukey.

"Yes."

"Ain't she pretty?"

"Hush! she may hear you."

"Well, if she'd get mad at that, she is different from most girls."

"Her father might not think it much of a compliment."

The coachman, closing the door of the carriage mounted his box and took the reins, while the pretty girl took her father's arm and came down the street passing the young men, who, we fear, stared at her rudely. They were hardly to be blamed for it, for she was as near perfection as a girl of sixteen can be. Tall, willowy form, with deep blue eyes, soft as a gazelle's, long, silken lashes and arched eyebrows, with golden hair, and so graceful that every movement might be set to music.

Fernando gazed after her until she disappeared into a fashionable shop, and then, uttering a sigh, started as if from a dream.

"What do you say now, old fellow?" asked Sukey.

"Let us go home."

"Home?"

"Well, back to the widow Mahone's inn."

"All right; now let us try to find the trail."

It was no easy matter, although they had the street and number well fixed in their mind. Finally they asked a watchman (policemen were called watchmen in those days) and he conducted them to the abode of Mrs. Mahone.

The first person to greet them was Terrence. There was a bright smile on his jolly face as he cried:

"It's right plazed I am to see ye lookin' so cheerful, boys; and it's a good time ye be having roaming the streets and looking at the beauty of Baltimore. Much of it you'll find, to be sure. To-morrow we'll go to the academy, pay our entrance fee and begin business."



"Terrence," said Fernando in a half whisper, "Can't we find a more comfortable place than this to live in?"

"Oh, be aisy, me frind, for it's an illegant a house I've got for all of us, and we'll be as comfortable there as a banshee."

Not knowing what a "banshee" was, Fernando, of course, could draw no conclusion from the comparison. When the three young men had entered their room, Terrence began to tell them of a beautiful "craythur" he had that day seen in town, and on inquiry learned she lived a few miles away on the coast. She was the daughter of an old sea captain and came almost daily to the city.

"What is her name?" asked Fernando.

"Lane."

"Great Jehosiphat, Fernando! Lane was on that carriage we saw," cried Sukey, starting suddenly from a couch on which he had been reclining.



CHAPTER VI.

WAR FEELING OF 1811.

Mr. James Madison seems to have been one of the many great Americans capable of changing his political views without losing public favor. Mr. Madison, as a delegate to the constitutional convention held at Philadelphia in May, 1787, was beyond question a Federalist. Of the convention, a writer of the highest authority says:

"Mr. Madison was prominent in advocating the constitution, and took a leading part in the debates, of which he kept private notes, since published by order of congress. His views in regard to the federal government are set forth at length in a paper still extant in the handwriting of Gen. Washington. This paper contains the substance of a letter written to Washington by Mr. Madison before the meeting of the convention, and proposes a scheme of thorough centralization. The writer declares that he is equally opposed to the individual independence of the States and to 'the consolidation of the whole in one simple republic.' He is nevertheless in favor of investing congress with power to exercise a negative in all cases whatever on the legislative acts of the States, as heretofore exercised by the kingly prerogative. He says further that the right of coercion should be expressly declared; but the difficulty and awkwardness of operating by force on the collective will of a State render it particularly desirable that the necessity of it should be precluded. From these extreme views, Mr. Madison afterward conscientiously departed; but in the convention he supported them with zeal and vigor."

It was feared at first that Madison would perpetuate the policy of Jefferson; but the tone and temper of his inaugural address, delivered March 4th, 1809, fell like oil on troubled waters. His most implacable enemies could not refrain from uttering words of approbation; and the whole nation entertained hopes that his measures might change the gloomy aspect of public affairs.

Madison's administration was now sustained by a larger majority of the American people than that of Jefferson had ever been, and the Federalists, or the opposition, were in a hopeless minority. The continued aggressions of the British were increasing the Democratic strength every day; and in 1811, circumstances seemed to make war with Great Britain an imperative necessity for the vindication of the honor, rights and independence of the United States.

The Indian tribes on the northwestern frontiers of the United States became very uneasy, and the machinations of British traders and government emissaries had stimulated the growth of that discontent into a decidedly hostile feeling toward the nation of Republicans, then pressing upon the domain of the savages. The suspension of the world's commerce had diminished the amount of their traffic in furs, and the rapid extension of American settlements northward of Ohio was narrowing their hunting grounds and producing a rapid diminution of game. The introduction of intoxicating liquors among the savages by white traders and speculators had widely spread demoralization, with consequent disease and death.

English emissaries made the savages to believe that all these evils had been brought upon them by the encroachments of the Americans; and in the spring of 1811, it became evident that a league was forming among the tribes for the extermination of the frontier settlers.

Tecumseh, the Shawnee chief, shrewd, crafty and intrepid, endeavored to emulate Pontiac, the great Ottowa chief, in the formation of an Indian confederacy in the Northwest, for making war upon the United States. He had a shrewd twin brother, called the prophet, whose mysterious incantation and predictions and pretended visions and spiritual intercourse had inspired the savage mind with great veneration for him as a wonderful "medicine man." He and Tecumseh possessed almost unbounded influence over the Delawares, Shawnees, Wyandots, Miamis, Kickapoos, Winnebagoes and Chippewas.

The celebrated Shawnee chief Tecumseh, according to Drake, was born a few years before the Revolution, at the Indian village of Piqua, on Mad River, about six miles below the site of Springfield, Clark County, Ohio. His tribe removed from Florida about the middle of the last century. His father, who was a chief, fell at the bloody battle of Point Pleasant, in 1774. From his youth, he showed a passion for war. He early acquired an unbounded influence over his tribe for his bravery, his sense of justice and his commanding eloquence. Like his great prototype, Pontiac, humanity was a prominent trait in his character. He not only was never known to ill-treat or murder a prisoner, but indignantly denounced those who did, employing all his authority and eloquence in behalf of the helpless. In 1798, Tecumseh removed with his followers to the vicinity of White River, Indiana, among the Delawares, where he remained for a number of years. In 1805, through the influence of Laulewasikaw, the brother of Tecumseh, a large number of Shawnees established themselves at Greeneville. Very soon after, Laulewasikaw assumed the office of a prophet; and forthwith commenced that career of cunning and pretended sorcery, which always enables the shrewd hypocrite to sway the ignorant, superstitious mind. Throughout the year of 1806, the brothers remained at Greeneville and were visited by many Indians from different tribes, not a few of whom became their followers. The prophet dreamed many wonderful dreams and claimed to have had many supernatural revelations made him. The great eclipse of the sun that occurred in the summer of this year, a knowledge of which he had by some means attained, enabled him to carry conviction to the minds of many of his ignorant followers, that he was really the earthly agent of the Great Spirit. He boldly announced to the unbelievers, that, on a certain day, he would give them proof of his supernatural powers by bringing darkness over the sun. When the day and hour of the eclipse arrived, and the earth, even at midday, was shrouded in the gloom of twilight, the prophet, standing in the midst of his party, significantly pointed to the heavens and cried out:

"Did I not prophesy truly? Behold! darkness has shrouded the sun!"

It may readily be supposed that this striking phenomenon, thus adroitly used, produced a strong impression on the Indians, and greatly increased their belief in the sacred character of their prophet.

In the spring of 1808, Tecumseh and the prophet removed to a tract of land on the Tippecanoe, a tributary of the Wabash, where the latter continued his efforts to induce the Indians to forsake their vicious habits, while Tecumseh was visiting the neighboring tribes and quietly strengthening his own and the prophet's influence over them. The events of the early part of the year 1810 were such as to leave but little doubt of the hostile intentions of the brothers. The prophet was apparently the most prominent actor, while Tecumseh was in reality the mainspring of all the movements, backed, it is supposed, by the insidious influence of British agents, who supplied the Indians gratis with powder and ball, in anticipation, perhaps, of hostilities between the two countries, in which event a union of all the tribes against the Americans was desirable. Tecumseh had opposed the sale and cession of lands to the United States, and he declared it to be his unalterable resolution to take a stand against the further intrusion of the whites upon the soil of his people.

So menacing had the Indians become in the Spring of 1810, that General W.H. Harrison, a son of Benjamin Harrison, one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence, and then governor of the Territory of Indiana, invited the brothers to a council at Vincennes, in August. Tecumseh appeared with four hundred well-armed warriors. The inhabitants were greatly alarmed at this demonstration of savage military power. Harrison was cool and cautious, while the bearing of the chief was bold and haughty. He refused to enter the place appointed for holding the council saying:

"Houses were built for you to hold councils in; Indians hold theirs in the open air." He then took a position under some trees in front of the house, and, unabashed by the large concourse of white people before him, he opened the business with a speech marked by great dignity and native eloquence. When he had concluded, one of the governor's aids said to him, through an interpreter, as he pointed to a chair by the side of General Harrison:

"Your father requests you to take a seat by his side."

The chief drew his blanket around him and, standing erect, said, with a scornful tone:

"My father! The sun is my father, and the earth is my mother; on her bosom I will recline;" and he seated himself on the ground.

The chief declared it his intention to form a confederacy for the purpose of preventing any further cessions of lands to the white people, and to recover what had been ceded.

"Return those lands," he said, "and Tecumseh will be the friend of the Americans. He likes not the English, who are continually setting the Indians on the Americans." The governor replied that the lands had been received from other tribes, and that the Shawnees had no business to interfere. Tecumseh sprang to his feet, cast off his blanket and, with violent gestures, pronounced the governor's words false. He accused the United States of cheating and imposing upon the Indians; and then, giving a sign to his warriors near him, they sprang to their feet, seized their war clubs and brandished their tomahawks. The governor started from his seat and drew his sword, while the citizens seized any weapons or missiles they could find. It was a moment of great peril to the white people. A military guard of twelve men, under some trees a short distance off, was ordered up. A friendly Indian, who had secretly loaded his pistol while Tecumseh was speaking, now cocked it to shoot the chief. The guards were also about to fire when Harrison restrained them and prevented a bloody encounter. The interpreter, whom all the Indians respected, told Tecumseh that he was a bad man. The council was broken up. Tecumseh expressed regret that his violent temper had gotten the better of him; but prudent men knew from his conduct that war was inevitable.

In the spring of 1811, the hostile savages began to roam over the Wabash region, in small parties, plundering the white settlers and friendly Indians.

Soon after the council at Vincennes, Tecumseh went South among the Creeks to extend the confederacy of the people of Indiana among them. There is a tradition among the Tuckabachees that Tecumseh, failing to enlist them in his enterprise, in his wrath said:

"When I return to the North, I will stamp on the earth and make it tremble." When the effects of the earthquake of New Madrid were felt, the Tuckabachees said:

"Tecumseh has reached the North."

The hostile demonstrations on the part of the Indians in Indiana alarmed the people of that territory, and General Harrison therefore took measures to increase his regular force. He warned the Indians to obey the treaty at Greeneville; but at the same time he prepared to break up the prophet's establishment if necessary. In September, the prophet sent assurances to the governor that his intentions were pacific. About the same time, he dispatched a message to the Delawares, who were friendly, asking them to join him in a war against the United States, stating that he had taken up the tomahawk and would not lay it down but with his life, unless their wrongs were redressed. The Delaware chiefs immediately visited the prophet to dissuade him from commencing hostilities and were grossly insulted. On the 6th of November, 1811, Governor Harrison, with about nine hundred and fifty effective troops, composed of two hundred and fifty of the 4th Regiment U. S. Infantry, one hundred and thirty volunteers and a body of militia, being within a mile and a half of the prophet's town, was urged to make an immediate assault upon the village; but this he declined, as his instructions from the president were positive not to attack the Indians as long as there was a probability of their complying with the demands of the government. The Indians, in the course of the day, endeavored to cut off his messengers and evinced other hostile symptoms, which determined Harrison to at once march upon the town, when he was met by three Indians, one of them a principal counselor of the prophet, who avowed that the prophet's designs were pacific. Accordingly a suspension of hostilities was agreed upon, and the terms of peace were to be settled on the following morning by the governor and the prophet's chief. At night the army encamped about three fourths of a mile from the prophet's town.

The governor was well convinced of the hostility of the prophet. He believed that after attempting to lull his suspicions he intended to make a treacherous attack on the Americans. Little anticipation of a night attack was indulged, yet every precaution was taken to resist one if made. All the guards that could be used in such a situation, and all such as were used by Wayne, were employed on this occasion. That is, camp guards, furnishing a chain of sentinels around the whole camp at such a distance as to give notice of the approach of an enemy in time for the troops to take their position, and yet not far enough to prevent the sentinels from retreating to the main body if overpowered. The usual mode of stationing picket guards at a considerable distance in advance of the army or camp, would be useless in Indian warfare, as they do not require roads to march upon, and such guards would be inevitably cut off. Orders were given in the event of a night attack, for each corps to maintain its position at all hazards until relieved or further orders were given to it. The whole army was kept during the night in the military position called lying on their arms. The regular troops lay in their tents with their accoutrements on, and their guns at their sides. The militia had no tents, but slept with their clothes and bullet pouches on, and their guns under them, to keep them dry. The order of the encampment was a line of battle to resist a night attack; and so, as every man slept opposite to his post in the line, there was nothing for the troops to do, in case of an assault, but to rise and take their position a few steps in the rear of the fires around which they had reposed. The guard of the night consisted of two captains' commands of forty-two men and of four non-commissioned officers each and two subalterns' guards of twenty men and non-commissioned officers each—the whole amounting to about one hundred and thirty men, under command of a field officer of the day. The night was dark and cloudy, and after midnight there was a drizzling rain.

At four o'clock in the morning of Nov. 7, 1811, Governor Harrison, according to practice, had risen, preparatory to the calling up of the troops, and was engaged, while drawing on his boots by the fire, in conversation with General Wells, Colonel Owens, and Majors Taylor and Hurst. The orderly drum had been roused to sound the reveille for the troops to turn out, when there came the report of a sentry's rifle on the left flank, followed by a score of shots, and the morning air rang loud with the wild war-whoops of savages.

In an instant the army was in line, the campfires were extinguished, and the governor mounted his horse and proceeded to the point of attack. Several companies had taken their places in the line within forty seconds after the report of the first gun, and in two minutes the whole army was ready for action; a fact as creditable to their own activity and bravery, as to the skill and energy of their officers. The battle soon became general, and was maintained on both sides with signal and even desperate valor. The Indians advanced or retreated by the aid of a rattling noise, made with deer hoofs, and persevered in their treacherous attack with an apparent determination to conquer or die on the spot. The battle raged with unabated fury and mutual slaughter until daylight, when a gallant and successful charge by the troops drove the enemy into the swamp, and put an end to the conflict.

Prior to the assault, the prophet had given his followers assurance, that, in the coming contest, the Great Spirit would render the arms of the Americans unavailing; that their bullets would fall harmless at the feet of the Indians; that the latter should have light in abundance, while the former would be involved in thick darkness. Availing himself of the privilege conferred by his peculiar office, and, perhaps, unwilling in his own person to test the rival powers of a sham prophecy and a real American bullet, he prudently took a position on an adjacent eminence; and, when the action began, he entered upon the performance of certain mystic rites, at the same time singing a war song. Soon after the engagement commenced, he was informed that his men were falling. He told them to fight on, it would soon be as he predicted; and then in, wilder and louder strains, his inspiring battle song was heard commingling with the sharp crack of the rifle and the shrill war-whoop of his brave but deluded followers. Some of the Indians who were in the conflict, subsequently informed the agent at Fort Wayne, that there were more than a thousand warriors in the battle, and that the number of wounded was unusually great. In the precipitation of their retreat, they left thirty-eight on the field. Some were buried during the engagement in their town. Others no doubt subsequently died of their wounds. Drake places their number in killed at not less than fifty.

Of the whites, thirty-five were killed in the action, and twenty-five died subsequently. The total number of killed and wounded was one hundred and eighty-eight,—probably as great and possibly greater than the loss of the Indians. Among the slain were Colonel Abraham Owen and Major Joseph Hamilton Davies of Kentucky.

Though the battle of Tippecanoe, considered as a conflict from the losses on each side, would to-day be regarded only as a skirmish, yet it had a great moral influence in restraining the savages in the northwest, and, but for the meddling of the British agents, a permanent peace with the Indians could have been established.

Harrison burned the prophet's town. The prophet lost caste with his people. When reproached for his falsehoods, he cunningly told them that his predictions had failed of fulfilment, because, during his incantations, his wife touched the sacred vessels and broke the charm. His followers, superstitious as they were, would not accept such a flimsy excuse and deserted him, flying to secure hiding-places where the white man could not find them. After his town was burned, the prophet took shelter among the Wyandots.

The events in the northwest aroused a war spirit among the patriotic Americans, which could not be suppressed. Not only did British emissaries incite the Indians to make war, but British orders in council continued to be vigorously enforced. Insult was offered to the American flag by British cruisers, and the press of Great Britain insolently declared that the Americans "could not be kicked into a war."

Forbearance ceased to be a virtue; it became cowardice. President Madison found himself the standard-bearer of his party, surrounded by irrepressible young warriors eager for fight. Like a cautious commander, he sounded a careful war note in his annual message to congress at the beginning of November, 1811. The young and ardent members of the house of representatives, who had elected Henry Clay, then thirty-four years of age, speaker, determined that indecision should no longer mark the councils of the nation. The committee on foreign relations, of which Peter B. Porter was chairman, intensified that feeling by an energetic report submitted on the 29th of November, in which, in glowing sentences, the British government was arraigned on charges of injustice, cruelty, and wrong. They said:

"To sum up, in a word, the great cause of complaint against Great Britain, your committee need only say, that the United States, as a sovereign and independent power, claims the right to use the ocean, which is the common and acknowledged highway of nations, for the purposes of transporting, in their own vessels, the products of their own soils and the acquisition of their own industry to any market in the ports of friendly nations, and to bring home, in return, such articles as their necessities or convenience may require, always regarding the rights of belligerents as defined by the established laws of nations. Great Britain, in defiance of this incontestable right, captures every American vessel bound to or returning from a port where her commerce is not favored; enslaves our seamen, and, in spite of our remonstrances, perseveres in these aggressions. To wrongs so daring in character and so disgraceful in their execution, it is impossible that the people of the United States should remain indifferent. We must now tamely and quietly submit, or we must resist by those means which God has placed within our reach.... The sovereignty and independence of these States, purchased and sanctified by the blood of our fathers, from whom we received them, not for ourselves only, but as the inheritance of our posterity, are deliberately and systematically violated. And the period has arrived when, in the opinion of your committee, it is the sacred duty of congress to call forth the patriotism and the resources of the country. By the aid of these and with the blessing of God, we confidently trust we shall be able to procure that redress which has been sought for by justice, by remonstrance and forbearance, in vain."

The report went over the land as fast as the mails in that day of stage coaches could carry it, and made a profound impression on the minds of the people. Resolutions, drawn in accordance with the spirit of the report, were appended to it, and these led to earnest debates. In these debates, the brilliant John C. Calhoun, then less than thirty years of age, engaged. It marked the beginning of his long and illustrious career. He made his maiden speech in favor of war, and charmed his listeners. John Randolph, always happy when in opposition to everybody, spoke vehemently against the report and resolutions.

The Federalists, having always advocated a policy of being prepared for war, could not from principle oppose these resolutions as they recommended only such preparations. The resolutions were adopted and bills prepared for augmenting the military force of the country.

The regular army was increased to twenty-five thousand men; also two major-generals and live brigadier-generals, in addition to those then in office were authorized. A million dollars were appropriated for the purchase of arms, ammunition and stores for the army, and four hundred thousand dollars for powder, cannon and small arms for the navy.

War was not yet declared, and, with a proper course of treatment from Great Britain, it would not have been; yet the war feeling of 1811 was strong. It needed but a breath to fan the flame to a terrible conflagration.



CHAPTER VII.

FERNANDO'S FRIEND GETS HIM INTO A SERIOUS SCRAPE.

In due time Fernando and Sukey were entered in the college. They were transferred to more comfortable quarters than the wretched inn of Mrs. Mahone. Terrence superintended everything and was, in truth, the good angel of the boys. He had a warm heart, was a genuine friend, and would have shed his last drop of blood for them; but Terrence was, after all, a young scamp, whose dearest friend was not free from a practical joke. His jokes often became serious affairs and involved himself as well as friends in trouble, though he never intended anything unpleasant.

Fernando had been in college but a few months, and was already making excellent progress, when one day Terrence came to his room and said:

"Me frind, d'ye want to see a bit of good society?"

Laying down a heavy mathematical work, Fernando smilingly answered:

"I don't know, Terrence; I've hardly time for society."

"What's the need of worryin' yer brains out over Latin, Greek and astronomy, when there's my amount of fun to be had? Come; a little mite of society will brighten up yer ideas. Now listen to me, lad. There's goin' to be a big ball given at the mayor's, and d'ye remimber the darlint little craythur ye met on the street that day?"

Remember her? of course Fernando remembered her. She had scarcely been out of his mind day or night since he had seen her. She had been the angel of his dreams, the princess of countless air castles; but he had never indulged a hope that he might see her again.

"Will she be at the ball, Terrence?"

"To be sure. It's mesilf as heard it, and thin if ye'll look over the Baltimore papers, ye'll see her name Morgianna Lane, the daughter of Captain Felix Lane of Mariana, whose entree into society is to be the ninth, chaperoned by Madame Barnhart."

Terrence Malone evinced a wonderful ability at picking up information on any question that took his fancy. He had a bold way of insinuating himself into people's affections, for no one could dislike the light-hearted, merry Irishman.

"Now there is no need for ye to say ye won't go, because ye will," said Terrence. "It's a grand occasion to be sure. One of his majesty's ships o' war is in port, and some of the officers from her will be there, every alderman in the town, some congressmen and ex-President Jefferson will be there."

Fernando looked at him in amazement and, after a moment, he said:

"Terrence, if the ball is to be such a grand affair, please to inform me how we are to gain admission."

"Now, me boy, lave that to me. Will ye go?"

"Yes."

"And ye don't mind it if it's a thrifle of an adventure, do yez?"

"No."

"That's it. I always said ye was a lad after me own heart; but, Fernando, don't yez say one word to Sukey. He's too slow and careful. He might make trouble with us and upset all our plans."

At first, Fernando, who hated anything like deceit, opposed secresy; but his Irish friend brought so many excellent arguments to bear, that he virtually carried his point.

"Terrence, I fear I will make an awkward figure in a ball room!" declared Fernando. "I am not accustomed to such things."

"A glass or two of champagne will do it for ye."

"But I never danced in my life."

"I'll teach ye mesilf, and, bedad, ye'll be as foine a terpechorian artist be the toime, as will be at the ball."

The last objection swept away, Fernando began secretly to take lessons in the waltz, cotillon and other dances of the day.

Whatever may be said against Terrence, one thing is quite certain, he was no bad dancing master, and Fernando was an apt pupil. Somehow, there was a spice of adventure in the escapade, which seemed to thrill Fernando with pleasure, and he entered into it with a zeal that was remarkable.

The English man-of-war in the harbor was the Xenophon, Captain Conkerall commander. The captain had some acquaintances and friends in Baltimore, and this event transpired before the war spirit became so strong that English officers dared not venture on shore. The captain and his officers were of course invited to the ball.

The day of the ball, the captain came ashore and was snugly quartered at the Baltimore House, getting ready for the affair.

The captain was in his room talking with some citizens of Baltimore and a congressman; a decanter and glasses were on a sideboard, and the captain's face was somewhat flushed, when there entered a neat, well-dressed young gentleman, whose language and features were slightly Hibernian.

"I beg pardon, gintlemen, but this is Captain Conkerall? Sure I make no mistake, for the very bearin' tells me he is a son of Neptune."

As the captain was in full uniform, of course there was no trouble about recognizing him. The captain rose and, taking the hand of the young man, tried hard to remember where he had seen him before.

"Sure, ye don't remember me. I am Lord Kildee, the son of the ould baron of Kildee Castle, who was a schoolmate of yer father."

The captain, delighted at having so noted an acquaintance, took great pleasure in introducing a scion of such a noble family as Kildee. One would have thought, from Captain Conkerall's manner, that he had been on intimate terms with the house of Kildee all his life, while in reality he had never until that moment known that there lived such a being as the Lord of Kildee. Wine and vanity work wonders, and the captain felt great pride in being recognized at Baltimore by Lord Kildee, whose father was, as the new acquaintance assured him, a member of the house of lords.

The visiting aldermen of the town and the congressman were introduced to the Lord Kildee, who had the air of a genuine nobleman, with just enough of the rich brogue to entitle him to the name of Irishman.

Would his lordship have a glass of wine with them. To be sure he would.

Captain Conkerall, who was expected to be the lion of the evening, indulged rather freely, and the more he indulged the more he had a desire to.

At last the congressman rose to make a speech. He was rather unsteady on his legs, but exceedingly eloquent on the question of Jefferson's embargo act. He thought it an outrage designed to foster the unfortunate estrangement between the mother country and America. He, as a Federalist, had opposed Jefferson and Jeffersonianism.

How much longer his harangue might have lasted, no one could have told, but the captain was warned that the hour for the ball was drawing near, and he gently insinuated that the speech be deferred for an after-dinner talk. Just as the captain's guests were on the point of retiring, Lord Kildee, by a gentle hint, suggested that if he had an invitation he would be glad to meet them at the ball. Of course so noted a person as Lord Kildee could not be neglected, and, as one of the invitation committee was present, he issued a ticket at once. Then the captain and his lordship were left alone.

His lordship hinted that he had much to say to the captain in confidence, having just come from the fleet of Vice Admiral Berkeley. Over their wine, he informed the captain that he was on intimate terms with the vice admiral and that the captain of the Xenophon was down for an early promotion. Captain Conkerall was delighted. He drank deep to the health of Vice Admiral Berkeley, Lord Kildee and himself. By this time, the captain was ready to drink to the health of anybody. The Lord Kildee, strange to say, imbibed very little, and soon the captain was insensible on the floor, while his lordship was as sober as a judge.

"Faith, it's a dacint bit of work," he said, eyeing the prostrate captain. "Now to the rest of the plan."

Lord Kildee was none other than the rollicking Irish student Terrence Malone. In a few moments, he had divested the captain of his coat, trousers and vest, which, with his chapeau, he rolled up in a neat bundle and hurried away to his friend Fernando Stevens. The hour was late, and Fernando had almost given up going to the ball, when Terrence bolted into his room, his cheeks aglow with excitement.

"Here, me lad, don the royal robes at once. Begorra, it's noblemen we are goin' to be to-night!"

"What does this mean, Terrence?" Fernando asked, as Malone unrolled the bundle containing the elegant uniform of a British officer.

"Divil a question need ye be askin'; put on the uniform; it will fit ye to an exactness."

In vain Fernando expostulated; his friend forced him into compliance, and, almost before he knew it, he was encased in a British uniform, and a handsome looking officer he made. Terrence then gave him a drink at his bottle to "steady his nerves," and told him that it was one of the "divil's own toimes" they would have.

Fernando, despite all his staid qualities and Puritanic instincts, loved an adventure which promised fun, and finally entered into the scheme with a zest second only to his friend. The very idea of playing a prank on the captain of a man-of-war was enough to induce him to engage in almost any enterprise. They managed to escape the house without being detected by Sukey, who was puzzling his brain over deep questions in philosophy, and hastened down the street to a carriage which Terrence engaged to take them to the mayor's.

There was a ticket of admission in the captain's vest, which Fernando used, and Lord Kildee had one for himself.

As Terrence contemplated his young friend, whom the uniform fitted as neatly as if he had grown in it, he declared that he was perfection.

Arrived at the door, Fernando, whose brain was in a whirl, found himself suddenly hurried up a flight of marble steps to the great vestibule where there was a flood of subdued light. The wine made him bold, reckless, and when he was introduced as Lieutenant Smither, of his majesty's vice admiral's flag-ship, he half believed he was that person and, assuming what he supposed to be the manner and carriage of so high an official, received the bows and smiles of the fair ladies assembled with the grace of a veteran seaman.

There were a few officers from the Xenophon present, among them a Lieutenant Matson, who was dividing his time between a very pretty girl and asking why Captain Conkerall was so late.

Fernando played his part remarkably well, considering that he was new in the role. Whenever he was in danger of "making a bad break," Lord Kildee, who was the lion of the hour, was at hand to aid him, and with consummate grace and ease helped him through the worst difficulties. A few glasses of champagne made Fernando bolder.

At last he met that beautiful creature whom he had seen alight from the carriage and was introduced to Miss Morgianna Lane. Morgianna, young as she was, detected the deception. Fernando talked without reserve on any and every topic. Those he knew the least about, he discussed with most fluency, until he bid fair to become the centre of attraction.

When they were alone, Morgianna, with one of her sweetest smiles, said:

"I don't believe you are an Englishman."

"I'll be honest with you, Miss Lane," said he. "I am not."

"Who are you?"

"If you will keep my secret, I will tell you all." Morgianna, as fond of mischief as Terrence, agreed to do so, and he told her everything. She laughed until the tears coursed down her pretty cheeks. She said it was a good joke and as soon as she got home, she would tell her papa and he would, she knew, enjoy it.

"But you must not drink any more wine," she added. "It affects your head." Fernando admitted that he was not used to it, and he promised to desist. After waltzing for an hour with her and getting a tender squeeze of the hand, he restored her to an affable old lady who acted as Morgianna's chaperon, and then Fernando retired to new conquests, his head in a whirl and his heart in a flutter.

Lord Kildee soon had him under his care and introduced him to some friends, among them Lieutenant Matson, who had early in the evening made so many unsuccessful attempts to attract Miss Lane's favorable notice that Fernando had come to regard him as a dangerous rival. Despite the injunction of the fair Morgianna, he found himself half unconsciously quaffing three or four glasses to the good health of somebody; he really did not know whether it was King George or President Jefferson.

Fernando, naturally witty, soon ingratiated himself into this well occupied clique, and he dosed them with glory to their heart's content. He resolved at once to enter into their humor, and as the wine mounted up to his brain, he gradually found his acquaintance and politics extending to every country and political creed.

"Did you know Thomas Matson of his majesty's ship Spit-Fire?" asked the lieutenant.

"Tom Matson!" cried Fernando. "Indeed I did sir, and do still! and there is not a man in the British navy I am prouder of knowing." Of course he had never heard of Thomas Matson until this moment.

"You don't say, sir?" said the lieutenant in astonishment. "Has he any chance of promotion, sir?"

"Promotion!" cried Fernando, in well-feigned astonishment. "Why, have you not heard that he is already in command of a ship? You cannot possibly have heard from him lately, or you would have known that!"

"That's true, sir; I have not heard from him since he quitted the Black Cloud in the South, I think they said for his health; but how did he get the step?"

"Why, as to the promotion, that was remarkable enough," said Fernando, quaffing off a tumbler of champagne to aid his inventive faculties; but Fernando, despite his native shrewdness and wonderful inventive powers, was liable to get into trouble. He knew as little about a ship as a landlubber might be supposed to know, and his companion saw at once that he would make a mess of the story, so he came to his rescue by informing the assembly that a fine vocalist at the other end of the room was going to sing, and asked that the story be deferred until after the song. They all hurried away save Fernando, who, overcome by too deep potations, sank upon a sofa temporarily unconscious.

He was roused from his stupor by his companion shaking him and saying:

"Fernando, me boy, it's a divil's own mess ye are makin' of this! Wake up and get out!"

He roused himself and looked about. The room they were in was a small apartment off the great saloon, and through the half-open folding-door, he could see that the festivities still continued. The music and gay forms of dancers reminded him where he was.

"Fernando, we've played this game jist as long as we can, successfully; we had better go."

"I am ready," and Fernando got up and started diagonally across the room, stepping with his feet very wide apart. The pretended Lord Kildee took his arm, and they got to the door, where Fernando missed his footing and went tumbling down the steps in a very undignified manner. His lordship, Kildee, having imbibed rather freely himself, kept him company, and for a few seconds they remained at the bottom of the flight, dividing their time between studying astronomy and the laws of gravitation.

Fernando had badly smashed the captain's chapeau and one fine plume was gone. They had not gone far before they ran upon a watchman, who threatened to run them in; but the police of those days were as susceptible to a bribe as they are to-day, and after donating liberally to the cause of justice and protection, they were taken to their rooms instead of the calaboose.

Young Stevens had no definite recollection of how he ever got to bed; but he awoke next morning with a wretched headache and found himself in a red coat, with the epaulets and gold lace of an officer. By degrees, the whole thing came back to him.

Terrence came in a few moments later, a smile on his face, as he remarked they were in "the divil's own scrape."

"Why?" asked Fernando.

"We should have taken the clothes back to the captain."

Fernando, who was in total ignorance of the manner in which the uniform was procured, asked:

"How did you get them?"

Terrence told him the whole story, and Fernando, despite his wretched headache, laughed until the tears coursed down his cheeks.

"That's not all, me foine boy. The whole thing is out. The papers printed this morning are full of it. They say the captain was seen just before daylight goin' down the street to his boat with a sheet wrapped about him."

Again the youngsters roared. It was such a madcap frolic as students, utterly reckless of consequences, might engage in; but, after all, it was a serious affair. The clothes had to be returned; then the perpetrators of the outrage would be known at the college, and they might be expelled from the institution in disgrace.

The clothes were returned. That was a point of honor which Fernando insisted upon, as he would neither agree to steal or wear stolen goods. For a day or two he was indisposed, and good, honest Sukey was afraid his friend was "going to be real sick." On the evening of the second day after their madcap frolic, Fernando told Sukey all about it and asked his advice. After the tall young westerner had heard him through, he said:

"Well, Fernando, I am sorry you were in the game at all; but you are in it, and now the best thing is to go to the college and make a clean breast of it to the president. It's your first, you know, and then a fellow just from the woods like us is liable to stumble into bad scrapes. Make a clean breast of it and keep out of such games in the future."

This was really the best advice that could have been given, and Fernando, after consulting Terrence, decided to follow it. Consequently they all three presented themselves to the president of the faculty and, in the best way they could, laid the story before him. Terrence brought all the pathos and eloquence which he naturally possessed to the aid of his friend and got both of them off pretty well.

The old professor was one of the best-hearted men in the world, and when he came to contemplate the lonely condition of the boys so far from home, he forgave them freely, and Fernando went out of his presence resolved never to be guilty of another unseemly trick again.

"Now, if that divil's own ship the Xenophon would only lave port, I'd fale better," remarked Terrence as they wended their way to their rooms. Fernando could not see any harm the Xenophon could do them. The president of the college had forgiven them, and surely they need not care for the ship.

The students entered ardently into their studies, and Fernando tried to forget everything about the mayor's ball save the beautiful face of Morgianna Lane. She was the only sweet picture in that wild dream, and he would not have forgotten her for the world. Time wore slowly on. A week had passed, and all the papers in the country were nagging the captain about going to his vessel in a winding sheet. A wag wrote some verses which must have been galling to the pride of the haughty Briton.

At last it leaked out that two students had played the trick on Captain Conkerall. A newspaper reporter came to see Fernando, who gave him a truthful history of the affair.

"You've played the divil now," said Terrence, when he read the interview in the next issue of the Baltimore Sun.

"Why?"

"Never moind, Fernando, I'll not desert ye, and if my one comes to ye about satisfaction, or inything of the kind, and asks you to mintion your frind, sind thim to Terrence Malone, and he will make the arrangements, that's all."

Fernando had no more idea what he meant than if he had addressed him in Hindoo, and he gave the matter little or no further thought. He was in his room poring over his books the second day after the interview, when there came a rap at his door.

"Come in!" he cried in his broad, western fashion.

The door opened, and, to his surprise, a young English officer entered the apartment.

"Is this Mr. Fernando Stevens?" he asked politely.

"It is."

"I am the bearer of a message from Lieutenant Matson."

"Pray who is Lieutenant Matson?"

"Of his majesty's ship the Xenophon."

Fernando thought he must be mistaken, as he had not the least recollection of ever hearing of Lieutenant Matson; but the ensign assured him that he was the person with whom the lieutenant had to deal, and then asked if he could refer him to some friend with whom the business might be arranged. Then the youthful American remembered Terrence Malone's strange instructions and sent the ensign at once to the young Irishman.

Just how Terrence would settle the matter, he did not know; but he who had such remarkable ability for getting one into a scrape could surely devise some means to get him out, and Fernando was perfectly willing to trust him. So, deeming the matter wholly settled, he sat down to his books once more, and had actually forgotten the officer, when Terrence bolted into the room his face expressive of anxiety.

"It's all arranged, me boy. Ye did right in lavin' it to me. The young Britisher and I have made all arrangements."

"Arrangements? what arrangements?" asked Fernando with guileless innocence.

"Arrangements for the meeting, to be sure."

"What meeting?"

"Meeting with Lieutenant Matson."

Throwing down his book, Fernando started up impatiently said:

"I don't want to meet the infernal lieutenant. I thought you had settled it."

"So I did, and right dacintly, too. Now what weapons do ye want?"

"Weapons!" cried Fernando, the truth at last beginning to dawn upon him. "Great Heavens! Terrence, do you mean a duel?"

"Certainly, me frind, nothin' ilse. There's no way to get out of it, honorably."

Fernando reeled as if he had been struck a blow. He had read of duels, but, in the solitude of his western home on the farm, he had never known of any. They were the bloody inventions of more polite civilization. One had been fought between two trappers at a trading post, not over forty miles away, in which rifles at thirty paces were used, and both men were killed. The preacher had said it was murder. Fernando was brave; but he shrank from a duel, and it was not until his pride had been appealed to, that he determined to fight. Then Terrence assured him the lieutenant's friend was waiting; all that was wanting was the weapons.

"I must talk with Sukey."

Sukey was sent for, and when the tall, lanky fellow entered the apartment, Fernando told him all.

"Don't you be in the game, Fernando. Let me tell you, don't you be in it," Sukey answered.

But he was informed that he must, or be forever disgraced. Besides, his enemy was a hated Briton, whom their country was almost on the verge of war with, and it would not be a bad thing to kill him in advance.

"Well, if you must be in the game, Fernando, fight with hatchets. You know you used to throw a hatchet twenty steps and split a pumpkin every time. Fight with hatchets."

It was a novel mode of dueling; but Terrence took the proposition to the lieutenant's friend. The Briton said his friend was a gentlemen, willing to fight with any of the weapons which civilized gentlemen used, and if Mr. Stevens would not consent to the same, the lieutenant would publish him as a barbarian and a coward. Pistols were settled on as a compromise, and Terrence went away to settle the final arrangements. He returned with a smile on his face and, rubbing his hands, said:

"Cheer up, me boy, it's all settled."

"What? won't we fight?"

"Yes, it's settled that you will fight."

For a long time, Fernando was silent, and then he said:

"When will it take place, Terrence?"

"To-morrow morning at sunrise."

Fernando did not go to school that day. Sukey was enjoined to keep the matter a secret, and he went to his classroom as if nothing unusual were about to happen. Fernando spent the day in writing letters to be sent home in case he should not survive the affair which, after all, he believed to be disgraceful. Dueling he thought little better than murder; but he was in for it and determined not to show the white feather. Don't blame Fernando, for he lived in a barbarous age, when the "code of honor" was thought to be honorable. His chief remorse was for his madcap, drunken freak, which had been the provocation for the event, and yet, when he came to think of the ludicrousness of his adventures, he smiled.

More than once on that gloomy day he thought of Morgianna, whom in reality he loved at first sight. Would he ever see her again, or was she only the evening star, which had risen on the last hours of his existence? When Sukey returned, he held a long interview with him and gave him a bundle of letters and papers to send home if—he could not finish the sentence.

"Ain't there no way to get out of it, Fernando?" asked Sukey, his droll face comical even in distress.

"Not honorably."

"Well, now that you're in the game, just shoot that infernal Englishman's head right off his shoulders, that's my advice. I've read lots about duels, and it all depends on who is quickest at the trigger. Take good aim and don't let him get a second the advantage of you."

They went to bed early, and Fernando slept soundly. It was Terrence who awoke them and said it would not do to be late. He had engaged a sailor called Luff Williams to take them in his boat to the spot, a long sandy beach behind a high promontory some five or six miles from the city. The spot was quite secluded, and Terrence declared it a love of a place for such little affairs.

"What are ye thinkin' of, Fernando?" asked Terrence, when the boat with the three young men was under way.

"I'm thinking, sir, if I were to kill him, what I must do after."

"Right, my boy; nothing like it; but 1811 will settle all for ye. I don't believe, now that America is on the verge of war with the British, that my one will make much of a row for killin' the murdherin' baste. Are ye a good shot?"

"I am with a rifle; but I never could do anything to speak of with a pistol."

"I don't moind that. Ye've a good eye; never take it off him after you're on the ground; follow him everywhere. I knew a fellow in Ireland who always shot his man that way. Look without winkin'; it's fatal at a short distance—a very good thing to learn, when ye've a little spare time."

As they came in sight of the beach where the duel was to be fought, they perceived, a few hundred yards off, a group of persons standing on the sands, whom they recognized as their opponents.

"Fernando," said Terrence, grasping his arm firmly, as if to instill into him some of his own hope and confidence, "Fernando, although you're only a boy, I've no fear of your courage; but this Lieutenant Matson is a famous duelist, and he will try to shake your nerve. Now remember that ye take everything that happens quite with an air of indifference; don't let him think he has iny advantage over ye, and you'll see how the tables will be turned in your favor."