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Sustained honor: The Age of Liberty Established

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Title: Sustained honor: The Age of Liberty Established

Author: John R. Musick


        
Release date: December 1, 2003 [eBook #10370]
                Most recently updated: September 26, 2025

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SUSTAINED HONOR: THE AGE OF LIBERTY ESTABLISHED ***




THE REAL AMERICA IN ROMANCE

Volume X

SUSTAINED HONOR

The Age of Liberty Established

By

JOHN R. MUSICK

ILLUSTRATIONS BY

FREELAND A. CARTER

1909




PREFACE.

Written history is generally too scholastic to interest the great mass
of readers. Dignified and formal, it deals mainly with great events, and
often imperfectly with these, because, not pausing to present clear
impression by the associations of individual life, it conveys a stiff
and unnatural opinion of the past. Historians ignore the details which
go to make up the grand sum total of history, and from the very best
histories one can get but a meagre idea of the life and times of the
people of bygone ages. It is these minor details of past events which
lend to fiction its greatest charm, and attract the multitude, by
appearing more like truth. Although untrue in the particular
combinations, scenes and plots delineated, yet well written fiction is
drawn from nature and experience, and these facts in life, as with
chessmen, are only arranged in new but natural positions. History should
include everything in the nature, character, customs and incidents, both
general and individual, that contribute to originate what is peculiar
in a people, or what causes their advancement or decline. So broad is
its scope, that nothing is too mighty for its grasp--so searching,
scarce anything is too minute. Were written history a clear transcript
of valuable incidents, it would be more enticing than the most
fascinating fiction.

It is the purpose of this volume to deal with some of the remote and
direct causes of the second war with England, by endeavoring, as nearly
as our ability will permit, to transport the reader back to the scenes
of eighty or ninety years ago, and give views of the incidents which
clustered around the events of that time.

The war of 1812 has been properly termed by some historians the second
war for independence; for, in truth, the independence of the United
States of America was not established until after that event. Great
Britain across the ocean and the horde of Tories still in America had
not abandoned all hope of yet making the United States a dependency of
the country from which she had fought seven long years to free herself.
The war of 1812 was never fought to a finish. In some respects it was a
drawn fight. Its results were not satisfactory to the patriotic
American, and certainly were not to Great Britain. The contemptible
"Peace Faction" continually crippled the administration all through the
contest of nearly three years.

After studying the patriotism of New England through the War of the
Revolution, one is surprised at the unpatriotic actions of that section
of the United States in 1812. One can hardly believe that it was party
fealty and political hatred of the democratic party alone which made
these formerly patriotic colonies and States hot-beds of sedition and
treason. It looks as if those States, having built up a flourishing
trade with Great Britain, cared little about the impressment of sailors,
or the enslaving of their countrymen, so long as they filled their own
pockets. The men seized were usually poor, and their happiness, liberty
and life were lightly regarded in comparison with the prosperity of the
"Peace Party" merchant. If patriotism were dormant in the East, however,
in the growing West, and the generous South it was strong. From those
sections came the hardy sons of liberty, who taught Johnny Bull anew to
respect the rights of the common people. Though the treaty of peace was
not satisfactory in many particulars, it more clearly defined the lines
between the United States and British possessions in America, leaving
the fishery question and the right to search and impressment in an
unsettled condition, giving the "Peace Party" an opportunity to say, "I
told you so."

An attempt is made in this story to cover the whole period of the war
and the causes leading up to it, treating it from the standpoint of an
individual of the time. The pioneers of seventy-five years ago were a
hardy race, long since disappeared. We hope that from Fernando Stevens,
the hero of this volume, the reader may derive some idea of pioneer life
as it then was. Fernando Stevens was a namesake of the cabin-boy of
Christopher Columbus on his first voyage to America, Hernando Estevan,
of whom he was a lineal descendant. The hero of this volume was a son of
Albert Stevens, a Revolutionary soldier, who was a son of Colonel Noah
Stevens, of the French and Indian War, who was a son of Elmer Stevens of
early Virginia history, a son of Robert Stevens of the time of Bacon's
Rebellion. He was a son of John Smith Stevens, of the early Virginia
history, who was the son of Philip Stevens, or Philip Estevan, the young
Spaniard who was the personal friend of Captain John Smith and helped
lay the foundation of Jamestown. He was a son of Francisco Estevan of
St. Augustine, who was a son of Christopher Estevan of Cuba, a companion
of Pizarro and De Soto, and he was a son of Hernando Estevan, who went
as cabin-boy with Columbus on his memorable first voyage in which he
discovered the Western Hemisphere.

This scion of a long line of stalwart but not famous ancestors is the
one whose adventures we now narrate. Like his ancestors, he was only one
of the rank and file of Americans, whose names are seldom seen in print,
but who, after all, go to make up the true history of our glorious
republic. Fernando's adventures, with those of Morgianna, the mysterious
waif of the sea, form the romance of this story.

JOHN E. MUSICK.

KIRKSVILLE, Mo., July 11th, 1893.




TABLE OF CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I.
THE YOUNG EMIGRANT

CHAPTER II.
MORGIANNA

CHAPTER III.
JEFFERSONIANISM

CHAPTER IV.
BRITISH CRUISERS

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

CHAPTER VI.
WAR FEELING OF 1811

CHAPTER VII.
FERNANDO'S FRIEND GETS HIM INTO A SERIOUS SCRAPE

CHAPTER VIII.
THE BELLE OF THE BEACH

CHAPTER IX.
THE ENGLISHMAN'S DILEMMA

CHAPTER X.
THE SILENT GUNNER

CHAPTER XI.
SHIPWRECK, ESCAPE AND RETURN TO OHIO

CHAPTER XII.
WAR

CHAPTER XIII.
THE PEACE PARTY

CHAPTER XIV.
FERNANDO SEES SERVICE

CHAPTER XV.
ON LAND

CHAPTER XVI.
ON WATER

CHAPTER XVII.
THE CRUISER'S THREAT

CHAPTER XVIII.
THE SAVING SHOT

CHAPTER XIX.
NEW ORLEANS

CHAPTER XX.
CONCLUSION

HISTORICAL INDEX

CHRONOLOGY




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

They took a last look at the spots which were hallowed by association

Emigrants' wagon crossing a stream

Morgianna

Carried the ship by the board after a terrible hand-to-hand conflict

Stephen Decatur

"Do you think dar is any Angler-Saxun blood in dese veins?"

Fulton's _Clermont_, the first steamboat

As near perfection as a girl of sixteen can be

That smile and that eternal stare disconcerted the British officer

"You surrender easily,"

He sat down on a broken mast

The boatswain's mate brought the terrible scourge hissing and crackling
on the young and tender back

He saw Captain Bones and his lieutenant trying to hide behind a barrel

It soon became evident that he did not intend to drown her

Henry Clay

John C. Calhoun

"Lave it all to me"

James Madison

Tecumseh

"My brave Kentucky lads, to us is accorded the honor of winning this
battle. Forward!"

They came together in an earnest struggle

"My father will protect me; I want no other protection"

Sukey's thumb lifted the hammer of his gun

Packenham fell bleeding and dying in the arms of Sir Duncan McDougal

Map of the period




SUSTAINED HONOR.


CHAPTER I.

THE YOUNG EMIGRANT.

[Illustration]

The first recollections of Fernando Stevens, the hero of this romance,
were of "moving." He was sitting on his mother's knee. How long he had
been sitting there he did not know, nor did he know how he came there;
but he knew that it was his mother and that they were in a great covered
wagon, and that he had a sister and brother, older than himself, in the
wagon. The wagon was filled with household effects, which he seemed to
know belonged to that mother on whose knee he sat and that father who
was sitting on the box driving the horses which pulled the wagon.
Fernando Stevens was never exactly certain as to his age at the time of
this experience; but he could not have been past three, and perhaps not
more than two years old, when he thus found himself with his father's
family and all their effects in a wagon going somewhere.

He knew not from whence they came, nor did he know whither they were
going. It was pleasant to sit on his mother's knee and with his great
blue eyes watch those monster horses jogging along dragging after them
the great world, which in his limited comprehension was all the world he
knew,--the covered wagon. Suddenly some bright, revolving object
attracted his attention, and he fixed his eyes on it. It was the wagon
tire, and he saw it crushing and killing the grass at the side of the
road, or rolling and flattening down the dust in long streaks.

Then they descended a hill. It was not a long hill, but seemed rather
steep. There was water at the bottom. He remembered seeing the bright,
sparkling wavelets and never forgot the impression they produced. There
was a boat at the bottom of the hill, and the wagon and horses were
driven into the boat. A man and boy began propelling the long sweeps or
oars. He watched the proceeding in infantile wonder and especially
remembered how the water dropped in sparkling crystals from the oar
blades. The boy had on a red cap or fez with a tassel. That boy, that
cap and that oar with the sparkling dripping water from the blade were
to him the brightest pictures and greatest wonders he had ever known.

He had not the least idea why the man and boy dipped those oars into the
water and pulled them out all dripping and pretty, unless it was to
amuse him. The oars were painted blue. He did not know where they were
going, or when this journey would end, or that it was a journey.

Thus Fernando Stevens began life. This was the first page in his
existence that he could recollect. In after years he knew he was
Fernando Stevens, that his father was Albert Stevens, a soldier in the
War of the Revolution, that his kind, sweet-faced mother was Estella
Stevens, and that the very first experience he could remember was that
of the family emigrating to the great Ohio valley.

Albert Stevens was married shortly after the close of the Revolutionary
War, and he tried hard to succeed in New England; but he had no trade
and no profession, and the best lands in the country were bought. Seven
years of his early life, with all his dawning manhood had been spent in
the army, and now with his family of three children he found himself
poor. Congress had made a treaty with the Indians by which the vast
territory of the Ohio valley was thrown open to white settlers, and he
resolved to emigrate to where land was cheap, purchase a home and grow
up with the country.

Resolved to emigrate, the father collected his little property and
provided himself with a wagon and four horses, some cows, a rifle, a
shot-gun and an axe. His trusty dog became the companion of his journey.
In his wagon he placed his bedding, his provisions and such cooking
utensils as were indispensable. Everything being ready, his wife and the
three children took their seats, Fernando, the youngest, on his mother's
knee; while the father of the family mounted the box. The horses were
started and the great vehicle began to move. As they passed through the
village which had been to them the scene of many happy hours, they took
a last look at the spots which were hallowed by association--the church
with its lowly spire, an emblem of that humility which befits a
Christian, and the burial-ground, where the weeping willow bent
mournfully over the head-stone which marked the graves of their parents.
The children, who were old enough to remember, never forgot their
playground, nor the white schoolhouse where the rudiments of an
education were instilled into their minds.

Their road was at first, comparatively smooth and their journey
pleasant. Their progress was interrupted by divers little incidents;
while the continual changes in the appearance of the country around
them, and the anticipation of what was to come, prevented those feelings
of despondency, which might otherwise have arisen on leaving a much
loved home. When the roads became bad or hilly, the family quit the
wagon and trudged along on foot, the mother carrying the baby Fernando
in her arms. At sunset, their day's journey finished, they halted in the
forest by the roadside to prepare their supper and pass the night. The
horses were unharnessed, watered and secured with their heads to the
trough until they had eaten their meagre allowance of corn and oats, and
then were hobbled out to grass. Over the camp fire the mother prepared
the frugal supper, which being over, the emigrants arranged themselves
for the night, while the faithful dog kept watch. Amid all the
privations and vicissitudes in their journey, they were cheered by the
consciousness that each day lessened the distance between them and the
land of promise, whose fertile soil was to recompense them for all their
trials and hardships.

Gradually, as they advanced west, the roads became more and more rough
and were only passable in many places by logs having been placed side by
side, forming what was termed corduroy roads. The axe and rifle of the
emigrant, or mover as he is still termed in the west, were brought
daily and almost hourly into use. With the former he cut saplings, or
small trees, to throw across the roads, which, in many places, were
almost impassable; while with his rifle he killed squirrels, wild
turkeys, or such game as the forest afforded, for their provisions were
in a few days exhausted. If, perchance, a buck crossed his path, and he
brought it down by a lucky shot, it was carefully dressed and hung up in
the forks of the trees; fires were built, and the meat cut into small
strips and smoked and dried for future subsistence.

As they advanced, the road through the woods became more difficult to
travel, the trees being merely felled and drawn aside, so as to permit a
wheeled carriage to pass; and the emigrant was often obliged to be
guided in his route only by the blaze of the surveyor on the trees, and
at every few rods to cut away the branches which obstructed his passage.
As the stroke of the axe reverberated through the woods, no answer came
back to assure him of the presence of friend or foe. At night in these
solitudes, they heard the wolves stealing through the gloom, sniffing
the scent of the intruders; and now and then, then bloodshot eyes of the
catamount glared through the foliage.

Days, weeks and months passed in this toilsome journey through the
wilderness, so indelibly impressing it on the memory of Fernando
Stevens, that he never, to his dying day, forgot that journey. At last
they arrived at the landmarks which, to Albert Stevens, indicated the
proximity of his possessions. A location for the cabin was selected near
a small stream of running water, on the south side of a slight
elevation.

No time was lost. The trees were immediately felled, and in a short time
Fernando, looking out from the covered wagon, perceived a clear space of
ground of but few rods in circumference. Stakes, forked at the top, were
driven into the ground, on which the father placed logs, and the chinks
between these were stopped with clay. An enclosure was thus hastily
thrown up to protect the family from the weather, and the wife and
children were removed to this improvised abode. The trunks of the trees
were rolled to the edge of the clearing, and surmounted by stakes driven
crosswise into the ground: the severed tops and branches of trees piled
on top of the logs, thus forming a brush fence. By degrees the
surrounding trees were "girdled" and killed. Those that would split were
cut down and made into rails, while others were left to rot or logged up
and burned.

A year showed a great improvement in the pioneer's home. Several acres
had been added to the clearing, and the place began to assume the
appearance of a farm. The temporary shanty had given place to a
comfortable log cabin; and although the chimney was built of small
sticks placed one on the other, and filled in between with clay,
occupying almost one whole end of the cabin, it showed that the inward
man was duly attended to; and the savory fumes of venison, of the
prairie hen and other good things went far to prove that even backwoods
life was not without its comforts. [Footnote: The author has often heard
his mother say that the most enjoyable period of her life was in a
pioneer home similar to the above.]

In a few months, the retired cabin, once so solitary, became the nucleus
of a little settlement. Other sections and quarter sections of land were
entered at the land office by new corners. New portions of ground were
cleared, cabins were erected; and in a short time the settlement could
turn out a dozen efficient hands for house raising or log rolling. A saw
mill soon after was erected at the falls of the creek; the log huts
received a poplar weather boarding, and, as the little settlement
increased, other improvements appeared; a mail line was established, and
before many years elapsed, a fine road was completed to the nearest
town, and a stage coach, which ran once, then twice a week, connected
the settlement with the populous country to the east of it.

This was the life the hero of this story began. It might be said to be
an unromantic life; yet such a life was known to many of our American
ancestors. It had its pleasures as well as its pains. It had its poetry
as well as its prose, and its joys as well as its sorrows. The vastness
of the forest and depths of the solitude by which he was surrounded,
made its impress on his mind. He grew up in ignorance of tyranny and
many of the evils of the great cities.

The cabin home and the narrow clearing about it formed his playground.
His first toy was a half-bushel measure, which he called his "bushee!"
This he rolled before him around the log cabin and the paths made in the
tall grass, frequently to the dread of his mother, who feared that he
might encounter some of the deadly serpents with which the forest
abounded. He remembered on one occasion, when his mother found him going
too far, she called:

"Come back, Fernando; mother is afraid you will step on a snake."

He looked about him with the confidence of childhood, and answered:

"No 'nakes here."

Just at that moment, the mother, to her horror, saw a deadly reptile
coiled in the very path along which the child was rolling his "bushee,"
and with true frontier woman's pluck, ran and snatched up the
bare-footed Fernando, when only within two feet of the deadly serpent,
carried him to the house, and with the stout staff assailed and killed
the rattlesnake.

He remembered seeing the wild deer bound past the cabin door, and one
day his father killed one. The big dog called "Bob," on account of the
shortness of his caudal appendage, on another occasion leaped on a wild
buck as he was passing the house, and seized the animal, holding it
until it was slain. Wild turkeys were common; he saw them in great
flocks in the woods, and did not suppose they could ever become extinct.

Fernando never forgot his first pair of shoes. He had grown to be quite
a lad, and his bare feet had trod the paths in the forest, and over the
prairies in summer and late in autumn, until they had become hardened.
In winter his mother had made him moccasins out of deer skins; but he
was at last informed that he was going to have a pair of shoes, such as
he had seen some children from the eastern States wear. His joy at this
intelligence knew no bounds. He dreamed of those shoes at night, and
they formed the theme of his conversation by day. His sister, who was
the oldest of the children, had been the happy possessor of three pairs
of shoes, and she often discussed knowingly the good qualities of pedal
coverings and of their advantages in travelling through brambles or over
stones. Often as he contemplated his scratched, chapped and bruised
feet, the child had asked himself if it were possible that he should
ever be able to afford such a luxury as a real pair of shoes.

Money was scarce, luxuries scarcer. The frontier people lived hard,
worked hard, slept sound, and enjoyed excellent health.

Though little Fernando had never owned a real pair of shoes in his life,
so far as he could remember, he possessed a strong mind and body, and no
prince was his superior. He had, as yet, never been to school a day, but
from the great book of nature he had imbibed sublimity and loftiness of
thought, which only painters and poets feel.

Though he was shoeless, he was inspired with lofty ideas of freedom such
as many reared in cities never dream about. The father had to make a
long journey to some far-away place for the shoes. The day before
starting all the children were made to put their feet on the floor,
while the parents measured them with strings, and tied knots to indicate
the size of shoes to be purchased. At last the measures were obtained,
and the father put them in the pocket of his buckskin hunting jacket.
Then he harnessed the horses to the wagon and, with, his trusty rifle
for his only companion, drove away. Bob, the faithful watch-dog, was
very anxious to accompany him, and whined and howled for two or three
days; but he was kept at home to defend the family. A faithful protector
was Bob, and woe to the intruder who dared to annoy the household while
he was around. Fernando waited patiently and long for the return of his
father. Every night before retiring to his trundle-bed, he would ask his
mother if "father would come next day."

At last the joyous shout of the older children announced the approach of
the wagon. They ran down the road to meet it. The horses jogged along
with the wagon, which rolled and jolted over the ground to the house.
The wagon was unloaded. There were bags of meal and flour, coffee and
tea, and then came the calico and cotton goods, jugs of molasses and a
barrel of sugar. The shoes were in a box and finally brought out.

A great disappointment was in store for Fernando. His shoes were too
small. The father had lost the string and purchased the shoes "by
guess." Fernando tried hard to squeeze his foot into the little green
coverings; but they were so small and there was danger of bursting them.
Father had to go back to the land office in a day or two and would
exchange them. He rode off on the white mare, "old Betts," and on his
return had a pair of shoes large enough for Fernando.

They were awkward at first and cramped, pinched and galled his feet. His
mother made him a suit of clothes of "blue drilling" and next Sabbath
the whole family got into the wagon and drove off eight miles to Bear
Creek to "meeting."

The people of the west were as thorough a combination and mixture of all
nations, characters, languages, conditions and opinions as can well be
imagined. Scarcely a nation in Europe, or a State in the union, that did
not furnish emigrants for the great west. The greater mass from Europe
were of the humble classes, who came from hunger, poverty and
oppression. They found themselves here with the joy of shipwrecked
mariners cast on the untenanted woods, and instantly became cheered with
the hope of being able to build up a family and a fortune from
new elements.

The Puritan and the planter, the German, the Briton, the Frenchman, the
Irishman and the Swede, each with his peculiar prejudices and local
attachments, and all the complicated and interwoven tissue of
sentiments, feelings and thoughts, that country, kindred and home,
indelibly combined with the web of youthful existence, settled down
beside each other. The merchant, mechanic and farmer found themselves
placed by necessity in the same society. Men must cleave to their kind
and must be dependent upon each other. Pride and jealousy give way to
the natural yearnings of the human heart for society. They began to rub
off mutual prejudices. One took a step and then the other. They met half
way and embraced; and the society thus newly organized and constituted
was more liberal, enlarged, unprejudiced, and of course more
affectionate and pleasant than a society of people of like birth and
character, who would bring all their early prejudices as a common stock,
to be transmitted as an inheritance to posterity.

Depending only on God and nature, the simple backwoodsman came to regard
God as his only master and, like the Swiss patriot, would bow his knee
to none other. Men were left free to adopt such religious views and
tenets as they chose, and the generous laws protected every man alike in
his religious opinions. Ministers of the gospel and priests, being
presumed to be devoted to humanity, charity and general benevolence,
were precluded by many State constitutions from any participation in the
legislative authority, and their compensation depended wholly upon the
voluntary aid of those among whom they labored in charity and love. In
the wide district where the Stevens lived, the country was too sparsely
settled to support a stationed minister, and "preaching" was a luxury.
Unsustained by the rigid precepts of law in any privileges, perquisites,
fixed revenue, prescribed by reverence or authority, except such as was
voluntarily acknowledged, the clergy found that success depended upon
the due cultivation of popular talents. Zeal for the great cause mixed,
perhaps, with a spice of earthly ambition, the innate sense of emulation
and laudable pride, a desire of distinction among their cotemporaries
and brethren, prompted them to seek popularity, and to study all the
arts and means of winning the popular favor.

Travelling from month to month through dark forests, with such ample
time for deep thought, as they ambled slowly along the lonesome horse
path or unfrequented roads, they naturally acquired a pensive and
romantic turn of thought and expression, which is often favorable to
eloquence. Hence their preaching was of the highly popular cast, such as
immortalized Peter Cartwright. The first aim was to excite the
ministers; hence, too, excitement, or, in religious parlance,
"awakenings," or "revivals" became common. Living remote from each
other, and spending much of their time in domestic solitude in vast
forests or wide spreading prairies, the "appointment" for preaching was
looked upon as a gala-day, or a pleasing change, which brought together
the auditors from remote points, and gratified a feeling of curiosity,
which prompted the pioneers to associate and interchange cordial
congratulations.

As yet no meeting house had been erected in all the region where the
Stevens lived. The meeting on Bear Creek was at the home of Mr. Moore,
who was the happy possessor of a "double log cabin." One cabin or room
was cleared of furniture, and sawn boards, placed on sticks of wood on
end, furnished the seats. These were occupied and the "entry" between
the cabins was filled by children. The preacher, who was also chorister,
took his position near the door so as to accommodate those without as
well as those within. He opened his saddle-bags and, pushing back his
soiled linen, took out his bible and hymn-book and, proceeding to "line
a hymn," "started it" himself, the congregation all joining.

Fernando Stevens had heard from his sister about these wonderful
meetings; but he had never dreamed that a score of voices could raise
such an uproar, and he ceased admiring his new shoes, while he fixed his
eyes in terror on the capacious mouth of a pious old man, who, in his
fervent zeal, was singing with all his might. As he sounded forth each
resonant note, louder than the preceding, his mouth opened wider and
wider, until Fernando took alarm and climbed upon his father's knee.

At this critical moment, there came on the air a cracking sound, and one
of the boards which served the purpose of a pew broke in the centre and
came down with a crash, precipitating nearly half a score of buxom,
screaming girls into a promiscuous heap upon the floor. This was too
much for Fernando. He could not but attribute the disaster to the
wide-mouthed singer, and he screamed so lustily in his fright, that his
father took him from the house to calm his fears.

Fernando's first experience at "meeting" was not very encouraging; but
he did not despair. Soon after their return home he heard the family
begin to speak of the "camp-meeting," and learned that one was to be
held at the head waters of Bear Creek, not far from the home of Mr.
Moore, and that the family was going.

On the appointed day they took their places in the wagon and started for
the camp ground. Notice of the camp-meeting had been circulated for
several weeks or months, and all were eager to attend. The country for
fifty miles around was excited with the cheerful anticipation of the
approaching festival of religious feeling and social friendship. When
the Stevenses arrived on the grounds, wagons and carts, coaches and old
family chaises, people on horseback and on foot, in multitudes, with
provision wagons, tents, mattresses, household implements and cooking
utensils, were seen hurrying from every direction toward the central
point. The camp was in the midst of a grove of beautiful, lofty,
umbrageous trees, natural to the western country, clothed in their
deepest verdure, and near a sparkling stream, which supplied the host
with fresh water. White tents started up in the grove, and soon a sylvan
village sprang up as if by magic. The tents and booths were pitched in a
semi-circle, or in a four-sided parallelogram, inclosing an area of two
acres or more, for the arrangement of seats and aisles around a rude
pulpit and altar for the thronging multitude, all eager to hear the
heavenly messenger.

Fernando beheld all in a maze of wonder, and half believed this was that
Heaven of which his mother had told him so much. He half expected to see
the skies open and the son of God descend in all his glory. Toward
night, the hour of solemn service approached, and the vast sylvan bower
of the deep umbrageous forest was illuminated by numerous lamps
suspended around the line of tents which encircled the public area and
beside the rustic altars distributed over the same, which sent forth a
glare of light from the fagot fires upon the worshipping throng, and the
majestic forest with an imposing effect, which elevated the soul to fit
converse with its creator, God.

The scenery of the most brilliant theatre of the world was only a
painting for children compared with this. Meantime, the multitude, with
the highest excitement of social feeling, added to the general
enthusiasm of expectation, was passing from tent to tent interchanging
apostolic greetings and embraces, while they talked of the approaching
solemnities. A few minutes sufficed to finish the evening's repast, when
the moon (for they had taken thought to appoint the meeting at the time
of the full moon) began to show its disc above the dark summits of the
distant mountains, while a few stars were seen glimmering in the west.
Then the service began. The whole constituted a temple worthy of the
grandeur of God. An old man in a dress of the quaintest simplicity
ascended a platform, wiped the dust from his spectacles, and, in a voice
of suppressed emotion "lined the hymn," of which that vast multitude
could recite the words, to be sung with an air in which every voice
could join. Every heart capable of feeling thrilled with emotion as that
song swelled forth, "Like the sound of many waters, echoing among the
hills and mountains." The service proceeded. The hoary-haired orator
talked of God, of eternity, of a judgment to come and all that is
impressive beyond. He spoke of his experiences and toils, his travels,
his persecutions and triumphs, and how many he had seen in hope, in
peace and triumph gathered to their fathers. When he spoke of the short
space that remained for him, his only regret was that he could no longer
proclaim, in the silence of death, the unsearchable riches and mercies
of his crucified Redeemer.

No wonder, as the speaker paused to dash the gathering moisture from his
own eye, his audience was dissolved in tears, or uttered exclamations of
penitence. Many who prided themselves on an estimation of a higher
intellect and a nobler insensibility than the crowd caught the
infection, and wept, while the others, "who came to mock remained
to pray."

In due time a schoolhouse was erected on the banks of the creek a mile
away from the house of Albert Stevens. Fernando was sent with the older
children. Mrs. Creswell the teacher had no end of trouble with the
little fellow, whose ideas of liberty were inconsistent with discipline,
and who insisted on reclining on the floor instead of sitting on a
bench. He became hungry and despite the fact that his preceptress had
forbidden "talking out loud" declared that he wanted something to eat.

"Wait a bit," answered the teacher. "We will have recess by and by."

"Is recess something to eat?" he asked.

This question produced a titter, and the insubordinate youngster was
again told he must not talk. After awhile he became accustomed to school
and liked it. He grew older and learned his letters. It was a tedious
task, the most difficult of which was to distinguish "N" from "U," but
he finally mastered them, and his education, he supposed, was complete.
After two or three years, he learned to read. His father on one of his
journeys to town brought to their forest home some excellent books, with
bright, beautiful pictures. He was now nine years old, and could read
with some difficulty. One of his books was a story about a man being
wrecked on an island, and having saved a black man named Friday from
death by savages. Fernando never tired of this wonderful book, and, in
his eagerness for the adventures of Robinson Crusoe, learned to read
well without knowing it.

From reading one book, he came to read others, and lofty, ambitious
thoughts took possession of his soul. His mind, uncontaminated or
dwarfed by the sins of civilization, early began to reach out for high
and noble ideas.

His father had been a captain in the continental army, and had travelled
all over the Atlantic States during the war for independence. He told
his children many stories of those dark days and sought early to instil
in their young minds a love for their country, urging them ever to
sustain its honor and its flag.

Fernando Stevens, even early in childhood, became a patriot. He could be
nothing more nor less than a patriot and lover of freedom with such
training, and growing up in such an atmosphere. With the bitter wrongs
of George III. rankling in his heart, he came to despise all forms of
monarchy, and to hate "redcoats." The cruelties of Cornwallis, Tarleton,
Rawdon, Tryon and Butler were still in the minds of the people, and the
boy, as he gazed on his father's sword hanging on the cabin wall, often
declared he would some day take it and avenge the wrongs done in
years gone by.

Years passed on, and Fernando, in his quiet home in the West, grew to be
a strong, healthy lad, with a constantly expanding mind.




CHAPTER II.


MORGIANNA.

It was early on the morning of June 13, 1796, just twenty years after
the Declaration of Independence, that Captain Felix Lane, of the good
ship _Ocean Star_, was on his voyage from Rio to Baltimore with a cargo
of coffee. The morning was specially bright, and the captain, as brave a
man as ever paced a quarter deck, was in the best of spirits, for he
expected soon to be home. He had no wife and children to greet him on
his return, for Lane was a bachelor. He had served on board a privateer
during the War of the Revolution and had done as much damage as any man
on salt water to English merchantmen. Like most brave men, Captain Lane
had a generous soul, a kind heart, and there was not a man aboard his
vessel who would not have died for him. He preserved perfect discipline
and respect through love rather than fear, for he was never known to be
harsh with any of his crew.

No one knew why the captain had never married. His first mate, who had
sailed under him four years, had never dared broach him on the subject
of matrimony. There was a story--a mere rumor--perhaps without the
slightest foundation, of Felix Lane, when a poor sailor boy, loving the
daughter of an English merchant at Portsmouth, England. The mate got the
story from a gossipy old English sailor, who claimed to know all about
it, but whose fondness for spinning yarns brought discredit on his
veracity. According to the old sailor's account, the fair English maid's
name was Mary. Her father was one of the wealthiest merchants in the
city; and one day when Lane was only nineteen he met Mary. Her beauty
captivated him and inspired him to a nobler life. Mary loved the young
sailor; but it was the old story of the penniless lover and cruel
parent. The sailor was forcibly expelled from the house and sailed to
America, with a heart full of revenge and ambition.

He arrived just after the battle of Lexington, and soon shipped aboard a
privateer. Again it was the old story of a rash lover laughing at death,
seeking the grim monster who seemed to avoid him. His ship was so
successful, that in a short time each of the crew was rich from prize
money. Four years and a half of war found Felix Lane commander of the
most daring privateer on the ocean. He was already wealthy and continued
by fresh prizes to add to his immense fortune. The merchant marine of
Great Britain dreaded his ship, the _Sea Rover_, more than the whole
American navy. Lane was one of the most expert seamen on the ocean, and
might have had a high office in the regular navy, had he not found this
semi-piratical business more lucrative.

One day his vessel sighted a large merchantman, off the coast of Spain,
and engaged it in a terrible conflict. The merchantman carried twice as
many people and heavier guns than the _Sea Rover_; but by the skilful
management of his ship Captain Lane continued to rake her fore and aft
until she was forced to strike her colors. When the conqueror went
aboard, he found the splintered deck a scene of horror. Cordage,
shrouds, broken spars and dead and dying men strewed the deck. Near the
gangway was a middle-aged man holding in his arms a girl mortally
wounded in the conflict. He recognized her in a moment, and the scene
which followed tried all the powers of the old yarn-spinner's
descriptive faculties. He held her in his arms and wept and prayed until
her life was extinct. It was said that she recognized him and that she
died with a sweet smile on her face, pointing upward to a place of
reunion. The father, who had survived the conflict, was released, and
Captain Felix continued his career a sadder and better man.

Whether this story was true or not, no one can at this day tell, for
Jack tars are proverbial yarn-spinners, and seek more after romance than
truth. One thing is quite certain, though, Captain Lane was still a
bachelor, and had resisted all the advances of beautiful women, until no
one doubted that he would end his days a bachelor.

On this bright June morning a sail was descried S.S.E., and there
immediately sprang up a little conversation between master and mate as
to the probable character of the ship.

"Perchance, captain, it's a British cruiser," suggested the mate.

"If it should be, we have no fears."

"No, for the _Ocean Star_ can show a pair of clean heels to anything
afloat. These British have a habit of searching all vessels they can
capture and impressing seamen."

"It's ugly business."

"It will breed another storm."

"I don't think America will long submit."

At this, the mate, whose temper was as fiery as his red hair, vowed:

"If they should board a ship of mine, I would give 'em lead and steel,
until they would not care to search or impress any one."

"They have no such right," the captain answered, and his face grew very
stern.

The vessel, whatever she was, did not cross their path, however, and in
a few hours disappeared around some jutting headlands.

They had only left Rio the day before, and had very light winds. The
land breeze lasted long enough to bring them by Santa Cruz, and their
ship drifted along all day between Raza and the main. Toward night the
sea-breeze came in fresh from the eastward, and they made four-hour
tacks, intending to keep the northern shore quite close aboard, and to
take their departure from Cape Frio. The night was very clear, and at
eight bells they tacked ship to the northward, heading about N.N.E.;
Raza lights could just be discerned, bearing about West. Captain Lane
had come on deck, as was his custom, to "stay" the brig, and, finding
everything looking right, was about to go below, when the man on the
lookout cried:

"Sail ho!"

"Where away?" demanded the Captain.

"Two points off the lee bow."

The captain walked forward to the forecastle, from where he descried
what appeared to be a large square-rigged vessel standing directly for
them, with her port-tacks aboard. This seemed strange to the captain, as
he knew of no vessel which had left Rio, except one several days
previous, and she should have been far on her voyage by this time.

The stranger approached very rapidly, carrying a press of canvas, and
"lying over" to it in fine style. In a short time the stranger was
almost within speaking distance, and Captain Lane made her out to be a
large heavily-sparred clipper brig. A collision seemed inevitable, if
she held her course. The _Ocean Star_ was a little to windward of the
stranger with the starboard tacks aboard, and Captain Lane knew it was
the stranger's duty to "bear up" and keep away. He jumped for his
speaking trumpet and hailed:

"Brig ahoy!"

No answer; and the mysterious vessel came booming right on for them with
fearful speed.

"Brig ahoy!" shouted the captain again. "Hard up your helm, or you will
be into me!"

Still no answer; and, jumping to the wheel, the captain jammed it down,
and they came up flying into the wind. Leaving the wheel to the
frightened seaman, he sprang into the port rail, to see where the
stranger would strike them. As he did so, that mysterious craft flew by,
and the whole sea seemed lighted up by a strange illumination. It was
like a terrible dream--so wild, so supernatural and unearthly. As
Captain Lane stood by the port rail, he saw right under his quarter, a
large, low, black brig, with her decks crowded with men, and guns
protruding from her ports; while on the weather rail, clinging with one
hand to the shrouds, stood a strange, demoniacal-looking figure, holding
in his outstretched hand, above the water, a burning blue light. On the
quarter-deck a little knot of men seemed standing, a short distance
apart from them was a strikingly handsome man, who, from his air of
superiority, Lane at once knew to be the commander. His perfectly poised
and graceful attitude, and thorough composure, as he removed a cigar
from his mouth and motioned an order to the helmsman, struck the
beholder as wonderful.

In an instant the whole thing flashed upon the captain--_he was a
pirate_! He had run under the stern of the brig and burned a blue light
to read the name of the vessel, and see if the bird was worth plucking.

Captain Lane's decision was instantaneous. He knew that the white
feather never helped one out with such fellows. It was all the work of
an instant. The stranger ran a couple of lengths astern the _Ocean
Star_, swung his main-yard aback and hailed; but while the bold
buccaneer was doing this, Captain Lane had performed an equally
sea-manlike manoeuvre. He caught his sails aback, and his vessel having
stern way, he shifted his helm, backed her round, and, filling away on
the other tack, stood directly for the pirate.

It was the stranger's time to hail now. The _Ocean Star_ was a sharp,
strong, fast-sailing vessel, and was under good headway and perfect
control. Captain Lane then acted hurriedly, but with precision, giving
his orders to his mate and helmsman, and, seizing the cabin lantern and
his speaking trumpet, he jumped upon the topgallant forecastle, and,
holding up his lamp, made the master mason's "_hailing sign of
distress_." He then hailed through his trumpet, in quick, determined
syllables:

"Brig ahoy! Unless you swear as a man or as a Mason that you will not
molest me, as true as there is a God, we will sink together!"

Quick as thought, the answer came back through the trumpet, clear and
distinct:

"I swear as a Mason! Hard up your helm!"

"Hard up your helm!" the captain shouted aft, and, paying off like a
bird, the _Ocean Star_ swept by the stranger's stern near enough to
almost touch her. As they went sailing past her, it became Captain
Lane's turn to bend forward with a lantern, and ascertain who his new
acquaintance was. There, painted in blood-red letters on the black
stern, was the name

     MORGIANNA.

He had scarce read it, when the same clear tones, more subdued, hailed
him, as he thought, with somewhat of kindness:

"Captain, do me the favor to back your main-yard; I will come aboard of
you--_alone_!"

[Illustration: Morgianna.]

The captain gave the necessary orders, and "hove to" within three or
four cables' length of the stranger; and in a very few minutes a
four-oared boat, containing but a single figure besides the crew, was
seen approaching the _Ocean Star_.

Captain Lane had a ladder put over the gangway and threw a rope to the
boat as it came alongside; and the next moment the stranger sprang upon
the deck of the _Ocean Star_.

With an easy grace he gave to the captain the quick, intelligible sign
of the "great brotherhood" and, taking his arm familiarly, walked aft.

Captain Lane called the steward, sent for glasses and wine, and, as soon
as they were placed upon the table, closed the cabin door, and found
himself alone with his strange visitor.

The captain filled his glass and, sipping it in Spanish fashion, passed
the decanter to the stranger. He followed his example, and after the
usual interchange of courtesies addressed him:

"Captain, I have a favor to ask of you."

"Name it."

"You are probably not aware of the true motive which induced me to heave
you to?"

"I am not."

"It is this: I wish you to take a passenger to the United States--a lady
and her child. Now that I have seen you and feel acquainted with you, by
our common ties, I feel a confidence in sending them by you, which I
should never have felt, perhaps, with another. Will you take them? Any
price shall be yours."

"Yes; I will take them."

"Thank you. I have a still further favor to ask. I wish to send to the
States a sum of money to be invested in the lady's name, and for her
account. Will it be too much to ask you to attend to this? You may
charge your own commission."

"I will obey your wishes to the letter," Captain Lane answered.

The stranger grasped his hand across the table and, with some emotion,
added:

"If you will do this, and will place the lady and child where they may
find a home, with the surroundings of Christian society, you will confer
a favor upon me which money can never repay."

Captain Lane looked at the man with astonishment, and for the first time
gave him a glance that was thoroughly searching and critical.

He was apparently of about thirty-five years of age, a little above the
medium height, with a broad forehead, over which fine, brown hair
clustered in careless folds. He wore his beard and mustache long, the
former extending to a point a few inches below the throat. His eyes were
brown, large and full of expression, while in conversation, and a mild
and melancholy smile occasionally stole over his features.

His manners and conversation betokened refinement; and, take him all in
all, he was the last man one would have ever taken for a smuggler or
a pirate.

Captain Lane became very much interested in him, and gradually their
conversation took a wider range. In the midst of it and before they had
fully completed their business arrangements in relation to the
passengers, whom Captain Lane had engaged to convey to the United
States, the mate knocked at the cabin door, and informed them that a
heavy squall was rising to westward.

They hurried on deck, which no sooner had they reached, than the
stranger, looking hastily in the quarter indicated, shook Captain Lane
warmly by the hand saying:

"I must go aboard, captain; that will be a heavy squall. Keep me in
sight if you can; but, if we part company, meet me off Cape Frio--this
side of it--to-morrow; wait for me till night, if you do not see me
before. Good-by!" and springing into his boat, he pulled away for
his vessel.

Captain Lane never saw him again alive.

No sooner was he over the side, than the captain gave orders to shorten
sail. He took in royals and topgallant sails, furled the courses,
trysail and jib, and double-reefed the topsails. They braced the yards a
little to starboard, hauled the foretopmast staysail sheet well aft, and
the captain, thinking he had everything snug, stood looking over the
weather rails, watching the approaching squall. The wind had almost died
away, and the atmosphere seemed strangely oppressive. Captain Lane was
an old sea-dog and had witnessed many strange phenomena on the ocean;
but never had he seen a squall approach so singularly. It seemed to move
very slowly--a great black cloud, which looked intensely luminous
withal, and yet so dense and heavy, that an ordinary observer might have
mistaken it for one of the ordinary rain squalls encountered in the
tropics. Captain Lane consulted his barometer, and found it
falling rapidly.

"Clew the topsails up!" shouted the captain to the mate. "All hands lay
aloft and furl them!"

The order was quickly obeyed; and just as the sailors reached the deck,
the squall struck them. It did not come as it was expected; it had
worked up from the westward, but struck the _Ocean Star_ dead from the
South. In an instant they were over, nearly on their beam ends, and a
heavy sea rushed over the lee-rail, filling the deck.

"Hard up your helm!" shouted the captain, and, springing aft, he found
the helmsman jammed under the tiller, and the second mate vainly
endeavoring to heave it up. Taking hold with him, by their united
efforts they at last succeeded; and, after a moment's suspense, the
_Ocean Star_ slowly wore off before the wind and, rising out of the
water, shook herself like an affrighted spaniel and darted off with
fearful speed before the hurricane.

Leaving orders to keep her "steady before it" the captain went forward
to ascertain the extent of the damage they had sustained. It was now
intensely dark, the rain falling in torrents, and lightning bolts
striking the water all around them, accompanied by fearful and incessant
peals of thunder. A human voice could not have been heard five paces
away. The wind, which fairly roared through the shrouds, and the deluge
of water upon the deck, were enough of themselves to drown any voice. By
flashes of lightning, the captain soon ascertained that they were
comparatively unharmed, and their spars were safe. Gathering his
frightened crew and officers about him, he succeeded at length in
freeing the decks of water by knocking out the ports on either side.
They next sounded the pumps, and found three feet of water in the well.
Immediately double pumps were rigged, and the steady clinking of brakes
added to the noises and terror of the scene.

It was a fearful night, and Captain Lane prayed Heaven that he might
never see such another.

About half an hour after the squall first struck them--the captain of
the _Ocean Star_ was standing with his two officers on the quarter-deck,
"conning the vessel by the feel of the wind and rain," keeping her dead
before the gale--when there came a flash and a peal which made them
cower almost to the decks.

"My God!" was the simultaneous exclamation of all. A long chain of
lightning and a heavy ball of fire seemed to shoot from the sky,
lighting up the whole sea, revealing, and at the same time striking, in
its descent, a full-rigged brig, which, like themselves, was scudding
before the gale under bare poles, a few cables' length off their port
beam. The next instant, a fearful explosion, heard loud above the
roaring storm, shook the sea, a volume of flame and fire shot up in the
air, and when they looked again for the vessel, in the flashes of
lightning, it was nowhere to be seen.

As the morning broke, the gale abated, and settled into a light breeze
from the eastward. They made all sail, and stood to the southward with
the wind abeam, hoping to fall in with some survivors of the wreck.

Captain Lane changed his wet garments for something more comfortable,
refreshed himself with a strong cup of coffee, and, taking his glass,
sought the foretopsail yard. About seven bells, he thought he discovered
some object in the water three or four points off the lee bow. Hailing
the deck to keep off for it, he very soon made out fragments of a
vessel--spars, water casks, pieces of deck and, as they came still
nearer, a boat; but the captain, even from his lofty perch, could see no
sign of any one in it.

Descending to the deck, he ordered a boat to be cleared away, and,
running as near as he dared to the wreck, he backed his maintopsail and
took a long and earnest survey with his glass.

All hands were watching with anxious eyes the expression on the
captain's face. He handed his glass to the mate, who carefully examined
every fragment which appeared above water. The captain looked at the
mate inquiringly; but neither said a word. The mate handed back the
glass and shook his head sorrowfully.

Again the captain looked long and earnestly; the mate looked again, and
again returned the glass:

"Poor fellows--we may as well fill away, sir!" he said sadly.

There was still considerable sea on, and the mere launching of a boat
was attended with more than ordinary danger, added to which was that to
be encountered from the broken spars and fragments of wreck drifting
about. Captain Lane thought of all these dangers, and was about to give
the order to "fill away the main-yard," when something seemed to say
to him:

"_There is some one in that boat_!"

This impression was so strong that he felt as if it would be murder to
leave the spot without making a more minute search, and he ordered the
boat to be lowered at once. Jumping into the stern sheets, four good
oars well manned soon brought him within the little field of fragments,
in the centre of which the boat was floating. No wonder none of the crew
was left,--the water literally swarmed with sharks.

Standing in the bow with a boat hook, the captain warded off pieces of
wreck and gradually made his way to the strange boat.

The sight there which met his eyes Captain Lane never forgot to his
dying day. When bowed down with old age, and his feeble steps were
tottering on the verge of the grave, that scene came to him as vividly
as on that terrible day. Lying in the bottom of the boat was the burnt,
blackened and bruised form of a man, which, with some difficulty, the
captain recognized as the handsome stranger who had visited him on the
previous evening. Clinging to him, with her arms clasped tightly around
his mutilated form, a clasp which even death could not break, her fair
face pressed close to his blackened features, was the lifeless body of
the most beautiful woman Captain Lane had ever seen. The look of agony,
of commiseration, of tenderness, of pity, of horror and despair, which
was sealed upon, those lifeless features was beyond the powers of
description; but the saddest spectacle of all was a child, a little girl
about one year old, clinging frantically to the breast of her dead
mother, and gazing silently at them in frightened wonder.

For years, Captain Lane's eyes had not been dimmed with tears, but now
the fountains of grief were opened up, and his cheeks were wet. He
carefully entered the boat, felt of each cold body, laid his hand upon
each silent heart, and waited in vain for an answering signal to his
touch upon the pulse.

"It is all over," he said, and sitting down in the stern sheets of the
boat, he took the child in his arms and sent his men back for sheets and
shot and palm and needle and prayer-book. "They shall have Christian
burial," declared the kind-hearted captain.

They went away and left him alone with the dead and the baby. The infant
seemed to cling to him from that moment, and the Great Father above
alone knows how strangely and rapidly those cords of love were cemented
between the bluff, old bachelor sea-captain and the infant. That heart,
which he had thought dead to all love since the awful day on board the
English merchantman, when he saw the only being he ever loved dying, was
suddenly thrilled by the tenderest emotions. Those sweet blue eyes were
upturned to his face with a glance of imploring trust, and the
captain cried:

"Yes, blow my eyes, if I don't stand by you, little one, as long as
there is a stitch of canvas left!"

The time was very short until his men returned. Wrapping the dead in one
shroud and winding sheet, with heavy shot well secured at their feet,
the captain put the little child's lips to its mother's, giving her an
unconscious kiss, which caused the men to brush their rough sleeves
across their weather-beaten eyes. Then, reading with a broken voice, the
last service for the dead, the shroud was closed, and the opening waters
received them and bore them away to their last resting place.

Jumping into his boat, with the little stranger nestling in his arms,
Captain Lane was soon aboard the _Ocean Star_, and with a fair wind and
sunny skies was once more homeward bound. The captain seemed loath to
relinquish his little charge. There was a goat on the vessel which
furnished milk, and the cook prepared some dainty food for the
little stranger.

"What is her name, captain?" he asked, while feeding the hungry child.
She was not old enough to know her name, and there was not found about
her clothes or in the boat anything whatever by which her name could
possibly be known, so she had to be rechristened. What name should he
give her? He reflected a moment and then, remembering the name on the
stern of that black, mysterious vessel, answered:

"Morgianna!"

"Morgianna?" said the cook.

"Yes, Morgianna Lane! she is my adopted daughter."

The cook smiled at the thought of bluff old Captain Lane the bachelor
having an adopted daughter.

After the perils and excitements of such a night, it was not strange
that Captain Lane slept long and soundly. He had good officers, and when
he retired he gave them orders not to disturb him, unless absolutely
necessary, until he should awake.

They obeyed the injunction to the letter, and on the following morning
he was awakened by hearing one of the crew ask in an undertone of
the steward.

"How is little Morgianna this morning?"

"Little Morgianna," he said to himself; and then it all came back, and
with it a strangely tender dream which had all night long haunted his
slumbers. The captain rose hurriedly, dressed himself and inquired for
the child, who had been resigned to the care of the cook. She was
brought to him, a bright, cheerful little thing, just beginning to lisp
unintelligible words. For a few days she missed her mother and wore a
look of expectation on her infantile face, occasionally crying out; but
anon this passed away, and she became cheerful and happy. The captain
spent as much of his time with her as he could spare from his duties,
and as he held the little creature on his knee, heard her gentle voice
in baby accents, and felt her warm baby fingers on his cheek, a new
emotion took possession of his heart. He loved little Morgianna dearly
as a father might.

Before that voyage was over, Captain Lane resolved to abandon the sea
and retire to his fine estate at Mariana, a village on the seashore not
a score of miles from Baltimore. He kept his intentions a secret until
the vessel was in port; then the merchants with whom he had been engaged
in business for years, were astounded to learn that Captain Lane had
made his last voyage. A nurse was engaged for little Morgianna and the
great mansion house on the hill within a fourth of a mile of Mariana was
fitted up for habitation. Servants were sent to the place, and the
villagers were lost in wonder.

The gossips had food for conjecture for weeks, and many were the strange
stories afloat. Some of the old dames thought the captain was going to
be married after all. Then the young widows and ancient maidens who had
heard much about Captain Lane, sighed and looked disconsolate. Every
kind of a story but the truth was afloat.

When on one bright autumnal day, a carriage from Baltimore was seen to
dash into the village and roll up the great drive, between the rows of
poplars, it was whispered he had come. One who watched averred that only
the captain and a child not over a year and a half old alighted from the
coach. (The nurse came in another vehicle.) The child started another
rumor. She was a mysterious, unknown factor, and the gossips bandied the
captain's name about in a reckless manner. Good old dames shook their
heads knowingly and declared they had suspected the captain had a wife
all the time in some far-off city.

"You kin never depend on these sea-captains!" Mrs. Hammond declared.

But despite all their conjectures, the captain lived in the old stone
mansion house with his servants and Morgianna. A few weeks after his
arrival, she was christened at the village church as Morgianna Lane, her
parents not known.

Would wonders never cease? Bit by bit, the sensational story of
Morgianna got out into the village, and she became the object of the
greatest interest. Captain Lane adopted her, and when she became old
enough to accompany him, he seldom went away without her. Morgianna
loved the good old man, who, with all his rough seaman-like ways, was
father and mother both to her.

Never had daughter a kinder or more indulgent father.

As years went on, Morgianna grew in beauty, intelligence, grace and
goodness. Captain Lane was proud of her, and she was never so happy as
when sitting on his knee listening to his yarns of the sea. Her own sad,
dark story had never been told to her,--that was left for the future.




CHAPTER III.

JEFFERSONIANISM.

There is not a man of intelligence in America or Europe, who has not
heard of the Democratic party in America, that great political
organization which has been in existence almost, if not quite, one
hundred years. Many who claim allegiance to this great party know little
of its tenets, and still fewer know its history. There are orators on
the stump, in the halls of Congress, writers for the press, all
advocating "the glorious principles of Democracy," who have never
thoroughly acquainted themselves with its history. The Democratic party
of to-day was originally known as the Republican party. The warm
discussions on the national constitution engendered party spirit in the
new republic, which speedily assumed definite forms and titles, first as
Federalist and anti-Federalist, which names were changed to Federalist
and Republican, or Democrat.

The Federalist party, headed by Alexander Hamilton, favored much
concentration of power in a national government, but perhaps not more
than we have to-day, and, in fact, not more than is really essential to
the upbuilding of a stable republic like ours. There can be no question
but that Washington held to the same views; but Washington was the only
great man America ever produced who rose so far above political parties
as to absorb them all. He has never been classed as belonging to either
party. The Republican or Democratic party favored State sovereignty and
the diffusion of power among the people.

The American people had had such bitter experiences with monarchs that
they dreaded anything which savored of monarchy, and it was argued that
a centralized government was but a step in that direction. On the other
hand, Federalists pointed out the danger of State sovereignty, which
would surely in the end disrupt the general government. Subsequent
history has proven that the Federalists were right. We have said that
Washington was a Federalist at heart. His enemies, meanly jealous of his
popularity, often declared that he was a monarchist.

Meanwhile, a revolution, violent in its nature and far-reaching in its
consequences, had broken out in France.

It was the immediate consequences of the teachings of the American
revolution. The people of France had long endured almost irresponsible
despotism, and were yearning for freedom when the French officers and
soldiers, who had served in America during the latter years of our
struggles for independence, returned to their country full of republican
ideas and aspirations. They questioned the right of the few to oppress
the many, and the public heart was soon stirred by new ideas, and in a
movement that followed, Lafayette was conspicuous for a while. The king,
like many tyrants, was weak and vacillating, and soon a body called the
states-general assumed the reins of government, while the king was in
fact a prisoner. The terrible Bastile, whose history represented royal
despotism, was assailed by the citizens of Paris and pulled down. The
privileges of the nobility and clergy were abolished, and the church
property was seized. The king's brothers and many of the nobles fled in
affright across the frontier, and tried to induce other sovereigns to
take up the cause of royalty in France and restore the former order of
things. The emperor of Austria (brother of the French queen) and the
king of Prussia entered into a treaty to that effect, at Pilnitz,
in 1791.

When this treaty became known, war at once followed. Robespierre and
other self-constituted leaders in Paris held sway for a while, and the
most frightful massacres of nobles and priests ensued. The weak and
unfortunate king, who had accepted constitution after constitution, was
now deposed and a republic was established. Affairs had assumed the
nature of anarchy and blood, and Lafayette and other moderate men
disappeared from the arena. The king was tried on charge of inviting
foreigners to invade France, was found guilty and was beheaded in
January, 1793. His queen soon shared a like fate. The English troops
sent to Flanders were called to fight the French, for the rulers of
France had declared war against Great Britain, Spain and Holland
in February.

Thomas Jefferson who entered Washington's cabinet in 1789, had just
returned from France, where he had witnessed the uprising of the people
against their oppressors. Regarding the movement as kindred to the late
uprising of his own countrymen against Great Britain, it enlisted his
warmest sympathies, and he expected to find the bosoms of the people of
the United States glowing with feelings like his own. He was sadly
disappointed. Washington was wisely conservative. His wisdom saw that
the cruelty of the anarchists of Paris was not patriotism, but the worst
sort of despotism. The society of New York, in which some of the leaven
of Toryism yet lingered, chilled Jefferson. He became suspicious of all
around him, for he regarded the indifference of the people to the
struggles of the French, their old allies, as an evil omen. Though the
Tories of New York were cool toward the French republic from far
different motives than Washington, yet the same cause was attributed
to both.

Jefferson had scarcely taken his seat as Secretary of State in
Washington's first cabinet before he declared that some of his
colleagues held decidedly monarchical views; and the belief became fixed
in his mind that there was a party in the United States continually at
work, secretly and sometimes openly, for the overthrow of American
republicanism. The idea became a monomania with Jefferson from which he
never recovered till his death, more than thirty years afterward.
Jefferson soon rallied under his standard a large party of sympathizers
with the French revolutionists. Regarding Hamilton as the head and front
of the monarchical party, he professed to believe that the financial
plans of that statesman were designed to enslave the people, and that
the rights and liberties of the States and of individuals were in
danger. On the other hand, Hamilton regarded the national constitution
as inadequate in strength to perform its required functions and believed
its weakness to be its greatest defect. With this idea Jefferson took
issue. He charged his political opponents, and especially Hamilton, with
corrupt and anti-republican designs, selfish motives and treacherous
intentions, and so was inaugurated that system of personal abuse and
vituperation, which has ever been a disgrace to the press and political
leaders of this country. Bitter partisan quarrels now prevailed, in
which Jefferson and Hamilton were the chief actors. The populace was
greatly excited. The Republicans who hated the British intensely, called
the Federalists the "British party," and the Federalists called their
opponents the "French party." The Jeffersonians hailed with joy the news
of the death of the French king, and applauded the declaration of war
against England and Holland, forgetting the friendship which the latter
had shown for Americans during the struggle for independence.

Amid all this uproar which proceeded from his cabinet, only Washington
remained calm. No other American at that day nor since could have
remained neutral and guided the ship of state through such breakers of
discontent. He was the safe middle water between the dangerous reefs of
concentration and State sovereignty.

Had not the Federal party been the victim of many unfortunate
circumstances, it would certainly in time have become popular in the
nation. It was beyond question Washington's party, and, notwithstanding
the false charges of monarchism and British sovereignty, it was
patriotic. Had it existed forty or fifty years longer, until that
incubus which haunted Jefferson's brain had passed away, and the
republic become so firmly established that people would no longer fear
British dependency, the Federal party would have been a firmly fixed
institution. Had Federal ideas been fully inculcated instead of
Jeffersonianism and Calhounism, the rebellion of 1861 would not have
occurred; but Aaron Burr murdered Hamilton, the friend of Washington,
the bright genius of American politics and the hope of the Federal
party, and the Federalists were left without any great leader. When the
war of 1812 came, the Federalists were so embittered against the
Democrats, then in power, that they became lukewarm and threw so many
obstacles in the way of the patriots who were making the second fight
for freedom, as to almost confirm the suspicion that they were the
friends of Great Britain rather than America. This forever blighted the
Federal party.

In the year 1800, Thomas Jefferson was elected the third president of
the United States, and the first of Democratic proclivities.

Although the city of Washington, the great American capital, had been
laid out on a magnificent scale, in 1791, and George Washington, with
masonic ceremonies, laid the corner-stone of the capitol building in
1793, the seat of government was not removed there until the year 1800.
The site for the city was a dreary one. At the time when the seat of
government was first moved there, only a path, leading through an alder
swamp on the line of the present Pennsylvania Avenue, was the way of
communication between the president's house and the capitol. For a
while, the executive and legislative officers of the government were
compelled to suffer many privations. In the fall of 1800, Oliver
Wolcott wrote:

"There is one good tavern about forty rods from the capitol, and several
houses are built or erecting; but I don't see how the members of
congress can possibly secure lodgings, unless they will consent to live
like scholars in a college or monks in a monastery, crowded ten or
twenty in one house. The only resource for such as wish to live
comfortably will be found in Georgetown, three miles distant, over as
bad a road in winter as the clay grounds near Hartford.

"... There are, in fact, but few houses in any one place, and most of
them are small, miserable huts, which present an awful contrast to the
public buildings. The people are poor and, as far as I can judge, live
like fishes by eating each other. ... You may look in any direction over
an extent of ground nearly as large as the city of New York, without
seeing a fence or any object except brick kilns and temporary huts for
laborers. ... There is no industry, society or business."

On March 4, 1801, Thomas Jefferson was inaugurated and commenced his
first term under favorable auspices. He was then fifty-eight years of
age--a tall, bony man, with grizzled sandy hair and rather slovenly
dress--a man who practised his Democratic simplicity in all things, and
sometimes carried it to extremes. A senator, writing of him in
1802, said:

"The next day after my arrival I visited the president, accompanied by
some democratic members. In a few moments after our arrival a tall,
high-boned man came into the room. He was dressed, or rather undressed,
in an old brown coat, red waistcoat, old corduroy smallclothes, much
soiled, woollen hose, and slippers without heels. I thought him a
servant, when General Varnum surprised me by announcing it was the
president."

In brief, Mr. Jefferson outlined his policy as follows, in a letter to
Nathaniel Macon:

"1. Levees are done made away with. 2. The first communication to the
next congress will be, like all subsequent ones, by message to which no
answer will be expected. 3. The diplomatic establishment in Europe will
be reduced to three ministers. 4. The compensation of collectors
depends on you (Congress) and not on me. 5. The army is undergoing a
chaste reformation. 6. The navy will be reduced to the legal
establishment by the last of the month (May, 1801). 7. Agencies in every
department will be revised. 8. We shall push you to the uttermost in
economizing. 9. A very early recommendation has been given to the
postmaster-general to employ no printer, foreigner or Revolutionary Tory
in any of his offices."

James Madison was Mr. Jefferson's secretary of state; Henry Dearborn was
secretary of war, and Levi Lincoln, attorney-general. Jefferson retained
Mr. Adams's secretaries of the treasury and navy, until the following
Autumn, when Albert Gallatin, a naturalized foreigner, was appointed to
the first named office and Robert Smith to the second. The president
early resolved to reward his political friends when he came to "revise"
the agencies in every department. Three days after his inauguration, he
wrote to Colonel Monroe, "I have firmly refused to follow the counsels
of those who have desired the giving of offices to some of the
Federalist leaders in order to reconcile. I have given, and will give,
only to Republicans, under existing circumstances."

The doctrine, ever since acted upon, that "to the victor belong the
spoils," was then practically promulgated from the fountain-head of
government patronage; and with a cabinet wholly Democratic, when
congress met in December, 1801, and with the minor offices filled with
his political friends, Mr. Jefferson began his presidential career of
eight years' duration. In his inaugural address he said, "Every
difference of opinion is not a difference of principle. We have called
by different names brethren of the same principle. We are all
Federalists--we are all Republicans."

Vigor and enlightened views marked his course, so that even his
political enemies were compelled to confess his foresight and sound
judgment in regard to the national policy.

The administration of Jefferson was not marked with perfect peace
abroad. Napoleon Bonaparte, the outgrowth of the French revolution, had
overthrown monarchy in France and conquered almost all Europe. He was
not a Washington, however, and the French people were only exchanging
one tyrant for another.

The Algerians, those barbarous North African pirates, had been forcing
the Americans to pay tribute. Captain Bainbridge, who commanded the
frigate _George Washington_, for refusing to convey an Algerian
ambassador to the court of the sultan at Constantinople, was threatened
by the haughty governor with imprisonment.

"You pay me tribute, by which you become my slave, and therefore I have
a right to order you as I think proper," said the dey.

Bainbridge was forced to obey the orders of the Barbarian.

[Illustration: Stephen Decatur.]

The Americans resolved to humble the Algerians, and a fleet was sent to
Tripoli in 1803. The frigate _Philadelphia_, while reconnoitering the
harbor, struck on a rock and was captured by the Tripolitans, who made
her officers prisoners of war and her crew slaves.

Lieutenant Decatur, on February 3, 1804, by a stratagem, got alongside
the _Philadelphia_ with seventy-four brave young sailors like himself
and carried the ship by the board after a terrible hand-to-hand
conflict. The Tripolitans were defeated, and the _Philadelphia_ was
burned. The American seamen continued to bombard Tripoli and blockaded
their ports, until the terrified Bashaw made a treaty of peace.

While the Americans were winning laurels on the Mediterranean, the
infant republic was growing in political and moral strength. During Mr.
Jefferson's first term, one State (Ohio) and two Territories (Indiana
and Illinois) had been formed out of the great Northwestern Territory.
Ohio was organized as an independent territory in the year 1800, and in
the fall of 1802, it was admitted into the Union as a State. Long before
the Northwestern Territory had been divided into different territories,
the present limits of Ohio and Kentucky had already become quite
populous. Emigrants like Albert Stevens were pushing out on the frontier
and building up a great commonwealth.

About 1802, there was great excitement in the country west of the
Alleghany Mountains, in consequence of a violation of the treaty made
with Spain in 1795, by the governor of Louisiana in closing the port of
New Orleans against American commerce. There was a proposition before
congress for taking forcible possession of that region, when it was
ascertained that, by a secret treaty, Spain had retroceded Louisiana to
France. The United States immediately began negotiations for the
purchase of that domain from France. Robert R. Livingston, the American
minister at the court of the First Consul, found very little difficulty
in making a bargain with Bonaparte, for the latter wanted money and
desired to injure England. He sold that magnificent domain, stretching
from the Gulf of Mexico northward to the present State of Minnesota, and
from the Mississippi westward to the Pacific Ocean, for fifteen million
dollars. The bargain was made in the spring of 1803, and in the fall the
country, and the new domain, which added nine hundred thousand square
miles to our territory, was taken possession of by the United States.
When the bargain was closed, Bonaparte said:

"This accession of territory strengthens forever the power of the United
States, and I have just given to England a maritime rival that will
sooner or later humble her pride."

It was the prevailing opinion in the country, that the Spanish
inhabitants, who were forming states in the great valley, would not
submit to the rule of American government. Aaron Burr, a wily and
unscrupulous politician, who, having murdered the noble Hamilton in a
duel, was an outcast from society, began scheming for setting up a
separate government in the West. Burr was unscrupulous and dishonest and
at the same time shrewd. The full extent of his plans were really never
known, and the historian is in doubt whether he intended a severance of
the Union, or an invasion of Mexico. Herman Blennerhassett, an excellent
Irish gentleman, became his ally and suffered ruin with Burr. Burr was
arrested and tried, but was found not guilty. His speech in his own
defence was so eloquent, that it is said to have melted his enemies to
tears, though all believed him guilty. Burr's life was a wreck after
that. His fame was blasted, and he was placed beside Benedict Arnold as
a traitor to his country.

With the acquisition of Louisiana, there grew up a powerful opposition
to Jefferson in the North and East. The idea was disseminated that the
purchase was only a scheme to strengthen the south and the southern
democracy. Mr. Jefferson came almost to having a wholesome dose of his
doctrine of State sovereignty exemplified. A convention of Federalists
was called at Boston, in 1804, in which a proposition of secession was
made. Fortunately, however, there was too much patriotism in the body
for the proposition to carry, and the government was saved.




CHAPTER IV.

BRITISH CRUISERS.

The peace of 1783 between the United States and Great Britain had been
extorted by the necessities, rather than obtained by the good will of
England. Though, by a formal treaty, the United States were declared
free and independent, they were still hated in Great Britain as
rebellious colonies. That such was the general opinion is manifest from
the letters of John Adams, our first minister to the court of St. James,
and from other authentic contemporary accounts. Of course there were a
few men of sufficiently enlarged and comprehensive minds to forget the
past and urge, even in parliament, that the trade of America would be
more valuable as an ally than a dependent; but the number of these was
small indeed. The common sentiment in England toward the young republic
was one of scornful detestation. We were despised as provincials, we
were hated as rebels. In the permanency of our institutions there was
scarce a believer in all Britain. This was especially the case prior to
the adoption of the federal constitution. Both in parliament and out, it
was publicly boasted that the Union would soon fall to pieces, and that,
finding their inability to govern themselves, the different States
would, one by one, supplicate to be received back as colonies. This vain
and empty expectation long lingered in the popular mind, and was not
wholly eradicated until after the war of 1812.

Consequently the new republic was treated with arrogant contempt. One of
the first acts of John Adams, as minister to England, had been to
propose placing the navigation and trade between the dominions of Great
Britain and the territories of the United States, on a basis of complete
reciprocity. By acceding to such a measure England might have gained
much and could have lost but little. The proposal was rejected almost
with terms of insult, and Mr. Adams was sternly informed that a "no
other would be entertained." The consequences were that the free negroes
of Jamaica, and others of the poorer inhabitants of the British West
India Islands were reduced to starvation by being deprived of their
usual supplies from the United States. This unreasonable policy on the
part of England naturally exasperated the Americans, and one of the
first acts of the federal government in 1789 was to adopt retaliatory
measures. A navy law was passed, which has since been the foundation of
all our treaties of reciprocity with England. A protective tariff was
also adopted as another means of retaliation. In these measures, the
United States, being a young nation with unlimited territory, had
everything to gain, and England all to lose. Great Britain was first to
tire of restrictive measures, and, by a repeal on her part, invited a
repeal on ours.

In another way Great Britain exasperated the popular feeling here
against her, and even forced the American government, once or twice, to
the verge of war. By the treaty of peace, all military posts held by
England within the limits of the United States were to be given up.
Michilimacinac, Detroit, Oswegotche, Point au Fer and Dutchman's Point
were long held in defiance of the compact. These posts became the centre
of intrigues among the savages of the Northwest. Arms were here
distributed to the Indians, and disturbances on the American frontier
were fomented. The war on the Miami, which was brought to a bloody close
by Wayne's victory, was, principally, the result of such secret
machinations. In short, England regarded the treaty of 1783 as a truce
rather than a pacification, and long, held to the hope of being able yet
to punish the colonies for their rebellion. In two celebrated letters
written by John Adams from Great Britain, he used the following decided
language in reference to the secret designs of England:

"If she can bind Holland in her shackles, and France from internal
dissensions is unable to interfere, she will make war immediately
against us." This was in 1787. Two years before he had expressed, the
same ideas. "Their present system, as far as I can penetrate it," he
wrote, "is to maintain a determined peace with all Europe, in order that
they may war singly against America, if they should think it necessary."

A sentiment of such relentless hostility, which no attempt was made to
disguise, but which was arrogantly paraded on every occasion, could not
fail to exasperate those feelings of dislike on the part of America,
which protracted war had engendered. This mutual hatred between the two
nations arose from the enmity of the people rather than of the cabinets,
"There is too much reason to believe," wrote our minister, "that if the
nation had another hundred million to spend, they would soon force the
ministry into another war with us." On the side of the United States, it
required all the prudence of Washington, sustained by his hold on the
affections of the people, to restrain them from a war with England,
after that power had refused to surrender the military posts.

A third element of discord arose when England joined the coalition
against France, in 1793. The course which the former had pursued for the
preceding ten years, had, as we have seen, tended to alienate the people
of America from her and nourish sentiments of hostility in their bosoms.
On the other hand, France, with that address for which she is eminent,
had labored to heighten the good feelings already existing between
herself and the United States. A treaty of alliance and commerce bound
the two countries; but the courteous demeanor of France cemented us to
her by still stronger ties, those of popular will.

Before the revolution broke out in Paris, the enthusiasm of America
toward France could scarce be controlled. There can be no doubt that, if
the subsequent excesses had not alarmed all prudent friends of liberty,
the people of this country could not have been restrained from engaging
in the struggle between France and England; but the reign of terror,
backed by the insolence of Citizen Genet the minister of the French
republic, and afterward by the exactions of the Directory, checked the
headlong enthusiasm that otherwise would have embroiled us in the
terrible wars of that period. In his almost more than human wisdom,
Washington had selected a course of strict neutrality, from which public
enthusiasm, nor fear of loss of public favor could swerve him. His
course was wise and proper for the still weak confederacy; and every day
was productive of events which showed the wisdom of this decision.
Neither Great Britain nor France, however, was gratified by this
neutrality. Each nation wished the aid of the Americans, and became
arrogant and insulting when they found the resolution of the Americans
unbroken. Napoleon, on the part of France, saw the impolicy of such
treatment, and when he became first consul, he hastened to abandon it;
but England relaxed little or nothing. Circumstances, moreover, made her
conduct more irritating than that of France, and hence prolonged and
increased the exasperation felt toward her in America.

As a great naval power, the policy of England has been to maintain
certain maritime laws, which her jurists claim to be part of the code of
nations and enforce in her admiralty courts. One principle of these laws
is this, that warlike munitions must become contraband in war; in other
words, that a neutral vessel cannot carry such into the enemy's port.
Hence, if a vessel, sailing under the flag of the United States, should
be captured on the high seas, bound for France, during the prevalence of
a war between that power and England, and be found to be laden with
ship-timber or other manufactured or unmanufactured articles for
warlike purposes, the vessel would, by the law of nations, become a
prize to the captors. The right to condemn a ship carrying such
contraband goods has always been recognized by civilized nations, and,
indeed, it is founded in common justice. England, however, having
supreme control at sea, and being tempted by the hope of destroying the
sinews of her adversary's strength, resolved to stretch this rule so as
to embrace provisions as well as munitions of war. She proceeded
gradually to her point. She first issued an order, on the 8th of June,
1793, for capturing and bringing into port "all vessels laden, wholly or
in part with corn, flour, or meal, and destined to France, or to other
countries, if occupied by the arms of that nation." Such vessels were
not condemned, nor their cargoes seized; but the latter were to be
purchased on behalf of the English Government; or, if not, then the
vessels, on giving due security, were allowed to proceed to any neutral
port. Of course the price of provisions in France and in England was
materially different, and a lucrative traffic for the United States was,
in this way, destroyed. Moreover, this proceeding was a comparative
novelty in the law of nations, and, however it might suit the purposes
of Great Britain, it was a gross outrage on America. In November of the
same year, it was followed by a still more glaring infraction of the
rights of neutrals, in an order, condemning to capture and adjudication
all vessels laden with the produce of any French colony, or with
supplies for such a colony.

The fermentation in consequence of this order rose to such a height in
America, that it required all the skill of Washington to avert a war.
The president, however, determining to preserve peace if possible,
despatched Jay to London as a minister plenipotentiary, by whose frank
explanations, redress was in a measure obtained for the past, and a
treaty negotiated, not, indeed, adequate to justice, but better than
could be obtained again, when it expired in 1806.

The relaxation in the rigor of the order of November, 1793, soon proved
to be more nominal than real; and from 1794 until the peace of Amiens in
1802, the commerce of the United States continued to be the prey of
British cruisers and privateers. After the renewal of the war, the fury
of the belligerents increased, and with it the stringent measures
adopted by Napoleon and Great Britain. The French Emperor, boldly
avowing his intention to crush England, forbade by a series of decrees,
issued from Berlin, Milan and Rambouillet, the importation of her
commodities into any part of Europe under his control; and England,
equally sweeping in her acts, declared all such ports in a state of
blockade, thus rendering any neutral vessel liable to capture, which
should attempt to enter them. The legality of a blockade, where there is
not a naval power off the coast competent to maintain such blockade, has
always been denied by the lesser maritime powers. Its effect, in the
present instance, was virtually to exclude the United States from
foreign commerce. In these extreme measures, Napoleon and England were
equally censured; but the policy of the latter affected the Americans
far more than the former. The exasperation against Great Britain became
extreme and pervaded the whole community; that against France was
slighter and confined to the more intelligent. Napoleon was first to
begin these outrages on the rights of neutrals; but his injustice was
practically felt only on land; while England was first to introduce the
paper blockade, a measure ruinous to American merchants. This was
finally done on May 16, 1806, when Great Britain announced a "blockade
of the coast rivers and ports, from the river Elbe to the port of Brest
inclusive." On the 21st of November, of the same year, Napoleon in
retaliation, issued a decree from Berlin, placing the British Islands in
a state of blockade. This decree was followed by a still more stringent
order in council on the part of England.

It now became necessary for the United States either to engage in a
war, or to withdraw her commerce from the ocean. The popular voice
demanded the former course. Though France was, in the abstract, as
unjust as England, her oppressive measures did not affect American
commerce, and hence the indignation of the people was directed chiefly
against Great Britain; but with the president it was different. Though
his sympathies were with. France, his judgment was against her as well
as England. In his maturer wisdom, he could now appreciate the great
good sense of Washington's neutrality. Besides, the grand old man Thomas
Jefferson was determined to preserve peace, for it was his favorite
maxim that "the best war is more fatal than the worst peace." A further
reason led him to refuse the alternative of war. He was not without hope
that one or both of the belligerents would return to reason and repeal
the obnoxious acts, if the conduct of the United States, instead of
being aggressive, should be patient. Actuated by these views, the
president recommended to congress the passage of an embargo act. An
embargo law was enacted in December, 1807. By it all American vessels
abroad were called home, and those in the United States were prohibited
from leaving port. In consequence of this measure, the commerce of the
country was annihilated in an hour; and harbors, once flourishing and
prosperous, soon became only resorts for rotting ships. There can be no
question now that the embargo was a serious blunder. It crippled the
American resources for the war that ensued; made the eastern States
hostile to Jefferson's, as well as his successor's administration, and
tended to foster in the minds of the populace at large, an idea that we
shrank from a contest with Great Britain in consequence of
inherent weakness.

There was a fourth and last cause of exasperation, against England,
which assisted more than all the rest to produce the war of 1812. This
was the British claim to the right of impressment. In the terrible
struggles in which England found herself engaged with France, her
maritime force was her chief dependence, and accordingly she increased
the number of her ships unprecedentedly; but it soon became difficult to
man all these vessels. The thriving commerce pursued by the United
States, as early as 1793, drew large numbers of English seamen into our
mercantile marine service, where they obtained better wages than on
board English vessels. By the fiction of her law, a man born an English
subject can never throw off this allegiance. Great Britain determined to
seize her seamen wherever found and force them, to serve her flag. In
consequence, her cruisers stopped every American vessel they met and
searched the crew in order to reclaim the English, Scotch or Irish on
board. Frequently it happened that persons born in America were taken as
British subjects; for, where the boarding officer was judge and jury of
a man's nationality, there was little chance of justice, especially if
the seaman was a promising one, or the officer's ship was short-handed.
In nine months, during parts of the years 1796 and 1797, the American
minister at the court of London had made application for the discharge
of two hundred and seventy-one native born Americans, proved to have
been thus impressed. These outrages against personal independence were
regarded among the great masses of Americans with the utmost
indignation. Such injuries exasperated every soul not made sordid by
selfish desire for gain. That an innocent man, peaceably pursuing an
honorable vocation, should be forcibly carried on board a British
man-of-war, and there be compelled to remain, shut out from all hope of
ever seeing his family, seemed, to the robust sense of justice in the
popular breast, little better than Algerian bondage. The rage of the
people was increased by tales of horror and aggression that occasionally
reached their ears from these prison ships. Stories were told of
impressed Americans escaping the ships, who, on being recaptured, were
whipped until they died. In one instance, a sailor, goaded to madness,
seized the captain and, springing overboard, drowned himself and his
tormentor.

Every attempt to arrange this difficulty with England had signally
failed. The United States offered that all American seamen should be
registered and provided with a certificate of citizenship; that the
number of crews should be limited by the tonnage of the ship, and if
this number was exceeded, British subjects enlisted should be liable to
impressment; that deserters should be given up, and that a prohibition
should be issued by each party against clandestinely secreting and
carrying off the seamen of the other. In 1800 and again in 1806, it was
attempted to form treaties in reference to this subject; but the
pertinacity with which England adhered to her claim frustrated every
effort at reconciliation. In 1803, the difficulty had nearly been
adjusted by a convention, Great Britain agreeing to abandon her claim to
impressment on the high seas, if allowed to retain it on the narrow
seas, or those immediately surrounding her island; but this being
rejected as inadmissible by the United States, all subsequent efforts at
an arrangement proved unsuccessful. The impressment of seamen continued
and was the source of daily increasing abuse. Not only Americans, but
Danes, Swedes, Germans, Russians, Frenchmen, Spaniards and Portuguese
were seized and forcibly carried off by British men-of-war. There are
even well attested instances of Asiatics and Africans being thus
impressed. In short, as the war in Europe approached its climax, seamen
became more scarce in the British Navy, and, all decency being thrown
aside, crews were filled up under color of this claim, regardless even
of the show of justice. In 1811, it was computed that the number of men
impressed from the American marine service amounted to not less than
six thousand.

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.

[Illustration: "DO YOU THINK DAR IS ANY ANGLER SAXUN BLOOD IN DESE
VEINS?"]

"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.

[Illustration]

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."

[ILLUSTRATION: AS NEAR PERFECTION AS A GIRL OF SIXTEEN CAN BE.]

"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."

"Trust me, Terrence, I'll not disgrace you," Stevens answered.

"You are twelve minutes late, Mr. Malone," said the ensign, who acted as
the lieutenant's second; "but we shall all be able to get back to
breakfast--those that will care to eat."

Not to be outdone, Terrence said:

"All will be at supper; but your friend will be where he is eaten,
rather than eats."

"Don't be too sure; the lieutenant has killed his sixth man in affairs
like this."

The remark was of course intended for Fernando's ears. Sukey heard it
and said:

"Fernando, that's a lie; don't you believe it. Aim at his plaguy head,
and you can hit it. You used to snuff a candle that distance."

Fernando smiled while he kept his eye on the lieutenant. That smile and
that eternal stare disconcerted the English officer, and he turned a
little pale. There was something about the imperturbable youth which
made him dread the meeting. Fernando was strangely, unnaturally calm.
Ten minutes more, and he might be in eternity.




CHAPTER VIII.

THE BELLE OF THE BEACH.

No experienced duelist ever entered into the business with more
earnestness or zeal than Terrence Malone. He and the lieutenant's second
were some distance away settling points of position, he saw three or
four men in the uniform of British officers coming around the bluff,
among them the ship's surgeon with a case of instruments and medicines
in his hand. Captain Conkerall, though the real injured party, was not
on the scene. His lieutenant readily took up his quarrel, on account of
his jealousy of Fernando who had completely usurped his place as the
favorite of Miss Morgianna Lane.

Arrangements were made at last, and Terrence came to his friend, took
his arm and walked him forward.

"Fernando, me boy, we've loaded the pistols. He loaded this and I the
one for the lieutenant, I put in a thumpin' heavy charge, so he'll
overshoot, I am to give the word; but don't look at me at all. I'll
manage to catch the lieutenant's eye, and do ye watch him steadily, aim
at his middle and fire when he does, and all will be right."

They were all the while moving to the place selected for the duel.

"I think the ground we are leaving behind us is rather better," said
someone. "So it is," answered the lieutenant with a sneer; "but it might
be troublesome to carry the young gentleman down that way; here all is
fair and easy."

In a few moments they were at the spot; the ground was measured off, and
each man was placed, and Fernando thought there was no chance for
either escaping.

"Now thin," said Terrence. "I'll walk twelve paces, count 'one, two,
three, fire!' and you are both to fire at the word 'fire.' The man who
reserves his shot or shoots a second before falls by my hand!"

This stern injunction seemed actually to awe the Britons, and Fernando
fancied that he saw the lieutenant trembling. It was only fancy however.
The lieutenant was really calm. Notwithstanding the advice of Terrence,
Fernando could not help turning his eyes from the lieutenant to watch
the figure of his retiring friend. At last he stopped--a second or two
elapsed--he wheeled rapidly around. Fernando now turned his eyes toward
his antagonist.

Lieutenant Matson was a slender man, and when he turned his right side
toward Fernando, he was not much thicker than a rail.

"One--two--three--fire!"

Fernando watched his opponent, and, at the word, raised his pistol and
fired. His hat flew from his head, the crown torn completely out, while
his antagonist leaped into the air, clapped his hand to the seat of his
trousers and fell howling upon the ground. The people around Fernando
all rushed forward, save Sukey, who came to his friend and, seeing that
he was unhurt, began a mild reproof:

"Why didn't you aim higher, Fernando?"

Terrence came back a moment later and, bursting into laughter, said:

"Begorra! this will interfere with his sedentary habits for a month.
Arrah, me boy, it's proud o' ye I am."

Fernando caught two or three glances thrown at him with expression of
revengeful passion. Half a score of marines were seen coming around the
rocks, and Terrence left off laughing. The three were alone against five
times their number.

Fernando felt some one grasp him around the waist and hurry him from the
spot, and ten minutes later they were in the boat skimming over the
water back toward Baltimore.

"Put on ivery divilish stitch o' canvas yer tub 'll carry," said
Terrence to Luff Williams. "The Johnny Bulls won't like this a bit, and
bad luck to us if they git their hands on us."

Fernando, now that the nervous strain was over, sank back in the boat,
almost completely exhausted.

"Fernando, ye did it illegintly," said the young Irishman.

"Will he die?"

"Not unless the doctors kill him trying to dig it out."

"I hope they won't."

"What the divil's the difference? Before this toime next year, we'll be
shootin' redcoats for sport."

"Say, what's that, shipmate?" drawled out Luff Williams.

"Where?"

"Look ahead."

"A long boat full o' British marines!" cried Terrence. "Boys, I don't
like that. Mr. Luff Williams, if ye want a whole skin over yer body pull
about and sail down the coast like the divil was after ye!"

In less than two minutes' time their craft was put about and went flying
before the wind, under a full stretch of canvas. The boat impelled by
eight stout oarsmen pressed hard in their wake.

"Heave to! heave to!" cried an officer in the pursuing boat. "Heave to,
or we will fire on you!"

"Niver mind him, me frind," said Terrence to the man at the rudder.
"I'll tell ye when to lay low."

They were in long musket shot distance, and Williams assured them that
if they could round a headland, they would get a stiffer breeze and
outsail their pursuer.

"Are they gaining on us?" Fernando asked.

"Not much, if any," was the response.

Again the officer in the bow, making a speaking trumpet of his hands,
shouted:

"Heave to, or I swear I'll fire on you!"

"To the divil with you," roared Terrence. "We've downed one redcoat in
fair light; what more do ye want, bad luck to ye?"

The officer spoke to some one behind him, and a musket was handed him.

Terrence sprang to the stern saying:

"Now look out! lay low, ye lubbers! the blackguard's goin' to shoot!"

The officer raised his musket, and a moment later a puff of smoke issued
from the muzzle.

"Down!" cried Terrence. All laid low, and the next second the report of
a musket came on the air, and a bullet dropped in the water, a little to
the larboard.

"They are coming agin," cried Terrence.

"Haven't you sweeps which we could work?" asked Fernando.

There was a pair of sweeps in the craft, and Terrence and Fernando
manned them. Though Fernando was a little awkward at first, he soon came
to use the sweep quite effectively and helped the little craft along.

"Do we gain on them?" asked Fernando.

"Not much, if any;" the helmsman answered.

At this moment, three or four muskets were fired from the boat, and the
balls whistled among the sails or spattered in the water. Should they
meet with one of those sudden calms which frequently overtook vessels
off the bay, they knew they would be lost. The British marines were
laying to their oars right lustily, and the boat flew over the waves.

"Have you no arms in the boat?" asked Fernando.

"Nothin' but a fowlin' piece and so

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