FOOTNOTE:

[1] A true incident vouched for by two historians.

From “The Army and Navy of the United States.”

AMERICAN PRIVATEER CAPTURING TWO ENGLISH SHIPS.

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CAPTAIN “JOSH” BARNEY
THE IRREPRESSIBLE YANKEE
(1759-1818)

“Never strike your flag until you have to. And if you have to, why let it come down easy-like, with one, last gun,—fer luck.”—Maxims of 1812.

CAPTAIN “JOSH” BARNEY
THE IRREPRESSIBLE YANKEE
(1759-1818)

If you would hear of fighting brave,
Of war’s alarms and prisons dark,
Then, listen to the tale I tell,
Of Yankee pluck—and cruising barque,
Which, battling on the rolling sea,
There fought and won,—Can such things be?

IT was about eight o’clock in the evening. The moon was bright, and as the privateer Pomona swung along in the fresh breeze, her Captain, Isaiah Robinson of New York, laid his hand softly upon the shoulder of his first officer, Joshua Barney, saying,

“A ship off the lee-quarter, Barney, she’s an Englishman, or else my name’s not Robinson.”

Barney raised his glass.

“A British brig, and after us, too. She’s a fast sailer and is overhauling us. But we’ll let her have a broadside from our twelve guns and I believe that we can stop her.”

The Pomona carried thirty-five men. Laden with tobacco for Bordeaux, France, she was headed for that sunny land,—but all ready for a fight, if one should come to her. And for this she carried twelve guns, as her first officer had said.

The British boat came nearer and nearer. Finally she was close enough for a voice to be heard from her deck, and she ran up her colors. A cry came from the black body,

“What ship is that?”

There was no reply, but the Stars and Stripes were soon floating from the mainmast of the American.

“Haul down those colors!” came from the Britisher.

There was no answer, but the Pomona swung around so that her port guns could bear, and a clashing broadside plunged into the pursuer. Down came her fore-topsail, the rigging cut and torn in many places, and, as the American again showed her heels, the British captain cried out,

“All sail aloft and catch the saucy and insolent privateer!”

Then commenced one of the most interesting running actions of American naval history.

“The cursed American has no stern-gun ports,” said the British sea-captain. “So keep the ship abaft, and on th’ port quarter, where we can let loose our bow-guns and get little in return.”

This was done, but—if we are to believe an old chronicler of the period—“The British crew had been thrown into such confusion by the Pomona’s first broadside that they were able to fire only one or two shots every half hour.”

“By Gad,” cried Joshua Barney to Captain Robinson, about this time, “let’s cut a hole in our stern, shove a cannon through it, and whale the British landlubber as he nears us for another shot with her bow-chasers.”

The captain grinned.

“A good idea, Barney, a good idea,” he chuckled. “Now we can teach her to keep clear of us.”

So a three-pounder soon poked her nose through the stern, and, when the proud Britisher again came up for one of her leisurely discharges, she received a dose of grape which made her captain haul off precipitously. Nor did he venture near again for another shot at the saucy fugitive.

When daylight came, sixteen guns were counted upon the British brig.

“By George!” shouted Barney. “See those officers in the rigging. She’s a gun-ship—a regular ship-of-war.”

But Captain Robinson laughed.

“That’s an old game,” said he. “They’re tryin’ to fool us into the belief that she’s a real gun-boat, so’s we’ll surrender immediately. But see—she’s drawin’ near again—and seems as if she’s about to board us from the looks of her crew.”

Barney gazed intently at the stranger.

“You’re right,” said he. “Load the three-pounder with grape-shot.”

“And here’s a crow-bar as’ll top it off nice,” put in a sailor.

Captain Robinson laughed.

“Yes, spike her in, too. She’ll plunk a hole clear through th’ rascal,” he cried. “I’ll touch her off myself.”

The British gun-boat drew nearer and nearer. Just as she was within striking distance—about ten yards—the three-pounder was touched off with a deaf’ning roar.

“So accurate was the aim,” says an old historian, “that the British were completely baffled in their attempt; their foresails and all their weather foreshrouds being cut away.”

“Give her a broadside!” called out Captain Robinson, as the brig sheered off in order to support its foremast, which tottered with its own weight; the rigging which supported it, being half cut away. And, as he spoke—the crew let drive a shower of balls and grape-shot. It was the last volley.

The Pomona kept upon her course, while the white sails of the attacker grew fainter and fainter upon the horizon.

“I saw her name as she ranged in close to us,” said Joshua Barney, slapping Captain Robinson on the back. “And it was the Rosebud.”

“I reckon that Rosebud has no thorns left,” chuckled Captain Robinson, and he was still chuckling when the little Pomona safely sailed into the harbor of Bordeaux in France. The voyage had been a success.

Here a store of guns, powder and shot was purchased, and, having shipped a cargo of brandy, and raised the crew to seventy men, the staunch, little vessel set sail for America.

Not three days from the coast of France the cry of “Sail ho!” startled all on board, and, upon the starboard quarter—loomed a British privateer. Upon nearer view she was seen to have sixteen guns and seventy men.

“All hands for a fight!” cried Robinson. “Don’t let th’ fellow escape.”

Now was a hard battle. It lasted for full two hours, and—in the end—the Britisher struck, with twelve killed and a number wounded, while the American loss was but one killed and two wounded. The Pomona kept upon her course, jubilantly.

But the saucy ship was not to have all smooth sailing. She was soon captured—by whom it is not known—and stout “Josh” Barney became a prisoner of war. In December, 1780, with about seventy American officers, he was placed on board the Yarmouth—a sixty-four-gun brig—and was shipped to England.

Now listen to the treatment given him according to a contemporaneous historian. Did you ever hear of anything more atrocious? Peace—indeed—had more horrors than war in the year 1780.

“From the time these Americans stepped aboard the Yarmouth their captors gave it to be understood, by hints and innuendos, that they were being taken to England ‘to be hanged as rebels;’ and, indeed the treatment they received aboard the Yarmouth on the passage over, led them to believe that the British officers intended to cheat the gallows of their prey, by causing the prisoners to die before they reached port.

“On coming aboard the ship-of-the-line, these officers were stowed away in the lower hold, next to the keel, under five decks, and many feet below the water-line. Here, in a twelve-by-twenty-foot room, with upcurving floor, and only three feet high, the seventy-one men were kept for fifty-three days, like so much merchandise—without light or good air—unable to stand upright, with no means to get away.

“Their food was of the poorest quality, and was supplied in such insufficient quantities, that, whenever one of the prisoners died, the survivors concealed the fact, in order that the dead man’s allowance might be added to theirs. The water which they were served to drink was atrocious.

“From the time the Yarmouth left New York till she reached Plymouth, in a most tempestuous winter passage, these men were kept in this loathsome dungeon. Eleven died in delirium; their wild ravings and piercing shrieks appalling their comrades, and giving them a foretaste of what they, themselves, might expect. Not even a surgeon was permitted to visit them.

“Arriving at Plymouth, the pale, emaciated men were ordered to come on deck. Not one obeyed, for they were unable to stand upright. Consequently they were hoisted up, the ceremony being grimly suggestive of the manner in which they had been treated,—like merchandise. And what were they to do, now that they had been placed on deck?

“The light of the sun, which they had scarcely seen for fifty-three days, fell upon their weak, dilated pupils with blinding force; their limbs were unable to uphold them, their frames wasted by disease and want. Seeking for support, they fell in a helpless mass, one upon the other, waiting and almost hoping for the blow that was to fall upon them next. Captain Silas Talbot was one of these unfortunate prisoners.

“To send them ashore in this condition was ‘impracticable,’ so the British officers said, and we readily discover that this ‘impracticable’ served the purpose of diverting the indignation of the land’s folk, which sure would be aroused, if they knew that such brutality had been practiced under the cross of St. George (the cross upon the British flag).

“Waiting, then, until the captives could, at least, endure the light of day, and could walk without leaning on one another, or clutching at every object for support, the officers had them removed to the old Mill Prison.”

This story has been denied, for the reason that the log of the Yarmouth shows that she was forty-four and not fifty-three days at sea, and the captain writes:

“We had the prisoners ‘watched’ (divided into port and starboard watch) and set them to the pumps. I found it necessary so to employ them, the ship’s company, from their weak and sickly state, being unequal to that duty, and, on that account to order them whole allowance of provisions.”

It would have been impossible for men to be in the condition which the first historian describes if they had to man the pumps. It would have been impossible for them to have done an hour’s work. Therefore, I, myself, believe the second story. Don’t you?

But to return to stout “Josh” Barney, now meditating thoughts of escape in old Mill Prison. Bold and resourceful he was always, and he was now determined to face the difficulties of an exit and the chances of detection. “I must and can get away,” he said.

The prisoners were accustomed to play leap-frog, and one day the crafty “Josh” pretended that he had sprained his ankle. Constructing two crutches—out of pieces of boards—he limped around the prison-yard and completely deceived all but a few of his most intimate friends.

One day—it was May the eighteenth, 1781—he passed a sentry near the inner gate. The fellow’s name was Sprokett and he had served in the British army in America, where he had received many kindnesses from the country people. For this reason his heart warmed to the stout, young “Josh,” who had often engaged him in conversation.

Hopping to the gate upon his crutches, the youthful American whispered,

“Give me a British uniform and I will get away. Can you do it?”

Sprokett smiled.

“Sure,” said he.

“To-day?”

“Dinner.”

And this meant one o’clock, when the warders dined.

“All right,” whispered “Josh,” smiling broadly, and he again hobbled around the yard.

After awhile the sentry motioned for him to come nearer. He did so—and as he approached—a large bundle was stealthily shoved into his arms. He hastened to his cell and there put on the undress uniform of an officer of the British army.

Drawing on his great-coat, he went into the yard and hobbled about upon his two sticks until the time drew near for the mid-day mess. Then he drew close to the gate.

One o’clock tolled from the iron bell upon the prison rampart, and, as its deep-toned echoes sounded from its tower, several of Barney’s friends engaged the half-dozen sentries in conversation. It was the time for action.

The astute “Josh” suddenly dropped his crutches. Then—walking across the enclosure towards the gate,—he winked to the sentry. A companion was at hand. With a spring he leaped upon his shoulders. One boost—and he was on top of the walk. Another spring, and he had dropped to the other side as softly as a cat.

But the second gate and sentry had to be passed.

Walking up to this red-coated individual he placed four guineas (about $20.00) into his outstretched palm. The soldier smiled grimly, as the great-coat was tossed aside, and the shrewdest privateer in the American Navy walked towards the opening through the outer wall, which was usually left ajar for the convenience of the prison officials. Another sentry stood upon duty at this point.

Barney nodded. The sentry had been “squared” (told of the coming escape) and so he turned his back. Thus—with his heart beating like a trip-hammer—“Josh,” the nervy one—walked down the cobbled street outside of the “Old Mill.” He was free.

Dodging into a lane, he soon met a friend who had been told of his attempt, and who took him to the house of an old clergyman in Plymouth. In the morning, with two fellow-countrymen, who were also in hiding (for they had been captured as passengers in a merchant vessel), he secured a fishing-smack. “Josh” now covered his uniform. Putting on an old coat with a tarred rope tied around his waist, a pair of torn trousers, and a tarpaulin hat, the disguised Jack-tar ran the little vessel down the River Plym, just as day was dawning. The forts and men-of-war were safely passed, and the little shallop tossed upon the gleaming wavelets of the English channel.

We are told that his escape was not noticed for some time because “a slender youth who was capable of creeping through the window-bars at pleasure crawled into Barney’s cell (in the Old Mill Prison) and answered for him.” I doubt this, for—if you have ever seen the bars of a prison—it would take a Jack Spratt to get through them, and Jack Spratts are not common. At any rate someone answered to the daily roll-call for Joshua B., so that it was full two weeks before the authorities knew of his escape. Perhaps there was a ventriloquist in the jail.

The tiny boat in which the adventurous American hoped to reach the welcome shores of France, bobbed up and down, as she ambled towards the low-lying coast, under a gentle southerly breeze. But there was trouble in this self-same wind, for the white wings of a British privateer grew nearer and nearer, and a hail soon came:

“What’s your name, and where are you bound?”

Barney and his partners in distress did not answer at all. They scowled as a boat was lowered from the side of their pursuer, and quickly splashed towards them. In not many moments, a swearing sea-captain swung himself upon their deck.

“Who are you, you lubbers?” said he. “Where’ yer papers, and where’ yer bound to?”

“I’m a British officer,” replied the astute Joshua, opening his coat and disclosing the uniform of the service. “I am bound for France upon official business.”

The Captain snickered.

“An’ with two others in er’ launch? Aw go tell that to th’ marines!”

“It’s God’s truth. I’m in a state secret.”

“Wall—be that as it may be—you must come aboard of my vessel and tell yer state secret to th’ authorities in England. Meanwhile, I’ll put a skipper of my own aboard yer vessel and we’ll travel together—bein’ friends.”

Barney swore beneath his breath.

Thus the two boats beat towards the coast of Merrie England in company, and upon the day following, came to anchor in a small harbor, six miles from Plymouth. The captain of the privateer went ashore in order to report to Admiral Digby at Plymouth, while most of the crew also hastened to the beach in order to avoid the chance of being seized by the press-gang, which harried incoming vessels for recruits for His Majesty’s service.

“Can’t I go, too?” asked the cautious “Josh.”

“No, you must remain on board until we come for you,” said the captain, as he jumped into his boat en route for the shore. “Mister Officer, I want to search your record.” Then he laughed brutishly.

But Barney’s thinking cap was working like a mill race. There was a jolly-boat tied to the stern of the privateer, and, when all were safe ashore, he gently slipped into this, purposely skinning his leg as he did so. Then he sculled to the beach; where a group of idlers stood looking out to sea.

“Here,” he cried, as he neared them. “Help me haul up this boat, will yer? She’s awful heavy.”

A custom’s officer was among these loiterers and he was inquisitive.

“Who are you?” said he. “What regiment and where stationed, pray?”

“That I cannot answer, my friend,” calmly replied the acute “Josh,” pointing to the blood as it trickled through his stocking. “I am badly injured, you see, and must go away in order to get my leg tied up. Prithee, kind sir, can you tell me where the crew from my vessel have gone to?”

“They are at the Red Lion at the end of the village,” replied the official of the law. “You are, indeed, badly hurt.”

“Wall, I reckon,” replied the American, and, stumbling up the beach, he was soon headed for the end of the little village.

But things were not to go too well with him. He found that he was obliged to pass the Red Lion, and he had almost succeeded in doing so unmolested, when one of the sailors who was loitering outside, cried out after him,

“Ho, friend! I would speak with you!”

“Josh” had to stop although sorely tempted to run for it.

“I’ve got some idee of shippin’ in th’ Navy,” said the fellow, as he approached. “Now, friend, you can tell me somethin’ of th’ pay an’ service, as you’re an officer of th’ army.”

Barney’s eyes shone with pleasure, as he saw that his disguise had deceived the fellow.

“Walk along with me towards Plymouth,” said he, “and I’ll explain everything to you. I have business there which will not wait and I must get on to it.”

So they jogged along together, talking vigorously about the Navy, but, in the course of half an hour the jack-tar seemed to think better of his plan for entering “a service noted for its cruelty to seamen,” and turned back, saying,

“Thank’ee my fine friend. Thank’ee. I’ll stick to privateerin’. It’s easier an’ there’s less cat-o’-nine-tails to it.”

As soon as his burly form disappeared down the winding road, Barney began to grow anxious about his safety. Perhaps a guard would be sent after him? Perhaps—even now—men had discovered his absence and were hurrying to intercept him? So—with these thoughts upon his mind—he jumped over a stiff hedge into the grounds of Lord Mount-Edgecumbe.

“Egad! it’s touch and go with me,” said he, as he walked down one of the gravelled paths. “I’m in for it now for here comes the gardener.”

Sure enough, towards him ambled a middle-aged fellow, smiling as he pushed along a wheel-barrow filled with bulbs.

Joshua walked up to him, extending his right hand.

“My friend,” said he, “I am an officer escaping from some seamen who wish my life because of a duel in which I recently engaged over the hand of a fair lady. Here is a guinea. It is all that I possess. And—if you could but pilot me to the waterside and will not tell of my whereabouts—I will bless you to my dying day.”

The good-humored man-of-the-soil smiled benignly.

“Prithee, but follow me,” said he, “and we’ll soon see that you pass by the way of the water gate. Your money is most welcome, sir, for my wife is just now ill and doctors must be paid, sir. That you know right well.”

Barney breathed easier as they walked towards the sea; for out of the corner of his eye he saw a guard—sent to capture him—tramping along the other side of the hedge over which he had leaped.

“Good-bye and good luck!” cried the kind-hearted servant as he closed the private gate which led to the waterside. And, with a wave of the hand, the fleeing American was soon hastening to the winding river, over which he must cross in order to get on to Plymouth.

Luck was still with him. A butcher who was ferrying some beeves by water, took him in his boat, and, as night fell, the keen-witted privateersman crept through the back door of the old clergyman’s house at Plymouth—from which he had started. For the time being, he was safe.

Strange to relate, the two friends of the fishing-smack adventure here joined him once more, for they, also, had run away from the crew of the privateer, and—as they sat around the supper-table—the town-crier went by the house, bawling in harsh and discordant tones:

“Five guineas reward for the capture of Joshua Barney; a rebel deserter from Mill Prison! Five guineas reward for this deserter! Five guineas! Five guineas!”

But Barney stuffed his napkin into his mouth in order to stop his laughter.

Three days later a clean-shaven, bright-cheeked, young dandy stepped into a post chaise, at midnight, and drove off to Exeter. At Plymouth gate the conveyance was stopped; a lantern was thrust into the black interior; and the keen eyes of the guard scanned the visages of those within:

“He’s not here,” growled the watchman, lowering the light. “Drive on!”

Thus Joshua Barney rolled on to home and freedom, while the stout-bodied soldier little guessed that the artful privateersman had slipped through his fingers like water through a sieve.

Two months later—in the autumn of 1781—Joshua Barney: fighter, privateer, liar and fugitive, walked down the quiet streets of Beverly, Massachusetts, and a little fish-monger’s son whispered to his companions,

“Say, Boys! That feller is a Jim Dandy. He’s been through more’n we’ll ever see. Say! He’s a regular Scorcher!”

Many months later—when the Revolutionary War had ended—the good ship General Washington lay in Plymouth Harbor on the south coast of England. Her commander—Captain Joshua Barney—gazed contentedly at the Stars and Stripes as they flew jauntily from the mizzen-mast, and then walked to the rail, as a group of British officers came over the side. But there was one among these guests who was not an officer. He was bent, old, weather-beaten; and his dress showed him to be a tiller and worker of the soil. It was the aged and faithful gardener of Lord Mount-Edgecumbe.

“You remember me?” cried the genial American, grasping the honest servant by the hand.

The gardener’s eyes were alight with pleasure.

“You are the feller who jumped over the hedge—many years ago—when the sea-dogs were hot upon your trail.”

Joshua Barney chuckled.

“The same,” said he. “And here is a purse of gold to reward my kind and worthy helpmeet.”

So saying, he placed a heavy, chamois bag of glittering eagles into the trembling hands of the ancient retainer.