THE ESCAPE
’Tis of a gallant, Yankee ship that flew the Stripes and Stars,
And the whistling wind from the west-nor’-west blew through her pitch-pine spars:
With her starboard tacks aboard, my Boys, she hung upon the gale;
On the Autumn night, that we passed the light, on the old Head of Kinsale.
It was a clear and cloudless eve, and the wind blew steady and strong,
As gayly, o’er the sparkling deep, our good ship bowled along;
With the foaming seas beneath her bow, the fiery waves she spread,
And, bending low her bosom of snow, she buried her lee cat-head.
There was no talk of short’ning sail, by him who walked the poop,
And, under the press of her pounding jib, the boom bent like a hoop!
And the groaning, moaning water-ways, told the strain that held the tack,
But, he only laughed, as he glanced aloft, at the white and silvery track.
The mid-tide met in the Channel waves that flow from shore to shore,
And the mist hung heavy upon the land, from Featherstone to Dunmore,
And that sterling light in Tusker Rock, where the old bell tolls each hour,
And the beacon light, that shone so bright, was quenched on Waterford tower.
What looms upon our starboard bow? What hangs upon the breeze?
’Tis time that our good ship hauled her wind, abreast the old Saltees,
For, by her pond’rous press of sail, and by her consorts four,
We saw that our morning visitor, was a British Man-of-War.
Up spoke our noble Captain—then—as a shot ahead of us passed,—
“Haul snug your flowing courses! Lay your topsail to the mast!”
Those Englishmen gave three loud cheers, from the deck of their covered ark,
And, we answered back by a solid broad-side, from the side of our patriot barque.
“Out booms! Out booms!” our skipper cried, “Out booms! and give her sheet!”
And the swiftest keel that e’er was launched, shot ahead of the British fleet,
’Midst a thundering shower of shot,—and with stern-sails hoisting away,
Down the North Race Paul Jones did steer, just at the break of day.
—Old Ballad.
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CAPTAIN SILAS TALBOT
STAUNCH PRIVATEERSMAN OF NEW ENGLAND
(1751-1813)
“If you want ter learn how ter fight, why jest fight.”—Dock-end Philosophy.
CAPTAIN SILAS TALBOT
STAUNCH PRIVATEERSMAN OF NEW ENGLAND
(1751-1813)
“Talk about your clipper ships, chipper ships, ripper ships,
Talk about your barquentines, with all their spars so fancy,
I’ll just take a sloop-o’-war with Talbot, with Talbot,
An’ whip ’em all into ’er chip, an’ just to suit my fancy.
“So, heave away for Talbot, for Talbot, for Talbot,
So, heave away for Talbot, an’ let th’ Capting steer,
For, he’s the boy to smack them, to crack them, to whack them,
For he’s th’ boy to ship with, if you want to privateer.”
—Ballads of Rhode Island.—1782.
A TRADING vessel, laden with wheat, from Cardigan in Wales, was lying to in the English Channel. Nearby rolled a long-bodied American Privateer, while a boat neared the trader, in the stern of which sat a staunch, weather-beaten officer in a faded pea-jacket. It was the year 1813 and war was on between England and the United States.
When the blustering captain entered the cabin to survey his prize, he spied a small box with a hole in the top, on which was inscribed the words, “Missionary Box.” He drew back, astonished.
“Pray, my bold seaman,” said he, turning to the Welsh captain, “what is this?”
“Oh,” replied the honest, old sailor, heaving a sigh, “’tis all over now.”
“What?” asked the American privateersman.
“Why, the truth is,” said the Welshman, “that I and my poor fellows have been accustomed, every Monday morning, to drop a penny each into that box for the purpose of sending out missionaries to preach the Gospel to the heathen; but it’s all over now.”
The American seemed to be much abashed.
“Indeed,” said he, “that is very good of you.” And, pausing a few moments, he looked abstractedly into the air, humming a tune beneath his breath.
“Captain,” said he, at length, “I’ll not hurt a hair of your head, nor touch your vessel.”
So saying, he turned on his heel, took to his boat, and left the Welshman to pursue its even course. And—as the privateer filled away to starboard—a voice came from the deck of the helpless merchantman,
“God bless Captain Silas Talbot and his crew!”
But we do not know what the owners of the privateer said to the humane skipper about this little affair when he returned to New York. They might have uttered hard words about a Welshman who scored upon him by means of a pious fraud. At any rate Silas Talbot had done a good deed.
This valorous privateer was born at Dighton, Massachusetts, on the Sakonet River about the year 1752; beginning his career at sea as a cabin-boy. At twenty-four he was a captain in the United States army and fought in the Revolutionary war, for a time, on land. But—by reason of his nautical training—he was placed in command of a fireship at New York, and was soon promoted to be Major—but still with duties upon the water and not the shore. While here, a soldier came to him, one day, with his eyes alight in excitement.
“Major,” said he, “there’s a chance for a splendid little enterprise. Just off the coast of Rhode Island, near Newport, lies a British vessel, moored to a kedge. She mounts fifteen guns and around her is stretched a stout netting to keep off a party of boarders. But we can cut it and get through, I’ll warrant. And the game is worth the candle.”
Young Talbot was delighted at the thought of a little expedition.
“I’ll tell you how we’ll cut through,” said he. “We’ll fix a small anchor at the bowsprit of our sloop. Then, we’ll ram her into the netting at night, and—if our vessel can punch hard enough—we’ll have forty Americans upon the deck before you can say ‘Jack Robinson.’”
The soldier laughed.
“Major Talbot,” said he, “you are a true fighting man. I’ll have a crew for you within twenty-four hours and we’ll take the good sloop Jasamine, lying off of Hell Gate. Ahoy for the capture of the Englishman!”
In two days’ time, all was ready for the expedition. The sloop Jasamine slowly drifted into the harbor of New York, an anchor spliced to her bowsprit, a crew of sturdy adventurers aboard; and, filling away in a stout sou’wester, rolled down the coast in the direction of Rhode Island. Reaching the vicinity of Newport, she lay to behind a sheltering peninsula, waiting for the night to come, so that she could drop down upon the Englishman under the cloak of darkness.
Blackness settled upon the still and waveless water. With muffled oars the sloop now glided towards the dark hull of the British gun-boat; her men armed to the teeth, with fuses alight, and ready to touch off the cannon at the slightest sign of discovery. All was still upon the towering deck of the war-vessel and the little lights twinkled at her bow.
But what was that?
Suddenly a voice came through the darkness.
“Who goes there?”
No answer came but the dip of the oars in unison.
“Who goes there? Answer, or I fire!”
Again the slow beat of the oars and nothing more.
Crash!
A musket spoke from the jutting bow in front of the sloop and a bullet struck in the foremast of the staunch attacker, with a resounding z-i-n-n-g!
“We’re discovered,” whispered Talbot. “Pull for your lives, men, and punch her like a battering-ram. When we’ve cut through the netting, let every fellow dash upon her decks, and fight for every inch you can.”
As he ceased speaking, the bow of the sloop struck the roping stretched around the man-o’-warsman, and a ripping and tearing was plainly heard above the crash of small arms, the shouts of men, and the rumble of hawsers. Two cannon spoke from the side of the Englishman, and, as their roar echoed across the still ocean, the guns of the Jasamine belched forth their answer.
“TALBOT, HIMSELF, AT THE HEAD OF HIS ENTIRE CREW, CAME LEAPING ACROSS THE SIDE.”
The anchor attached to the bowsprit had done what was desired. It tore a great hole in the stout netting, ripped open a breach sufficiently wide for entrance to the deck, and, as the cannon grumbled and spat at the sloop,—the bowsprit was black with jack-tars scrambling for an opportunity to board the Britisher.
“Now, men,” shouted Major Talbot, above the din. “Swing our craft sideways! Let go the port guns, and then let every mother’s son rush the foe! And your cry must be, ‘Death and no quarter!’”
As he ceased, the good Jasamine was forced sideways into the man-o’-warsman, and, propelled by the current, drifted against her with tremendous force, crushing the remaining nets as she did so. A few of the Americans were already on the deck in a terrific struggle with the half-sleepy English seamen, but—in a moment—Talbot, himself, at the head of his entire crew, came leaping across the side.
Now was a scene of carnage. The cutlasses of both Yankee tar and British, were doing awful execution, and pistols were cracking like hail upon the roof. Back, back, went the English before the vigorous assault of the stormers, and, as the deck was now piled with the dead and dying, the commander of the man-o’-warsman cried out,
“I surrender! Cease, you Yankee sea-dogs. You’re too smart for me!”
So saying, he held up a handkerchief tied to his cutlass, and the battle ceased.
The story of the fight of Silas Talbot’s was now on every lip, and all praised the daring and courage of this valorous Major, who was as bold as a lion, and as courageous as any seaman who sailed upon the sea.
Promotion came rapidly to the soldier-sailor. In 1779 he became a colonel and was placed in command of the Argo, a sloop of about one hundred tons, armed with twelve six-pounders, and carrying but sixty men. ’Tis said that she looked like a “clumsy Albany trader,” with one great, rakish mast, an immense mainsail, and a lean boom. Her tiller was very lengthy, she had high bulwarks and a wide stern—but, in spite of her raw appearance, she could sail fast and could show a clean pair of heels to most vessels of twice her size.
Shortly after taking charge of this privateer, word was brought that Captain Hazard of the privateer King George was off the coast of Rhode Island.
“That’s what I want,” cried Captain Talbot, slapping his knee. “This fellow Hazard is an American. He was born in Rhode Island, and, instead of joining in our righteous cause against the Mother Country, he has elected to fight against us. For the base purpose of plundering his old neighbors and friends, he has fitted out the King George and has already done great damage on the coast. Let me but catch the old fox and I’ll give him a taste of American lead. I’ll put a stop to the depredations of this renegade.”
The King George had fourteen guns and eighty men, but this did not worry staunch and nervy Silas Talbot. He started in pursuit of her, as soon as he learned of her whereabouts, and, before many days, sighted a sail just off the New York coast, which was hoped to be the vessel of the renegade.
Mile after mile was passed. Hour by hour the Argo ploughed after the silvery sails, until, late in the afternoon, the stranger hovered near a shallow harbor on the coast, and seemed to await the on-coming privateer with full confidence.
The Argo boomed along under a spanking sou’wester and, sailing near the stranger, to the keen eyes of Talbot came the welcome sight of King George painted upon the stern of the rakish privateer.
“All hands man the guns,” cried he. “We’ll sink th’ rascally Hazard with all his crew, unless he strikes. She’s got more men and guns, but what care we for that. Take hold, my Hearties, and we’ll soon make her know her master.”
The King George seemed to welcome the coming fight; she luffed; lay to; and her men could be seen standing ready at the polished cannon. Now was one of the strangest battles of American sea history.
The King George cruised along under a full spread of canvas, jibbed, came about upon the port quarter of the stranger, and ran up to within shooting distance, when a broadside was poured into the deck of the rolling Argo. She replied with her own fourteen guns, and, before they could be reloaded, the King George struck her alongside; the American seaman swarmed across the rail; and—if we are to believe a historian of the period—“drove the crew of King George from their quarters, taking possession of her, without a man on either side being killed.” Hats off to the doughty Silas Talbot for this brave adventure! Did you ever hear of such a fight with no man ever being slaughtered?
Again rang the fame of Silas Talbot, but he was not to rest long upon laurels won. The British privateer Dragon—of three hundred tons and eighty men—was hovering near Providence, Rhode Island, hungry and eager for unprotected merchantmen.
“I’ll have to strike her,” said Captain Talbot.
It was a beautiful day in June. As the Dragon drowsed along listlessly a dozen miles off the shore, her topsails barely filling in the gentle southerly breeze, the watch suddenly stirred, and sang out in no gentle tones,
“Sail ho, off the starboard! Looks like Captain Talbot of the Argo!”
The captain came bounding from his cabin, glass in hand.
“Sure enough,” said he, scanning the white sails upon the horizon. “It’s Talbot and we’re in for a tight affair. All hands prepare for action!”
There was noise and confusion upon the deck of the privateer as the guns were sponged, charges were rammed home, and all prepared for battle. Meanwhile, the stranger came nearer, and rounding to within striking distance, crashed a broadside into the slumbering Dragon, who had not yet shown her fangs.
Crackle! Crackle! Boom!
The small arms from the Britisher began to spit at the advancing privateer, and seven of her fourteen guns rang out a welcome to the sailors of Rhode Island. The solid shot ploughed through the rigging, cutting ropes and spars with knife-like precision.
“Round her to on the port quarter!” shouted Captain Talbot, “and get near enough for boarding!”
But, as the Argo swung near her antagonist, the Dragon dropped away—keeping just at pistol-shot distance.
“Run her down!” yelled the stout Rhode Islander, as he saw this manœuvre of his wily foe. Then he uttered an exclamation of disgust, for, as he spoke, a bullet struck his speaking trumpet; knocking it to the deck, and piercing it with a jagged hole.
“Never mind!” cried he, little disconcerted at the mishap. “Give it to her, boys!”
Then he again uttered an exclamation, for a bounding cannon ball—ricochetting from the deck—took off the end of his coat-tail.[1]
“I’ll settle with you for that,” yelled the old sea-dog, leaping to a cannon, and, pointing it himself, he touched the fuse to the vent. A puff of smoke, a roar, and a ball ploughed into the mainmast of the rocking Dragon.
Talbot smiled with good humor.
“Play for that, my brave fellows,” he called out, above the din of battle. “Once get the mainmast overside, and we can board her.”
With a cheer, his sailors redoubled their efforts to sink the Dragon, and solid shot fairly rained into her hull, as the two antagonists bobbed around the rolling ocean in this death grapple. Thus they sparred and clashed for four and a half hours, when, with a great splitting of sails and wreck of rigging, the mainmast of the Dragon trembled, wavered, and fell to leeward with a sickening thud.
“She’s ours!” yelled Captain Talbot, through his dented speaking trumpet.
Sure enough, the Dragon had had enough. Her wings had been clipped, and, in a moment more, a white flag flew from her rigging.
“The Argo is sinking! The Argo is sinking!” came a cry, at this moment.
“Inspect the sides of our sloop,” cried Talbot.
This was done, immediately, and it was found that there were numerous shot-holes between wind and water, which were speedily plugged up. Then, bearing down upon the crippled Dragon, she was boarded; a prize-crew was put aboard; and the Argo steered for home, her men singing,
“Talk about your gay, old cocks,
Yankee, Doodle, Dandy,
‘Si’ Talbot he can heave the blocks,
And stick like pepp’mint candy.
“Yankee—Doodle—Shoot and kill,
Yankee—Doodle—Dandy,
Yankee—Doodle—Back an’ fill,
Yankee—Doodle—Dandy.”
Silas Talbot, in fact, had done extremely well, but, not content with his laurels already won, he soon put out again upon the Argo, in company with another privateer from Providence, Rhode Island, called the Saratoga; which sailed under a Captain Munro. They were not off the coast more than two days when they came across the Dublin; a smart, English privateer-cutter of fourteen guns, coming out of Sandy Hook. Instead of running away, she ploughed onward, and cleared for action.
The Argo and the Saratoga ran in upon the windward quarter and banged away with audacity. The fight lasted for an hour. Then—as the Argo tacked in closer in order to grapple and board—the Saratoga was headed for the privateer. But—instead of coming in—she began to run off in the wind.
“Hard a-weather! Hard up there with the helm!” cried Captain Munro.
“It is hard up!” cried the steersman.
“You lie, you blackguard!” cried Munro. “She goes away lasking! Hard a-weather I say again!”
“It is hard a-weather, I say again, captain,” cried the fellow at the tiller.
“Captain Talbot thinks that I am running away when I want to join him,” cried Munro. “What the deuce is the matter anyway?”
“Why, I can tell you,” cried a young Lieutenant. “You’ve got an iron tiller in place of the wooden one, and she’s loose in the rudder head, so your boat won’t steer correctly.”
“Egad, you’re right,” said Munro, as he examined the top of the tiller. “Now, jam her over and we’ll catch this Dublin of old Ireland, or else I’m no sailor. We’ll give her a broadside, too, when we come up.”
The Argo, meanwhile, was hammering the Englishman in good fashion, and, as the Saratoga pumped a broadside into her—raking her from bow to stern—the Dublin struck her colors.
“Two to one, is too much odds,” cried the English captain, as a boat neared the side of his vessel. “I could have licked either of you, alone.”
And, at this, both of the American privateersmen chuckled.
Old “Si” Talbot was soon in another fight. Three days later he chased another sail, and coming up with her, found his antagonist to be the Betsy: an English privateer of twelve guns and fifty-eight men, commanded by an honest Scotchman.
The Argo ranged up alongside and Talbot hailed the stranger. After a bit of talk he hoisted the Stars and Stripes, crying,
“You must haul down those British colors, my friend!”
To which the Scot replied:
“Notwithstanding I find you an enemy, as I suspected, yet, sir, I believe that I shall let them hang a little longer, with your permission. So fire away, Flanagan!”
“And that I’ll do,” yelled Talbot. “Flanagan will be O’Toole and O’Grady before the morning’s over. For I’ll beat you like an Irish constable from Cork.”
So it turned out. Before an hour was past, the Betsy had struck, the captain was killed, and all of his officers were wounded.
“Old Si”—you see—had had good luck. So well, indeed, had he fought, that in 1780 he was put in command of a good-sized vessel, the General Washington. In her he cruised about Sandy Hook in search of spoil.
One hazy day in August, the watch sang out,
“Several sail astern, Sir! Looks like a whole squadron!”
Talbot seized the glass and gazed intently at the specks of white.
“Egad! It is a squadron,” said he, at length. “And they’re after me. Crowd on every stitch of canvas and we’ll run for it.”
So all sail was hoisted, and the General Washington stood out to sea.
But the sails of the pursuers grew strangely clear. They came closer, ever closer, and Talbot paced the deck impatiently.
“Gad Zooks!” cried he, “I wish that I could fly like a bird.”
He could not fly, and, in two hours’ time the red flag on the foremast of a British brig was clear to the eyes of the crew of the privateer. When—an hour later—a solid shot spun across his bow, “Old Si” Talbot hove to, and ran up the white flag. He was surrounded by six vessels of the English and he felt, for once, that discretion was the better part of valor.
“Old Si” was now thrown into a prison ship off Long Island and then was taken to England aboard the Yarmouth. Imprisoned at Dartmoor, he made four desperate attempts to escape. All failed.
In the summer of 1781 he was liberated; found his way home to Rhode Island; and died “with his boots on” in New York, June 30th, 1813. The old sea-dogs of his native state still cherish the memory of “Capting Si;” singing a little song, which runs:
“He could take ’er brig or sloop, my boy,
An’ fight her like ’er man.
He could steer ’er barque or barquentine,
An’ make her act jest gran!
‘Ole Si’ wuz ’er rip-dazzler,
His flag wuz never struck,
Until ’er British squadroon,
Jest catched him in th’ ruck.
“So drink ’er drop ter ‘Ole Si,’ Sky-high, Oh my!
Drink ’er glass ter ‘Ole Si,’ th’ skipper from our kentry.
Give three cheers fer ‘Ole Si,’ Sky-high, Oh my!
Give three cheers fer ‘Ole Si,’ th’ pride o’ Newport’s gentry.”