[to be continued.]
[BOBBY'S TOOL-CHEST.]
They gave him a chest full of wonderful tools when he got to be six years old,
And he made up his mind to go forth in the world and become a carpenter bold.
"I've gimlets and saws, and hammers and nails, I've jack-planes and awls," said he;
"I've rulers and screws. How can I refuse a carpenter-man for to be?
"The first thing to learn is to hammer a nail." And he got out his hammer and tacks,
And he hammered, and hammered, and hammered away till he'd used up a half-dozen packs.
He nailed up the doors, and he nailed down the floors, and he nailed 'em again and again,
And he made no mistake till he hammered a tack through the nursery window-pane.
Then he took up his saw, and he tried its teeth. "I must now learn to saw," he said;
And he sawed in two some bureau drawers, and he sawed off the legs of his bed.
And he sawed on the lock of the nursery door till the teeth of the tool grew rough,
And then he sat down and remarked to himself, "Well, I guess I have sawn enough.
"I will now try the awl and the gimlet too, and learn what different kinds
Of holes they make—for they're not alike"—and he bored on the outside blinds.
He bored six holes in the shutter slats, and then made a change again,
And tried his luck on the bureau top with the beautiful two-inch plane.
And then, poor boy! some one came in, and oh, what a fuss was raised!
They spanked that boy for trying to learn when he thought he'd be surely praised;
And his father was mad and his mother was mad, and even his sister cried,
Because he'd taken her desk apart to see what there was inside;
And the baby, too, was as wrathy as they, because for a little while
He'd used the ruler to find how wide was the dear little fellow's smile.
And that's why Bob—the poor little chap!—has changed every future plan,
And is going to be a policeman bold instead of a carpenter-man.
Carlyle Smith.
The C. and V. Railroad half encircles Riverdale on the south and west sides. For the most part it runs along a narrow shelf on the mountain-side many feet above the village, but toward the southwest is the valley of the little Jewell River, and this is crossed by a long, narrow embankment and a high bridge, where the track curves sharply northward.
A few years ago an important part of the traffic over this line consisted of long trains from the far West loaded entirely with hogs. "Earle's excursions," the boys called them, in allusion to the famous pork-packer to whom they were consigned. One afternoon—it was in midsummer—a train of thirty-eight cars and a caboose started from the summit, five miles above Riverdale. The grade is very steep, and the train soon attained a terrific speed as it thundered down the mountain.
No one can tell the cause of the accident, but just as the train struck the embankment at Riverdale it doubled up in the middle like a startled snake, and five cars were forced out of the train and went down the embankment, carrying rails, sleepers, and a foot or two of the road-bed. Fortunately none of the trainmen was on these cars, so no one was injured. But as the cars went crashing down they broke in pieces like kindling-wood. Many hogs were killed and injured, but it is certain that about four hundred large, able-bodied, hungry, half-crazy hogs were let loose upon the outskirts of the lovely village of Riverdale.
Without a moment's hesitation the invaders began their work of destruction. Near the foot of the embankment was the cozy parsonage, and the Rev. Mark Sanders was at work in his garden when the accident occurred. Startled by the crash, he stood staring at the splintering cars until one of them brought up almost against his garden fence, and a dozen screeching hogs were trying to squeeze through the gate together. Then he struck out valiantly with his sharp hoe, and thought he drove all back, and locked the gate. But when he turned about, three hungry hogs were feasting on his early potatoes, and they led him such a chase that he heartily wished that every hog in the world had been in that herd which in ancient times ran violently down a steep place into the sea and were choked.
Meanwhile the main body of the army moved toward the centre of the village, sending out foraging excursions to every garden and lawn, unmindful of shrill threats or fluttering aprons. On the bank of the Jewell River stood a little photograph saloon, and there Miss Sally Graham, for twenty years the village dressmaker, was having her picture taken. It was a critical moment. The photographer's head was underneath the green cloth behind the camera.
"Please turn your head just a trifle toward the left, and look a little more cheerful, Miss Graham," said the artist.
Miss Sally turned her head so that she looked toward the open door. She was just saying "besom" for the last time when two large hogs, one of them as black as Erebus, scrambled into the room and came directly toward her.
"Oh, horrors!" shrieked Miss Sally, jumping up and whirling wildly about in search of a way of escape. She rushed into the dark room and slammed the door, overturning a bottle of some malodorous compound. There she stood amid the horrible smells till, after much squealing, shouting, and crashing of glass, the artist bade her come forth again.
By this time the hogs began to arrive at the centre of the village. Those who saw them coming were first amused, and then amazed, and then alarmed. Several of them climbed up four steps to the piazza of Boynton's fruit-store, and began to eat a bunch of bananas and other fruit exposed for sale. Oscar Boynton's wrath was great, his arm was mighty, and his weapon was an iron poker; but all these produced no effect whatever until he hooked the end of the poker into the nostrils of the hogs, and so persuaded them to turn aside.
The situation was in truth growing serious. The hogs began to collect in large numbers on Main Street. They drove the people into the houses, especially where the men were not at home. They spread across Depot Street until they came to Prospect Street. This was known as "Ladies' Row," because so many spinsters and widows lived there. It was the street of flower gardens, and all summer long it was a glorious rivalry of violets, pansies, daisies, roses, asters, and every sweet and beautiful blossom. Into this paradise the hogs entered, and began to root up and destroy.
Toward the lower part of Main Street stood the grocery-store of Mr. Heman Hemenway, Chairman of the Board of Village Trustees. Trade being very dull, Mr. Hemenway sat dozing behind the counter dreaming of better times.
Suddenly quick footsteps tapped along the knotty floor. Mr. Hemenway sprang up and put on the expectant smile with which he greeted every customer.
It was Miss Placentia Hannum, of Ladies' Row, who stood before him. Her face was flushed, her dark eyes blazed with indignation, and her voice was pitched on a very high note as she exclaimed, "Mr. Hemenway! aren't you going to do anything?"
"Do—do—anything? What—?" stammered the chairman of the trustees.
"Don't you know?" cried Miss Placentia, with an eloquent gesture of disdain. "A whole train of hogs has run off the embankment, and they are just pouring into the village, thousands and thousands of them, and now they are on our street tearing up my beautiful flowers."
Mr. Hemenway was a man who intended to do his duty, and he went out to the street at once. He was met by a deputation of hogs of such numbers that he believed that Miss Hannum's statement was literally true. He also began to feel that here was a condition of things not provided for in his Manual for Village Officers. He saw the hogs swarming down the street. He saw the people retreating into their houses after disastrous conflict with the enemy. Yet he kept bravely on up the street as far as the hay-scales, and there he met his fate.
Two hogs saw Mr. Hemenway approaching, and they immediately gave him their entire attention. They were the humorists of the herd, and they played with Mr. Hemenway. When he went toward the right, they gently swayed in the same direction. He went toward the left, and they imitated him, smiling very widely. He stopped, and the hogs stood patiently before him.
"Whey!" cried Mr. Hemenway, waving his hand.
Apparently the hogs were startled by so harsh a word, and they fell back a few paces. Then they darted forward so suddenly that Mr. Hemenway nearly fell over his own heels, and when he recovered himself he stood with his feet far apart. This was an opportunity not to be lost. One hog ran between Mr. Hemenway's feet and upset him. He came down just in time to take a short ride on the back of the other, and then rolled off into the street. It seemed to him that a hundred hogs gathered around him in a moment. With the energy of despair he sprang to his feet, ran hatless up the steps of the harness-shop, and mounted the very lifelike wooden horse which the harness-maker kept there as a sign.
Across the street a door was cautiously opened, and the head and shoulders of Gran'sir Pease appeared.
"Heman!" he cried, in a shrill, quavering voice, "go 'n' git the ol' Fo'th o' July cahnern and shewt 'em. It used to be 'round thar under Simon Hyle's shed." But this did not seem to Hemenway a feasible plan, especially as he knew that the "cahnern" had been at the bottom of the mill-pond for three years.
A horse came rattling down the hill and across the mill bridge near the harness-shop. It was driven by Norris Wood, who had been out among the farms buying cattle for his meat market. He drove up to the harness-shop and hitched his horse. Three or four hogs stood in the way, but it seemed a very easy thing for Norris to set his great boots against them and send them sprawling along the ground. He looked so big and strong that Mr. Hemenway dismounted from the wooden horse.
"Well, Heman, what have you got here?" said Norris, widening his bushy whiskers with a beaming smile.
"Norris," said Mr. Hemenway, solemnly, "the village is overrun with hogs from a wrecked train, and I rely on you to drive 'em out. I give you full authority to do or take anything you want to."
"They've got pretty well started," said Norris, "but if I had a few good helpers I guess we could master them. Hi!" he continued, "here come the academy boys."
There were about twenty of them coming across the mill bridge. They were Riverdale Academy boys just out of school. They were on the double-quick, for they had seen the hogs, and felt sure there was fun ahead.
"'Arma virumque cano!' Come here, every one of you!" cried Norris, who was an old academy boy himself.
The boys immediately gathered around him, some of them, and Harry Burton in particular, inventing a great terror of the sniffing hogs.
"Norris! Oh, Norris!" he cried, "protect us from these wild beasts of the desert. Let me ride in safety upon your broad shoulders," and he made as if he would suit the action to the word.
"Quit your fooling," said Norris, sternly. "I want volunteers to drive these hogs out of the village. Every one who is willing to help, step out."
With a hilarious cheer the whole company stepped forward.
"Now," said Norris, "you see that pile of wood by the hay-scales? Every one of you go and get a stick."
In less than a minute every boy was armed with a stout cudgel and waiting for further orders.
Norris quickly scanned the crowd. "Julian Ross," he said, "you take six boys and stay here. Don't let a single hog get by you up the hill. Harry Burton, you take seven with you down to the bridge. Don't you let a hog pass over it into the lower village."
Julian and Harry selected their followers. "Friends, Romans, countrymen," cried Harry, "follow me!
"'Still is the story told
How well Horatius kept the bridge
In the brave days of old.'"
And they went down the street on the double-quick.
"All the rest of you come with me to Prospect Street," commanded Norris.
They arrived at the scene of destruction none too soon. As they ran down the street they were greeted with tearful pleadings by the ladies to save their gardens from utter ruin.
At length they outran the hogs and faced around to drive them back. The boys formed a line across the road, and beat them unmercifully with their cudgels. "Hit 'em on the snout every time," said Norris.
And now began a high and piercing symphony which mingled and harmonized with a blood-curdling melody from Main Street. Norris, like the great Cæsar, was everywhere at one time. His methods were very interesting. He had persuasive powers with his big boots which caused a hog to point to the sky with four feet at a time. He was very dexterous in seizing a hog by a hind-leg and casting it out of a flower-bed into the road. And just as an enormous hog was about to root up Miss Placentia Hannum's rose-bush, Norris calmly took the animal by the ear, and led it squealing to the street.
At last the hogs were beaten back and driven across to Main Street. There they mingled with the others slowly retreating before Julian Ross and Harry Burton and their followers. The boys were nearly exhausted, but Harry encouraged them by shouting, "Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley on!" and like historic exhortations.
The hogs were now all brought together, filling the street in a solid mass. And there they stuck in spite of every effort to induce them to move on. Gran'sir Pease advised Norris to "slarter 'em" where they stood. It was time for a stroke of Napoleonic genius or the day would be lost.
Norris unhitched his horse and jumped into the wagon. "Boys!" he cried, "hold 'em right where they are till you see me again. Go on, Bill." And he galloped away up Depot Street, and disappeared under the small railroad bridge.
Ten long minutes the boys waited and shouted and fought the obstinate hogs. Then Norris was seen coming far up Main Street. He drove down to the hogs and turned his cart around. In the wagon was a box, and out of it Norris shovelled some yellow stuff into the road. The hogs nearest to him saw, smelled, hustled, and gobbled. In an instant others followed, pushing and upsetting each other. Norris drove on and cast out more meal, and in a minute the whole rushing, squirming, squealing herd glided away like the mill-pond when the dam broke. They followed the trail of corn meal up the street, and in a short time they were all safely enclosed in Norris's cattle-yard.
Then the boys carried their sticks right shoulder shift, and came down the street singing, "When Johnny comes marching home again."
[BILL'S BEAR-FIGHT.]
Broiled trout washed down with an ice-cold draught of spring water is not the worst supper in the world, and when you are out in the woods cozily perched on a log near a roaring camp-fire of crackling birch, with a ravenous appetite, it tastes as good as a dinner served at the Waldorf in New York. But your trout must be cooked by Bill to be enjoyed, for Bill owns no superior in that line. Bill is a hunter, not for market, but a sportsman for sport, and his delight is to guide some gentleman through the forests of Maine, or, as he terms it, his territory.
One fall he and I started up in the Moose-head Lake region, and slowly worked down over the trails, until one evening we found ourselves near the head of the Cupsuptic River, on the Rangeleys. We had fairly good sport on our way, bagging more or less game, with many a long and weary chase on a deer trail. When we struck the river it was too late to make for a large camp that lay some eleven miles below on the lake, so we put up a lean-to, and went into quarters for the night. Bill got out the lines, and in a short while he had some fine trout broiling, so that though all our provisions were exhausted, we had made a fine supper of the trout.
After supper we lighted our pipes, and throwing an extra log or two on the fire, we lounged around, recalling different adventures. It was but a short time before Bill got off on to some of his own experiences, and it was then that I relapsed into silence, and puffed my pipe with that peaceful enjoyment that comes to a lover of nature and sport. I lay admiring his magnificent physique, my admiration doubled by the knowledge of the wonderful strength that lay in his powerful muscles.
"Well, boy," said Bill at last, with a yawn, "it's gettin' kind er cold; seems to me it's er bit more than frosty. Had to crack ice down on the stream to ketch them trout. Guess it'll freeze tight by to-morrow, and with a little fall of snow we might sight a buck's tracks 'tween here and the camp below. I rather think we'd better turn in now. Wrap yourself good or you'll be stiff in the mornin'."
Raking the ashes into the fire, and banking it a little with some damp logs, we rolled up in our blankets and went to sleep.
I do not know what time it was, but it seemed to me I had no more than closed my eyes when I was suddenly awakened by the sounds of a fierce struggle, with a great amount of low choking, growling, and subdued muttering. I sprang up, forgetting my blanket, which tripped me, and nearly pitched me headlong into the fire. When I finally reached my feet and saw the cause of the row, I was more than amazed. There was Bill hugging and being hugged for dear life by a good-sized bear. It was nip and tuck, and seizing my rifle, I danced around trying to get a shot at the bear. Bill caught sight of me, and cried out in jerks: "Boy—I'll never—forgive you if you kill him. It's the first,—chance I've had to strangle—a bear, and, by gum, I'm er-goin' to strangle—this one!"
I could appreciate that sort of a desire on Bill's part well enough, but nevertheless it was dangerous work. The bear's claws had already played havoc with his clothing, and his legs were bleeding in more than one place. Back and forth they struggled, one of the bear's fore-paws around Bill's neck and the other around his waist. Bill had the bear by the throat with one hand, and with the other held his head away to stop him from biting.
Suddenly they tripped on the edge of the slope that led in a gentle descent to the stream below. I jumped forward this time, determined to put an end to it, but before I could reach them, down they went, rolling over and over the sloping ground, fighting away like mad, until, with a crash, they struck the thin ice on the stream and plunged out of sight. It was a bright moonlight night, and the hole they made in the ice looked black and ugly. I jumped down the bank, and seeing the roots of an old tree running out near the spot, I made for it. Bill came up by this time, and I was hoping that they had separated, but they were hugging and fighting as hard as ever. I crawled out on the roots and yelled to Bill to let me settle it.
"If yer tetch him, boy, I'll never forgive yer. I'm not done yet by a long shot, and I'll down the critter if it takes all night."
When Bill talked that way I know he was game to the finish and his blood was up, so I ran up the bank and got my rifle, and sitting on a log near the water, I watched the fun, altogether too serious for fun, I thought. Their struggles were fearful, and I screamed, and would certainly have fired at the bear had it not been for the fear of hitting Bill. By this time they had worked over to the roots, and then I realized what Bill was up to. He got one arm around them to brace himself, and with the other clutching the bear's throat, he slowly and by main force pushed those fearful red gaping jaws away from him. Slowly and with almost superhuman strength he pushed the head further away until finally he forced it under water. I could see the claws of the animal's fore-paw dig into Bill's shoulder. I could see his violent struggles as he strove to get his head above water, but Bill held him under. It was a frightful but a grand sight. The moon lit up the scene, and through the steam rising from the struggling pair Bill's grim-set jaws and determined face showed the true hunter in the height of his glory.
The fight grew weaker and weaker, and then all was still except the quick panting of Bill. At last with a deep sigh his chest relaxed, his hand gave up his prey, and a few bubbles showed where the bear sank. Slowly Bill made his way to where I was standing, and putting out his hand, said,
"Thank ye, boy; you had nerve to obey me, and that makes a good hunter."
He was pretty nigh exhausted and badly clawed. While I helped him to patch up his wounds temporarily I learned that the bear, evidently attracted by the trout, had sneaked into camp during the night and stumbled over Bill, who grabbed him. The next morning we fished him out of the water, and found him a large specimen and a foe well worth letting alone.
Hubert Earl.
[ORIGIN OF THE AMERICAN NAVY.]
BY CAPTAIN HOWARD PATTERSON.
Every patriotic American is proud of our famous White Squadron, illustrating as it does to all the navies of the world the perfection of ship-building, motive power, ordnance and personnel. Although two or three other navies have a much longer list of men-of-war in their registers, there is not a foreign power that can show, class for class, anything superior in battle-ships, cruisers, and coast-defense vessels to those which float under "Old Glory," and it is not making a rash claim when it is asserted that in a competitive exhibition the laurel wreaths would in all probability be hung upon the mast-heads of the ships that belong to Uncle Sam.
And yet how weak and lowly in comparison was the birth of our navy!—but still a navy that even in its infancy humbled almost to degradation the strength and vanity and hauteur of that of the British, that mistress of the seas, against which for more than a century the most magnificently equipped and powerful fleets in Europe had hurled themselves, only to be beaten back from its "walls of oak," crushed and shattered.
On October 13, 1775, one hundred and twenty-one years ago, or nine months before the Declaration of Independence was signed, the representatives from the thirteen colonies authorized the building of two vessels, one to be armed with 14 guns and the other with 10 guns. When completed it was designed that these ships should escape through the English fleets blockading the coast, and then prey upon the commerce of the enemy. On October 30 Congress ordered the building of two additional cruisers, one to carry 36 guns and the other 20 guns. These measures so aroused the patriotic fire and zeal of hundreds of American seamen whose vessels were locked up in idleness in our seaports, owing to the embargo, that they petitioned Congress to provide ships and put them on board, so that they might go out against the enemy's vessels that tantalizingly kept watch before the approaches to our harbors. Appreciating the spirit of the petitioners, and realizing that a possible opportunity was offered them to deal a serious blow to the supremacy of the English along our line of coast, Congress ordered, on December 13 (or just two months, to the day, following the first authorization, for ship construction), the building of thirteen vessels of war, of which five were to carry 32 guns, five 28 guns, and three 24 guns.
Work was immediately commenced on this fleet; but as the builders demanded six months' time to complete them, Congress passed a law to purchase and arm suitable merchant-ships for immediate service. It cannot fail to interest the reader to give the names of the first vessels of the American navy. Among the many merchant-ships lying idle in the Eastern and Southern ports the following fourteen were selected by a committee, and, after being purchased, were armed with the number of guns set opposite their respective names: Ships—Alfred, 24; Columbus, 24. Brigs—Lexington, 16; Cabot, 16, Reprisal, 16; Andrea Doria, 14; Hampden, 14; Providence, 12. Schooners—Wasp, 8; Fly, 8. Sloops—Hornet, 10; Independence, 10; Sachem, 10, and Mosquito, 4.
Had the guns with which these vessels were armed been of uniform and suitable calibre, the odds in favor of the English men-of-war would still have been enormous; but when it is considered that the batteries of the ships were made up of every description of ordnance, from the antiquated Dutch cannon brought over by Peter Stuyvesant, to the ridiculously small and obsolete saluting-guns that had been preserved as relics on the public greens in Boston, New York, Philadelphia, and other cities, the wonder grows that with such implements, served by men green to naval warfare, and mounted within lumbering merchant-ships, the stateliest frigates of the enemy were again and again beaten and captured, and the proud white ensign of old England lowered repeatedly to the flag whose motto was "Don't tread on me!"
The difficulty encountered by Congress in equipping, officering, and manning the little American fleet in the absence of arsenals and dock-yards, and when men trained to the service were not obtainable, finds only one parallel in history, when Alfred the Sailor King fitted out and conducted a fleet against the Danes one thousand years and more ago. But if system and order were at first lacking, patriotism compensated, and the old guns were served by men whose love of liberty breathed in the shot they hurled against their foes.
On December 22, 1775, Congress appointed Ezekiel Hopkins as commodore and commander-in-chief of the navy, and the following officers, all drawn from the merchant marine of the colonies, to serve as captains: Dudley Saltonstall, Abraham Whipple, Nicholas Biddle, and J. B. Hopkins. Leading the list of first lieutenants appointed on the same day, we find the immortal name of John Paul Jones, and in succession those of Rhodes Arnold, James Stanbury, Haysted Hacker, and Jonathan Pitcher. Next, under the head of second lieutenants, the records preserved in the Navy Department in Washington show the names of Benjamin Seabury, Joseph Olney, Elisha Warner, Thomas Weaver, and James McDougal, while the three third lieutenants appointed were John Fanning, Ezekiel Burroughs, and Daniel Vaughn.
Immediately after assuming command, Commodore Hopkins sailed, with the Alfred as his flag-ship, for a descent upon the English possession known as New Providence, and was accompanied to the West Indies by the Columbus, Cabot, Andrea Doria, Providence, Wasp, Fly, and Hornet. The expedition was successful, and the ships of the little flying squadron were loaded with captured stores and one hundred cannon, which latter were afterwards mounted on the American men-of-war under construction at the time. The commodore returned north, carrying back with him the English Governor of New Providence, and several other high officials of that colony. When within view of the Long Island shore three of the leading American vessels sighted and later on engaged the English frigate Glasgow and two brigs-of-war. After a spirited contest the latter surrendered, but the former escaped by a great display of seamanship.
The entire fleet with its prizes arrived safely at New London on April-fool day, 1776. This was the first and last naval command that Commodore Hopkins enjoyed; for, not acting with sufficient energy in refitting his fleet, Congress dropped him from the naval service.
In June, 1776, a marine corps was established, and Samuel Nichols was appointed to command it, with the rank of major. The junior officers consisted of nine captains, ten first and seven second lieutenants.
At the time that the Declaration of Independence was signed the thirteen vessels ordered to be constructed during the previous year were reported finished, and Congress assigned officers to them, as well as to other ships that had been captured from the enemy. The standing of the American navy when the Liberty Bell in the City of Brotherly Love pealed out the anthem of the free on July 4, 1776, is shown in the following, and the numerals attached to the names signify the number of guns with which they were armed: Washington, 32; Virginia, 28; Boston, 24; Warren, 32; Trumbull, 28; Randolph, 32; Raleigh, 32; Congress, 28; Effingham, 28; Delaware, 24; Reprisal, 16; Montgomery, 24; Lexington, 16; Hampden, 14; Andrea Doria, 14; Providence, 28; Providence (2d), 12; Alfred, 24; Cabot, 14; Sachem, 10; Independence, 10, and Fly, 8.
To the command of some of these vessels were ordered men who proved themselves heroes in many a notable encounter, and whose names will endure as long as this great republic lasts; but the two most prominent figures in the historical group are those of John Paul Jones, promoted to the rank of captain for bravery in battle and for services rendered to his country, and Nicholas Biddle, the brave old sea-lion, who recognized no odds, but who would engage a vastly superior enemy with the same readiness and confidence that he laid his vessel alongside of a sure prize.
A few words concerning four of these vessels will be found not to be devoid of unusual interest.
The Reprisal audaciously sailed across the Atlantic, being the first American vessel to visit Europe, and commenced a wild work of capture and destruction among the British merchant-ships in the Channel, right under the noses of their great fleets of war. Being joined a little later on by the Lexington, these two vessels, assisted by several prizes that they had armed, caused such havoc that rates of insurance on all English vessels were advanced twenty-five per cent. In the year 1778 the Reprisal foundered in a gale, and only the ship's cook was saved.
The Andrea Doria received the first foreign salute ever paid to an American man-of-war. Upon visiting St. Eustatins, the Dutch Governor greeted the vessel with a grand salvo from the fort; and this courtesy proved a very costly one for him, as his nation had not recognized the United States, and he therefore paid the penalty of his politeness by being dismissed from his high office.
The Randolph, on the night of March 7, 1778, engaged the British line-of-battle-ship Yarmouth, and while the fight was being gallantly conducted by Captain Biddle against a vastly superior foe, the Randolph, blew up. Out of 310 souls on board only four seamen were left alive, and these were picked up, four days later clinging to a piece of the wreck of their old ship.
One other vessel was ordered to be built by Congress during the year 1776, and that was a line-of-battle-ship of 74 guns, the name of which was to be America. This fine vessel was constructed at Portsmouth, New Hampshire, but was not completed until the end of the Revolutionary struggle. She was then fitted out and presented, in the name of the United States, to Louis XVI. of France, as a mark of appreciation and gratitude by this republic, in whose cause he had so nobly and generously assisted.
It does not come within the scope of this story to tell of the gallant actions that took place between our modest vessels and the towering ships of England, but some measure of the great honors that we fought for and gained may be appreciated when it is known that American men-of-war made over 800 prizes at sea during the struggle for independence.
