Note to Bass Fishing.—Crew of the Essex Frigate.—In the bloody and heroic defence of the Essex, in which, out of a crew of two hundred and fifty-five men, one hundred and fifty-three were killed and wounded! a number of instances of individual daring and devotion are recorded of the common sailors. Besides the act of Ripley, which is mentioned in the text, one man received a cannon ball through his body, and exclaimed in the agonies of death—“Never mind, shipmates, I die for free trade and sailor’s rights.” Another expired inciting his shipmates to “fight for liberty!”—and another, Benjamin Hazen, having dressed himself in a clean shirt and jacket, threw himself overboard, declaring, that “he would never be incarcerated in an English prison.” An old man-of-war’s-man who was in her, informed the writer, that her sides were so decayed by exposure to the climate in which she had been cruizing, that the dust flew like smoke from every shot that came through the bulwarks, and that at the close of the action, when the Essex was lying perfectly helpless, a target for the two heavy British ships, riddled by every ball from their long guns, without the ability to return a single shot—he was near the quarter-deck and heard Commodore Porter walking up and down with hurried steps, repeatedly strike his breast and exclaim, in great apparent agony—“My Heaven!—is there no shot for me!”
Note to Bass Fishing.—Mutiny on Board the Essex Frigate.—While the Essex was lying at the Marquesas Islands, recruiting and refreshing her crew from one of the long and arduous cruises in the Pacific, Commodore Porter was informed through a servant of one of the officers, that a mutiny had been planned, and was on the eve of consummation. That it was the intention of the mutineers to rise upon the officers—take possession of the ship—and, after having remained as long as they found agreeable at the island, to hoist the black flag and “cruize on their own account.”—Having satisfied himself of the truth of the information, Commodore Porter ascended to the quarter-deck, and ordered all the crew to be summoned aft. Waiting till the last man had come from below, he informed them that he understood that a mutiny was on foot, and that he had summoned them for the purpose of inquiring into its truth.—“Those men who are in favour of standing by the ship and her officers,” said the commodore, “will go over to the starboard side—those who are against them will remain where they are.” The crew, to a man, moved over to the starboard side. The ship was still as the grave. Fixing his eyes on them steadily and sternly for a few moments—the commodore said—“Robert White—step out.” The man obeyed, standing pale and agitated—guilt stamped on every lineament of his countenance—in front of his comrades. The commodore looked at him a moment—then seizing a cutlass from the nearest rack, said, in a suppressed voice, but in tones so deep that they rung like a knell upon the ears of the guilty among the crew—“Villain!—you are the ringleader of this mutiny—jump overboard!” The man dropt on his knees, imploring for mercy—saying that he could not swim. “Then drown, you scoundrel!” said the commodore, springing towards him to cut him down—“overboard instantly!”—and the man jumped over the side of the ship. He then turned to the trembling crew, and addressed them with much feeling—the tears standing upon his bronzed cheek as he spoke. He asked them what he had done, that his ship should be disgraced by a mutiny. He asked whether he had ever dishonoured the flag—whether he had ever treated them with other than kindness—whether they had ever been wanting for any thing to their comfort, that discipline and the rules of the service would allow—and which it was in his power to give. At the close of his address, he said—“Men!—before I came on deck, I laid a train to the magazine!—and I would have blown all on board into eternity, before my ship should have been disgraced by a successful mutiny—I never would have survived the dishonour of my ship!—go to your duty.” The men were much affected by the commodore’s address, and immediately returned to their duty, showing every sign of contrition. They were a good crew, but had been seduced by the allurements of the islands, and the plausible representations of a villain. That they did their duty to their flag, it is only necessary to say—that the same crew fought the ship afterwards against the Phebe, and Cherub, in the harbour of Valparaiso, where, though the American flag descended—it descended in a blaze of glory which will long shine on the pages of history. But mark the sequel of this mutiny—and let those who, in the calm security of their firesides, are so severe upon the course of conduct pursued by officers in such critical situations, see how much innocent blood would have been saved, if White had been cut down instantly, or hung at the yard arm. As he went overboard, he succeeded in reaching a canoe floating at a little distance and paddled ashore. Some few months afterwards, when Lieutenant Gamble of the Marines was at the islands, in charge of one of the large prizes, short handed and in distress, this same White, at the head of a party of natives, attacked the ship, killed two of the officers and a number of the men, and it was with great difficulty that she was prevented from falling into their hands. The blood of those innocent men, and the lives of two meritorious officers would have been spared, if the wretch had been put to instant death—as was the commodore’s intention. It will be recollected, that the Essex, in getting under way, out of the harbour of Valparaiso, carried away her foretop-mast in a squall, and being thus unmanageable, came to anchor in the supposed protection of a neutral port—nevertheless the Phebe, frigate, and Cherub, sloop-of-war, attacked her in this position—the former with her long guns, selecting her distance—cutting her up at her leisure—while the Essex, armed only with carronades, lay perfectly helpless—her shot falling short of the Phebe, although they reached the Cherub, which was forced to get out of their range. “I was standing,” said my informant, then a midshipman only fourteen years old, “I was standing at the side of one of our bow chasers, (the only long guns we had,) which we had run aft out of the stern port—when the Phebe bore up, and ran under our stern to rake us. As she came within half-pistol shot (!) she gave us her whole broadside at the same instant.—I recollect it well!” said the officer—“for as I saw the flash, I involuntarily closed my eyes—expecting that she would have blown us out of the water—and she certainly would have sunk us on the spot, but firing too high, her shot cut our masts and rigging all to pieces, doing little injury to the hull. Singular as it may seem, the discharge of our one gun caused more slaughter than the whole of their broadside, for while we had but one man wounded, the shot from our gun killed two of the men at the wheel of the Phebe, and glancing with a deep gouge on the main-mast, mortally wounded her first Lieutenant, who died on the following day.”
Long Island Sound.—New England Traditions.—There are few countries where traditions and legends are handed down from generation to generation with more fidelity than in New England, more particularly along the sea-coast and the shores of the Sound. The “fire ship” is supposed even now by the old fishermen to be seen cruising occasionally in the vicinity of Block Island in the furious storms of thunder and lightning. The tradition is, that she was taken by pirates—all hands murdered, and abandoned after being set on fire by the bucaneers. Some accounts state that a large white horse which was on board, was left near the foremast to perish in the flames—and in storms of peculiarly terrific violence that she may be seen, rushing along enveloped in fire, the horse stamping and pawing at the heel of the foremast, her phantom crew assembled at quarters. In the early part of the last century, a ship came ashore a few miles beyond Newport, on one of the beaches—all sails set—the table prepared for dinner, but the food untouched, and no living thing on board of her. It was never ascertained what had become of her crew—but it was supposed that she had been abandoned in some moment of alarm, and that they all perished, although the vessel arrived in safety.
The phantom horse will recall to mind a real incident, which occurred not long since in the conflagration of one of the large steamboats on Lake Erie. A fine race horse was on board, and secured, as is usual, forward. Of course his safety was not looked to, while all were making vain efforts to save themselves from their horrible fate. As the flames came near him he succeeded in tearing himself loose from his fastenings, rushing franticly through the fire and smoke fore and aft, trampling down the unfortunate victims that were in his way, adding still more horror to a scene which imagination can hardly realize, until frenzied with the pain and agony of the fire, he plunged overboard and perished.
But the favourite and most cherished traditions are those relating to hidden treasure. The writer well recollects one to which his attention was attracted in his childhood. Mr. ——, inhabiting one of those fine old mansions in Newport, which had been built fifty years before, by an English gentleman of fortune, where taste and caprice had been indulged to the extreme, and where closets, and beaufets, and cellars, and pantries, appeared to meet one at every turn, was engaged late one winter’s night writing in his study, when he found it necessary to replenish his fire with fuel. The servants having retired, he took a candle and went himself to the cellar to procure it, and as he passed the vault called the “wine cellar,” his attention was attracted by a light streaming through the key-hole of the door. He stopped a moment and called out supposing that some of the family were in the apartment—but instantly the light vanished. He stepped up to the door and endeavoured to open it, but found to his surprise that it was fastened,—a thing that was unusual as the door constantly stood ajar. Calling out again, “who’s there?” without receiving any answer, he placed his foot against the door, and forced it open, when a sight met his eyes, which for a moment chained him to the spot. In the centre of the cellar in a deep grave which had been already dug, and leaning upon his spade, was a brawny negro, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his shoulders, and the sweat trickling down his glistening black visage, while on the pile of earth made from the excavation, stood another negro, a drawn sword in one hand, a lantern with the light just extinguished in the other, and an open bible with two hazle rods across it, lying at his feet—these swart labourers the moment that the door was thrown open, making the most earnest signs for silence. As soon as Mr. —— could command his voice, he demanded the meaning of what he saw and what they were about. They both simultaneously then declared that the charm was broken by his voice. One of the worthies, who was the groom of the family, had dreamed five nights in succession, that old Mr. E—— the builder of the house, had buried a bootful (!) of gold in that cellar—and on comparing notes with his brother dreamer, he found that his visions also pointed to treasure in the old house, and they had proceeded secundem artem to its attainment, both vehemently declaring that they intended to give part of the treasure to Mr. ——. Of course, the door being opened, the strange negro was required to add the darkness of his visage to that of night, while the groom was on pain of instant dismission, together with the threat of the ridicule of the whole town, directed to fill up the grave, and thereafter to let the buried treasure sleep where its owner had seen fit to deposit it.
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