Generally speaking, in the religious notions of our sailors, there is mixed a portion of that superstition which we, our forefathers, and foremothers brought with them from England, Scotland and Ireland. They believe, for example, in spirits, or ghosts, and that they haunt houses and ships; and that they have sometimes appeared with horrid visage, and menacing countenances, at the bed-side of a cruel captain; and above all, to the false hearted Tar, who cruelly deserted his too credulous Poll, who drowned herself in despair. The common sailor often tells such stories, and sings them in ballads, both which are generally ended with the good moral sentiment of the punishment of cruelty and treachery; and the reward of the kind hearted and humane.
It may appear singular that men whose conduct generally is so opposite to the prescribed rules of the Priest, should have so firm an opinion of another life, after their bodies are eaten up by sharks, or blown to atoms; but it is really the case with the British and American sailors; for they have the strongest belief in the existence of spirits; and all their stories and traditions tend to confirm this superstition. How often have I known them huddled together in the night, telling stories of feats of danger and desperation! a ghost or spirit is generally brought into the history. Nothing suits these daring set of men better than a solemn narrative of a supernatural achievement, and a supernatural escape; but to be charming, it must have a tinge of the horrible. Shakespeare would have recognized some of these men as his kindred, and they him as a relation. Good luck and ill luck, lucky days and unlucky days, as well as lucky ships, attach themselves strongly to a sailor's mind. A remarkable instance of this we have in our ill-fated frigate Chesapeake. Ever since the British ship, Leopard, fired into this American frigate, in a period of profound peace, and caused her to strike her colors, and which led to her being boarded; and her men to be mustered by compulsion, and some of her crew taken and carried forcibly on board the Leopard, one of which was afterwards hanged; after this deep wound on our country's honor, this frigate was ever after viewed as unlucky, and shunned accordingly.
In confirmation of this nautical curse, she met with a series of disasters during the war, which were not attributed to ill management, but to ill luck. Thus, one time she was coming up the harbor of Boston, from a cruise, where she lost spar after spar, and topmast after topmast; and when in full sight or the town, and not much wind, over board went her fore-top-mast, and several men were drowned in their fall from the rigging. This was not attributed to lack of judgment, but to ill luck. When this ill-omened ship lay in Boston harbor, previous to her last and fatal cruise, she could not get men; and that from the impression on the minds of sailors, that she was an unlucky ship. This operated to her final misfortune; for her crew was made up of every thing that offered. Her captain was a stranger to his crew, and to his officers; his first lieutenant lay at the point of death when she sailed; her motley crew mutinied, on account of their pay, before they weighed anchor; her brave, I had like to have said rash commander, sailed out in a great hurry; her cables were not quite stowed away, nor other things arranged in their places, when she bore down on the cool and orderly Shannon; and to crown all, her intrepid commander, a man six feet two inches, went into action within half pistol shot, in full uniform, as if he defied the power of the British musketry. I have conversed with some of her officers and men in my captivity, and think that I am warranted in saying, that there was much more high-toned bravery exhibited on that day, than good conduct.—The sailors, however, think differently; they all attribute it to that unavoidable fatality which forever adheres, like pitch, to an unlucky ship. O, my country!
"It was that fatal and perfidious bark,
Built in th' eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark,
That sunk so low that sacred head of thine!"Milton's Lycidas.
CHAPTER II.
August 30th.—Drafts continue to be made from this ship to be sent off to Dartmoor Prison. There are but few of us remaining, and we are every day in expectation of removal. All go off with evident reluctance, from an apprehension that the change will be for the worse. It is the "untried scene," that fills us with anxiety. We are more disposed to bear our present ills, "than fly to others which we know not of."
Oh, how we envy the meanest looking wretch we see, crawling on the shore, gathering sticks to cook his fish. There the beggar enjoys the natural inheritance of man, sweet Liberty; if the unfeeling, the avaricious and morose, refuse his petition, he can sweeten the disappointment with the reflection, that he has liberty to walk where he pleases. He is not shut up, in the prime of life, and cut off from all intercourse with those he holds most dear; he is not lingering out his life and health under the morose countenance of an unfeeling jailor. He has not, like us, a home, where peace, plenty, and every good, await to welcome us. Who can express the anguish felt by some of us, wretched prisoners, here crowded together, like sheep, men who have broken no law of either country; but who have stood courageously forth in supporting the sacred cause of our country, and in defending "free trade and sailors' rights." Should this war continue some years longer, or should peace be restored, and another war with Britain commence, I will venture to predict that our enemies will take but few prisoners alive. My own mind is entirely made up on this head. I hope to stand ready to risk my life for the liberty and independence of our nation, and for the preservation of my own personal liberty; but unless wounded and maimed, I never will be again a prisoner to the British.
The American sailor has a beloved home; he was born and brought up in a house that had a "fire place" in it.—Many of them here, in captivity, have wives and children, most of them have parents, and brothers and sisters. These poor fellows partake, at times, the misery of their dear relatives, at three thousand miles distance. They recollect their aged mothers, and decrepid fathers, worn down with age, labor, and anxious thoughts for the welfare of their absent sons. Some have wives, and little children, weeping for their absent husbands, and suffering for the good and comfortable things of this life, having none to help them. In families, neighborhoods, and villages, men are supported by leaning on each other; or by supporting each other; and we have here endeavored to do so too; but now our numbers are thinning, some of our best, our steadiest, and most prudent men, have left us, and gone to Dartmoor Prison. I have felt very low spirited for some days past. It is true, our numbers are now so few, that we can run about, and beguile the tedious hours by a greater variety of exercise and amusement than heretofore; but then, our soberest men are gone, and left behind some of the most noisy and disorderly of our whole crew; and young as I am, I am little disposed to make a riot or noise, merely for noise sake.
A disturbance took place last night, which deprived all of us of sleep. It was owing to the unaccommodating disposition of our commander, Mr. Osmore. About thirty prisoners were selected, and called aft, with their hammocks all tied up, to be ready to go off early in the morning in a tender. The tender did not arrive as was expected; the sergeant was ordered to count us over in the evening to go to rest; whereupon the thirty drafted men went aft, and requested their hammocks to sleep in; Mr. Osmore replied, that, as they were to go off early in the morning, they would only detain the tender, if they had their hammocks to take down and pack up again, on which account he refused to let them have their usual accommodations for sleeping.—The men went below, very much dissatisfied at the churlish disposition of the commander; and as they despaired being able to sleep themselves, on bare boards, they all determined that Osmore should not himself sleep. They waited quietly till about ten o'clock, when the commander usually went to bed; and then they tore up the large oak benches, tied ropes to them, and run with them round the deck, drawing the benches after them like a sled, at the same time hollowing, screaming and yelling, and making every noise that their ingenuity or malice could devise. Sometimes they drove these oaken benches full butt against the aft bulk head, so as to make the ship tremble again with the noise, like cannon. They jarred down the crockery belonging to the marines, which was set up on the opposite side of the cock-pit, and frightened their wives out of their beds. The noise and jarring were so great, that it seemed as if they were breaking up the ship, for the sake of her iron work. Lieut. Osmore sent a marine down, to order them to be still and go to sleep. They replied, that they had no conveniences for sleeping, and that Osmore had acted like a villain, in depriving them unnecessarily of their hammocks, for which brutality, they were determined that he should not sleep more than they. After which they recommenced their riot and thundering noise, which brought Osmore out of his cabin, who called one of the committee to him, and told him to tell the men, that if they did not directly cease their noise, he would confine every man of them below, for three days. The committee man replied, that nothing could then be done, for that the mob had fairly capsized the government of the ship; and all that he could say, would only add to the riot and confusion. "Then," said he, "I'll be d—d if I do not fire upon them." Some of the mob answered, "fire, and be d—d." And the commander hesitated a moment, and returned to his cabin; for he saw the men were wrought up to the battle pitch, and rather wished him to fire, by way of excuse for their attack upon him, whom they most cordially despised.
Directly upon this, they collected all the tin and copper pans, pots and kettles, and every sonorous metallic substance they could lay their hands on. These they tied together, and hitched bunches of them here and there, upon the oaken planks; and then, what with screaming, yelling, like the Indian war-whoop, cheering, and the thundering noise of the planks, grating along the deck, together with the ringing and clattering of their metallic vessels, they made altogether such a hideous "rattle-come-twang," that it was enough to raise all Chatham. All this was transacted in utter darkness. The officers doubtless saw, that bloodshed and promiscuous death would be the consequence of firing among the rioters, and prudently left it to subside with the darkness of the night. These disorderly fellows would go round the decks twice, with all this thundering noise and clatter, and then be silent for about half an hour, or until they thought Mr. Osmore had got into a doze; and then they would recommence their horrible serenade. At length Osmore became so enraged, that he swore by his Maker, that he would order every marine in the ship to fire in among them; but on some of the committee observing to him that he would be as likely to kill the innocent as the guilty, and as they were then silent, he went off again to his cabin; but within a quarter of an hour they begain their shocking serenade, and continued it, at provoking intervals, all the night, so that none could sleep in the ship.