The damaged condition of the schooner compelled us, when off Nova Scotia, to make a port as speedily as possible, and accordingly we put into Halifax. Our reception there was most gratifying, and among a people famed for hospitality we had abundant reason to rejoice over the ill winds which had blown us so much good. The admiral of Her Britannic Majesty's fleet, then in Halifax Harbor, generously tendered the use of the Government conveniences for repairing my crippled vessel; and from the officers of Her Majesty's civil service and of the squadron and garrison; from the Mayor and many other citizens of Halifax,—most especially from the Medical Society,—the Expedition received attentions which exhibited not less a friendliness of disposition for ourselves than respect for the flag under which our explorations had been made.
Up to the time of our arrival at Halifax we had, of course, no further news than what reached us at Upernavik. We had scarcely dropped our anchor before a a citizen of the town and a countryman of my own, neither of whom was long a stranger to my friendship or my gratitude, hurried off to give us greetings, and to bring the news. They had picked up some files of New York papers on the way, and we soon learned of the terrible struggle that had been going on for many months. Although not wholly unprepared for this by the intelligence received at Upernavik, yet we had confidently cherished the expectation that hostilities had been averted by wise and prudent counsellors. The shock was to us such as those who had watched at home the progress of events from day to day could perhaps hardly realize. The first intelligence I had of the war was the account of the Bull Run battle, next I heard of the firing on Sumter, and then of the riots in Baltimore, and the destruction of Norfolk Navy-Yard, and the capture of Harper's Ferry; and then followed an account of the universal arming and volunteering.
ARRIVAL IN BOSTON.
We remained at Halifax not longer than was necessary to complete the repairs of the schooner, when we again put to sea, and in four days made the Boston Lights. We picked up a pilot out of the thickest fog that I have ever seen south of the Arctic Circle, and with a light wind stood into the harbor. As the night wore on the wind fell away almost to calm; the fog thickened more and more, if that were possible, as we sagged along over the dead waters toward the anchorage. The night was filled with an oppressive gloom. The lights hanging at the mast-heads of the vessels which we passed had the ghastly glimmer of tapers burning in a charnel-house. We saw no vessel moving but our own, and even those which lay at anchor seemed like phantom ships floating in the murky air. I never saw the ship's company so lifeless, or so depressed even in times of real danger.
The sun was beginning to pour into the atmosphere a dim light when we let go our anchor; but it did not seem that we were at home, or that a great city lay near by. No one was anxious to go ashore. It appeared as if each one anticipated some personal misfortune, and wished to postpone the shock foreboded by his fears. I landed on Long Wharf, and found my way into State Street. Two or three figures were moving through the thick vapors, and their solemn foot-fall broke the worse than Arctic stillness. I reached Washington Street, and walked anxiously westward. A news-boy passed me. I seized a paper, and the first thing which caught my eye was the account of the Ball's Bluff battle, in which had fallen many of the noblest sons of Boston; and it seemed as if the very air had shrouded itself in mourning for them, and that the heavens wept tears for the city's slain.
I was wending my way to the house of a friend, but I thought it likely that he was not there. I felt like a stranger in a strange land, and yet every object which I passed was familiar. Friends, country, every thing seemed swallowed up in some vast calamity, and, doubtful and irresolute, I turned back sad and dejected, and found my way on board again through the dull, dull fog.
REALIZATION OF THE REBELLION.
THE DETERMINATION.
The terrible reality was now for the first time present to my imagination. The land which I had left in the happy enjoyment of peace and repose was already drenched with blood; a great convulsion had come to scatter the old landmarks of the national Union, and the country which I had known before could be the same no more. Mingled with these reflections were thoughts of my own career. To abandon my pursuits; to give up a project in which I had expended so much time and means; to have nipped, as it were, in the very bud, a work upon which I had set my heart, and to which I had already given all the early years of my manhood; to sacrifice all the hopes and all the ambitions which had encouraged me through toil and danger, with the promise of the fame to follow the successful completion of a great object; to abandon an enterprise in which I had aspired to win for myself an honorable place among the men who have illustrated their country's history and shed lustre upon their country's flag, were thoughts which first seriously crossed my mind while returning on board, carrying in my hand the bloody record of Ball's Bluff. In the face of the startling intelligence which had crowded upon me since reaching Halifax, and which had now culminated; in the face of the duty which every man owes, in his own person, to his country when his country is in peril, I could not hesitate. Before I had reached my cabin, while our friends were yet in ignorance of our presence in the bay, I had resolved to postpone the execution of the task with which I had charged myself; and I closed as well the cruise as the project, by writing a letter to the President, asking for immediate employment in the public service, and offering my schooner to the government for a gun-boat.