“No, sir,” answered Danny, very civilly. “I was born in Philadelphy, and I’ve been in the ’Merican navy ever since I were eleven year old, when I was a powder-monkey aboard o’ the Bunnum Richard, that ’ere old hulk with forty-two guns, when she licked the bran-new S’rapis, fifty guns. The Richard had Cap’n Paul Jones for a cap’n.”
Angry as Macdonough was, he could scarcely keep from laughing at Danny’s sly dig. But Captain Lockyer was furious.
“Is this the state of discipline prevailing among your crew—allowing them to harangue their superiors on the quarter-deck?” he asked cuttingly, of Macdonough.
“Captain Bainbridge, sir, of the Essex, is fully capable of maintaining discipline without any suggestion from the officers of the Thunderer,” answered Macdonough firmly, “and the question to be decided is, whether the word of the officers and men of the Essex is to be taken, or this man’s, regarding his citizenship.”
“It is the practice in the British navy to take the word of the man himself, as being most likely to know the facts in the case,” said Captain Lockyer, “and I decline to give up this man.”
True it was that such was the practice in the British navy, because it had the power to make good its high-handed measure.
“I do not feel myself qualified to deal with the question any further, then,” said Macdonough, “and I shall return on board the Essex and report to Captain Bainbridge,” and in another moment he had bowed formally and entered his boat.
When he reached the Essex, Captain Bainbridge was not on board, having gone ashore early in the evening, so Decatur was in command. Decatur’s anger knew no bounds. He stormed up and down the deck, sent a messenger off to the captain, and altogether was in just the sort of rage that an impetuous young officer would be in under like circumstances. But retaliation was nearer at hand than he imagined. While he and the other officers were collected in groups on deck, discussing the exasperating event, Danny Dixon, his face wreathed in smiles, approached.
“Mr. Decatur,” said he, unable to repress a grin of delight, “one o’ the finest-lookin’ sailor men I ever see, hearin’ ’em say on the Thunderer as how ’twas a rule to take a man’s word ’bout the country he belongs to, jist sneaked into our boat, sir, and hid hisself under the gunwale; and when we was h’istin’ the boat in, out he pops, sir, and swears he’s a ’Merican that was pressed into the British sarvice.”
Now, a man might very well have concealed himself in the boat, by the connivance of the men, without Macdonough’s seeing him, but how Danny Dixon could have avoided knowing it was a miracle. Nevertheless, he remarked solemnly: