Decatur and Somers

by Molly Elliot Seawell

When Captain Bainbridge came on board, Decatur eagerly told him of Macdonough’s gallant exploit, and the captain’s delight was unbounded.

“By heavens!” he chuckled, “these boy officers of mine manage to do something handsome every time I leave them to themselves. If I stayed on shore altogether, I believe they’d lick everything in sight, in one way or another!”

Several weeks had now passed, and, owing to the slowness of communication from home, no official declaration of war had reached them. The squadron cruised about the Mediterranean, giving convoy, and ready to begin active hostilities as soon as called upon. The Tripolitan pirates were still at work, whenever they dared, but the watchful energy of the American squadron kept them from doing much harm. Meanwhile the Boston was cruising over the same ground; but whenever the squadron put into port, either the Boston had just left, or she arrived just as the squadron disappeared. This was very exasperating to Commodore Dale; but as Captain NcNeill was ostensibly in hot pursuit of the squadron, and always had some plausible excuse for not falling in with it, the commodore could do nothing but leave peremptory orders behind him and in advance of him, which invariably reached Captain McNeill just a little too late or too early.

It was a cruel disappointment to both Decatur and Somers, who had expected to be almost as much together as if on the same ship. When they had been thus dodging each other for months, Decatur found at Messina, where the Essex touched, the following letter from Somers:

“My dear Decatur: Here we are, going aloft, with a fair wind, while I am perfectly sure that the sail reported off the starboard quarter is one of the squadron—perhaps the Essex! As you know, Captain McNeill is apparently the most anxious man imaginable to report to his commanding officer; but if Commodore Dale wins in this chase, he will be a seaman equal to Paul Jones himself. For Captain McNeill is one of the very ablest seamen in the world, and, much as his eccentricities annoy us, his management of the ship is so superb that we can’t but admire the old fellow. But I tell you privately that he has no notion of taking orders from anybody, and the commodore will never lay eyes on him during the whole cruise. Nevertheless, he is doing good service, giving convoy, and patrolling the African coast so that the Barbary corsairs are beginning to be afraid to show their noses when the Boston is about.”

Here a break occurred, and the letter was continued on the next page:

“Just as I had written the last word, another sail was reported off the starboard quarter, and all of us are convinced that it is your squadron. I even think I recognize the rig of the Essex, among the four ships now visible. But old McNeill, sending his favorite lookout—an old sailor, Jack Bell, the captain of the maintop—aloft, we know very well that you will soon be hull down, and we ripping it as fast as we can leg it, on the opposite tack. Jack Bell, you must know, understands the captain’s peculiarity, and never sees anything the captain doesn’t wish to see. So he has just come down with the report that, of the four ships, not one is square enough in her rig to be a war ship, and that he thinks they are French transports! You can’t imagine with what a straight face he says this, and how infuriated we are. The captain then turns and says to us: ‘Gentlemen, this is most unfortunate. I was in hopes this was Commodore Dale’s squadron, but it is evidently not.’ And now we are bearing away due north, with every stitch of canvas set that will draw! I said that all of us are infuriated. That is not quite correct, for two or three odd fish among us have become infected with the captain’s mania, and declare that, for the credit of the thing, they don’t wish to be caught, for it is really a chase and a pursuit.

“In regard to my shipmates, I find them pleasant fellows, but still I feel, as I always shall, the loss of your companionship, my dear Decatur. Perhaps, had I a father or a mother, I should feel differently, but your parents are the persons who have treated me with the most paternal and maternal affection. As for you, we have lived so long in intimacy, that I can scarcely expect to form another such friendship, and, indeed, it would be impossible. I am glad that you are becoming fond of young Macdonough. Several of the midshipmen on this ship know him, and speak of him as a young officer of wonderful nerve and coolness. Well did you come off in your dispute with the Thunderer! I only hope that Macdonough, as young as he is, may exercise some of that restraint over you which you have always charged me with, Decatur. You are much too rash, and I wish I could convince you that there are occasions in every officer’s life when prudence is the very first and greatest virtue. Of course, you will laugh at this, and remind me of many similar warnings I have given you, but I can not help advising you; you know I have been doing that ever since we were lads together at Dame Gordon’s school. I heard a story of the great Nelson, the other day, that reminded me of you. When he was a very young child he went one day to his mother and said to her: ‘I hear people speak of “fear,” of “being afraid.” What is it? What is fear?’ The child was, indeed, father of the man in that case.”

The Enterprise capturing the Tripolitan pirate.

Here came another break, and a new date.