“It is well enough to bring the body of Paul Jones across the ocean and bury it in American soil with appropriate honors. But the nation should not forget that another man—Captain Samuel Tucker—lies in a neglected grave today; yet no man captured more prize ships, or did more to feed and clothe the army of Washington than he.”—From The Herald, editorial, 1905.
The incidents of this book are taken largely from the log-book of Captain Tucker, and are intended to picture the stirring times in which he lived, and the thrilling adventures in which he engaged. Midshipman Arthur Dunn, one of Captain Tucker’s officers, is the narrator, and his story covers the five years during which his commander played no small part in naval affairs. It is hoped the narrative will arouse in the heart of every reader an admiration for the brave Captain, and rescue from oblivion the name of another of our Continental heroes—the man who did so much to keep the land forces of our Revolutionary struggle supplied with ammunition and stores at the expense of the enemy.
William P. Chipman.
IN SHIP AND PRISON
CHAPTER I
I GO IN SEARCH OF CAPTAIN TUCKER
I cannot remember the time when I did not love the sea, nor is that strange. I was born in sight of the ocean. My father, and, as for that matter, his father before him, was a sailor. My first recollections are of boats and oars, of vessels and ropes and sails. At fourteen I had made a trip to the Great Banks on a fishing smack and at sixteen my knowledge of the Atlantic coast reached from Newfoundland to Charleston. Tall for my age, strong and hardy from constant toil and exposure, and familiar with all sorts of sailing craft from a shallop to a ship, I counted myself an able-bodied seaman. I now had one ambition—to voyage to foreign ports.
Suddenly, unexpectedly, the single cable which bound me to the homeland was severed. My mother—the only parent I can remember, for my father was lost at sea while I was still a babe—died. I left her in usual health for a voyage to Norfolk. On my return I found her dead and buried. In caring for a neighbor, who was sick with typhus fever, she fell a victim to the disease. A small cottage with its scanty furniture, a few dollars in the care of Squire Sabins, the village lawyer, and her dying message—these were my legacy. It was the message which changed the course of my life, and sent me away from my native town for years. It read:
“My dear Boy:—
But for you I should rejoice over what the doctor just told me—that I have but a few hours to live—for it means a reunion with your dear father, though a separation from you. It is but a change from the presence of one loved one to the presence of the other. Sixteen years I have been with you, fifteen years away from him. Now I go to be with him, and leave you to the care of Him who has promised to be with the fatherless. He will keep you in all your ways.