“Yes, sir,” he stammered, glancing apprehensively at me.
“Well, sir, someone has made a mistake. Mark! I do not say it was you. It may have been myself. But it was a mistake, and must be rectified at once, sir. He is a midshipman, and I want you to rectify the mistake immediately. See that he is given a midshipman’s outfit, and assigned to your own mess at once. Explain to your brother officers that there was a mistake—for which Master Dunn himself is in no way accountable—by which he was sent to the forecastle and he has proved he has the first characteristic of a good officer—he can obey without a murmur or complaint. Good morning, sir.”
“But let me thank you, sir, for this kindness,” I began. But he interrupted me:
“It is simply justice, sir, and no man should be thanked for doing right. Good morning.”
So for the second time within twenty-four hours I followed Midshipman Seymour from the cabin, but with what different feelings in my heart! The first time I was filled with bitterness and wrath, and almost ready to curse my fate; this time I was overflowing with gratitude and could even have thanked Captain Weston for his base act had he been there.
I shall not weary you with the details of my life on the frigate. I have no complaint to make of the way I was treated. My relations with my brother officers were for the most part very pleasant, and as I now look back to that time I in no way regret the ten months I was with them. Our cruise was up the Mediterranean, and the calls we made at the different ports enabled me to become familiar with a portion of the world I had long wanted to see. But the greatest value of those months was the naval training I received. Though I knew it not, a Divine Providence was in that way fitting me for my future career. But I am anticipating.
In August, 1775, we reached Egypt, and after a brief stop at Alexandria, turned our prow to the west. “Homeward bound!” my mates declared. Homeward bound for them, but not for me. London, which we reached in September, was as much a foreign place to me as any we had visited. Still I never tired of its sights, and as often as possible I obtained shore leave that I might wander through its streets, gaze upon its churches, and visit its famous old Tower.
One day as I was going through Cheapside, on my way to Newgate Street, I noticed a crowd gathered around a man in the uniform of a British army officer, who was haranguing them in excited tones. Curious to hear what he was saying, I went over to them. What was my astonishment to find he was telling them of a great battle which had taken place at Bunker Hill, Boston, in the previous June! With bitter invective he denounced the colonists, and declared that His Majesty would soon send troops enough over there to wipe the rebels off from the face of the earth. Then he continued:
“And that is why, good people, I am here. As a recruiting officer for the King I now offer you the shilling. Who will walk up, and taking it in his palm, enter His Majesty’s service? Here is a shilling for each one who is ready to cross the seas and avenge the comrades who have been slain by the rebels! Walk right up, my friends!”
Then catching sight of me standing there in my naval uniform, he called out: