Pike & Cutlass: Hero Tales of Our Navy

Captain Cook, Admiral Schley’s chief-of-staff on the “Brooklyn,” Captain Clark, of the “Oregon,” and Commander Davis were room-mates in the famous class of Crowninshield, Taylor, and Evans. The “Brooklyn” and the “Oregon,” commanded by classmates and room-mates, fought almost side by side down the desperate flight to the westward, the “Oregon” farther inland, but both thundering their iron missiles on the “Colon” as she struggled to her doom.

It is an interesting fact that Captain Clark, then holding the title of acting ensign, but really a midshipman, was the first one to communicate with the captain of the ram “Tennessee” when she was captured at Mobile Bay, while it was Captain Cook who received the surrender of the “Cristobal Colon.” The third member of this trio was retired several years ago or he would have had a command in the same action. The affection which these youngsters bore one for the other was very much like that which existed between Captains Evans and Taylor.

CLARK’S HEROISM AT THE BATTLE OF MOBILE BAY

In the battle of Mobile Bay young Clark was on the forecastle of the “Ossipee,” then holding an important position in the line of ships that swung past the torpedoes after the gallant Farragut in the “Hartford.”

The forecastle was bare of any defence, and the position was exposed to all assaults of the fire, first from Fort Morgan and then from Fort Gaines, farther up. When the forts were passed, there followed a fierce fight with the gunboats and the invincible ram “Tennessee.” Again and again the “Hartford,” “Ossipee,” and other vessels of the fleet rammed her in succession, and young Clark saw her terrible ports fly open and send out just by him their awful discharge.

At last, however, she became unmanageable, her shutters were jammed, and the “Ossipee,” under full head of steam, was making for her. But while Clark was straining his eyes through the smoke, a white flag was hoisted in token of surrender. Clark shouted to Johnson, the commander of the ram, to starboard his helm. But the reply came that his wheel-ropes were shot away. It was too late to keep from striking her, but the force of the blow was broken by the manœuvre. This early experience was followed by the bombardment of Fort Morgan, – two important actions before Clark had got into his early twenties. His fearlessness then, as now, needs no mention.

POPULARITY OF CAPTAIN PHILIP AS A CADET

It has been said that Captain Philip’s public acknowledgment of God on the decks of the battle-ship “Texas,” after the fight before Santiago, was the natural expression of a deeply religious nature. But his classmates at the Naval Academy and the men who have sailed with him say that he is not more religious than other men in the navy, – not so religious as many, who always have their Bible on the table in their cabins and read it regularly when at sea or in port.

They believe that he spoke on the impulse of the moment, his heart devoutly thankful that the victory had been achieved at so slight a loss, and willing that all men should witness his profession of faith.

As a boy at the Academy, while he never surreptitiously drank, as others did, he made no pretence of being religious. He smoked whenever he got a chance, in his quarters or in the darknesses back of old Fort Severn, between the watchmen’s rounds. He never, as other cadets did, gave his word not to smoke, and so he felt a perfect freedom to do it if he could keep from being caught. Like Sigsbee, he was a practical joker, and if you should go to any of the members of his class and ask them who was the most popular man in it, they would say, “Jack Philip.”

THE VERSATILITY OF ADMIRAL SAMPSON

In Admiral Sampson, the boy was father to the man. From boyhood his was a life of unneglected opportunities. Born of very humble parents, by the hardest of work and the most sincere endeavors he succeeded in obtaining his appointment to the Naval School. His mind, naturally studious, turned to the beginnings of the new profession with avidity, and so fine was his mind even then that, without trying himself unduly, he easily distanced his entire class and took first honors for the course.

His classmates say that he was studious, but they do not say that he applied himself so closely to the work that he shut himself off from the diversions or recreations of the rest-hours. On the contrary, he was foremost in most of the sports of the day, and was, in his own way, one of the best athletes in his class.

He was then, as he is now, an “Admirable Crichton,” but his versatility did not diminish for him the serious aspect of any of the things he attempted. Some of his classmates called him cold, as his contemporaries out in the service do now, but when they wanted advice on any subject which seemed to require a reasoning power entirely beyond their own, they said, “Ask Sampson.” He was not only high in his class councils, but dearly beloved, as he is to-day, by every man in it and every man who knew him. If people thought him cold then it was because they did not understand him. If they think him cold to-day it is because he does not care to be understood by the men with whom he has no interest or sympathy. If arrogance begins to be a virtue, then repression born of modesty is a crime.

To those men he cares for – now as in his youth – he has always a warm handshake and an open heart. His eye is calm, sympathetic, penetrating, stern, as the humor dictates, anything you please, – sometimes cold, but always hypnotic. If he wants the friendship of man or woman he is irresistible. To-day he is the authority on naval ordnance, an expert on explosives, a capital seaman, a famous tennis-player, – the best-equipped man in the service for any work – or play – that can be put before him.

BLUE, WHO DISCOVERED CERVERA’S FLEET

Victor Blue, who in his uniform made the fearless expedition ashore at Santiago, and actually saw for the first time the Spanish fleet within the harbor, is the kind of a man who does not have very much to say for himself, which is often a sign that a person is to be found ready when wanted. He was a member of the class of ’87, in which his work was fair, but not remarkable in any way. He lived quietly, receiving his quota of good and bad marks, but having no special distinction, even in his offences against the oracles of Stribling Row.

He did not care much for “fems” (girls, in the vernacular), but towards his first class-year began to “take notice.” He played a guard on the “Hustlers,” the scrub football team which struggles with the “Academy” eleven on practice-days, but never made the “Team.” He had plenty of grit, but was too light for the centre and not active enough for the ends. Blue is a fair specimen of the type of men who without ostentation have made our new navy what it is. Many men envy him, but no man begrudges him his numbers recently awarded for “extraordinary heroism.”

YOUNG DEWEY AS A FIGHTER

George Dewey entered the class of ’58 at the Naval Academy at the age of seventeen. He was not a large boy, but fairly up to middle height, and strong and active in all athletic sports. It was not long after his entrance that he found an opportunity to show the fighting spirit that was in him. It was not altogether of his own seeking, but when he was weighed in the balance, even then he was not found wanting.

The line between the Northern boys and the Southerners was clearly marked, and one day one of the Southerners called the young Vermonter a “dough-face.”

Young Dewey awaited a favorable opportunity, and struck his opponent so fair a blow that he knocked him down. There was a rough-and-tumble fight then and there, and Dewey’s adversary came out second best.

Later on another one of the Southerners insulted the young admiral, and there was another battle. But full satisfaction could not be obtained in this prosaic fashion, so the Southerner finally challenged young Dewey. The offer was promptly accepted, seconds were chosen, and the time and place were definitely settled upon. But some of Dewey’s classmates, seriously alarmed at the aspect of affairs, and knowing that neither one of the principals was of a temper to falter, hastily informed the academic authorities, and the whole affair was nipped in the bud but a few hours before the hour set.

Dewey was graduated in 1858, and stood fifth in his class. Of the sixty-five who had started in as candidates, but fourteen received their diplomas at the end of the four years’ course.

THE UNRECOGNIZED HEROES OF THE WAR

Much has been said and written of the heroes of action and movement. The country from one end to the other has rung with their praises. But what of the unknown heroes, unhonored and unsung? What of the men who, because of their superior abilities in other lines, were doomed to physical inaction? who performed their secret missions and labors skilfully, faithfully, uncomplainingly, while their classmates were being given numbers over their heads, and the chance of a lifetime for great deeds was being quietly passed by?

THE REAL BRAINS OF THE WAR

Captain A. S. Crowninshield, the Chief of the Bureau of Navigation, bore the brunt of the brain-work for the men and ships at the front.

His bureau has to do with the ordering of all ships and all men, and Crowninshield, when he accepted the office, knew that the odds were against him. He knew that by his own orders he would put forward above him men who were many years his juniors in the service. He never winced, but went on perfecting the target-scores of the men behind the guns. When war was declared, he felt that, gun for gun, our navy could whip anything afloat. But he did not get out of the office. He could have had any command in Sampson’s fleet. But he preferred to stay and carry out the work he had begun, in spite of the fact that each week, as younger men went over him, he saw the chances of hoisting the pennant of a fleet-commander grow fainter and fainter.

If you were to ask Secretary Long who did the real brain-work of the war, he would unhesitatingly answer, “Captain Crowninshield.” Ask the younger officers in command of gun-divisions who is responsible for the straight shooting of the gun-captains, and they will say, “Captain Crowninshield.” Ask any captain of the fleet of victorious battle-ships and cruisers of Santiago or Cavite who contributed most to the victory of Santiago and Manila, and they will say, “Captain Crowninshield.”

These are the facts, and no one in the service disputes them for a moment. If the people are in ignorance, it is because Captain Crowninshield will never talk of himself or his own affairs under any circumstances.

Captain Crowninshield comes of a distinguished New England family. He is a grandson of Jacob Crowninshield, an early secretary of the navy, and a great-nephew of Benjamin Crowninshield, also a secretary of the navy. Like all the Crowninshields of Salem, he was full of love of the sea. His father was a graduate of Harvard and a founder of the Porcelain Club.

FILLING THE DUKE’S SHOES WITH MUCILAGE

Captain Crowninshield as a lad read and studied all the books he could find about the sea, upon which his ancestors, near and remote, had sailed. From the first he was determined to be a naval officer. To this end he went to a village where lived a member of Congress, who, he thought, might make him his appointee. The young man found the old member of Congress out in his field, ploughing. He liked the looks of the boy and gave him a half-promise of the appointment. Young Crowninshield was forced to wait a month, but at last the letter came, and with trembling fingers he broke the seal of the letter which made him a midshipman (a title which it is to be hoped will be restored ere long to the service).

Some of his classmates were the present Captain Clark, of “Oregon” fame, Captain Harry Taylor, Drayton Cassell, Captain Wadleigh, and Captain Cook, of the “Brooklyn.” His room-mate was Pierre d’Orleans, and many a time did Captain Crowninshield rescue the young foreigner when the jokes became too fast and furious. A favorite amusement with the midshipmen was to fill “Pete” d’Orleans’s shoes with mucilage. This practice, so far from making him feel like sticking to this country, persuaded the young duke to return to his native land, where there were no wild American boys to tamper with his dignity.

When the Academy was removed from Annapolis to Newport, young Crowninshield, of course, went with the school, with Evans and the others. He was told that those who could pass the required examination at the end of three years could go out to the war as officers.

Half of the class passed the examination. When one considers that no studying at night was allowed, that an officer made the rounds after lights were supposed to be out, and that at the sound of his footsteps the delinquent who was burning the midnight oil would be obliged to tumble into bed with his clothes on, throwing the wet towel which bound his head into the corner of the room, feigning sleep while a candle was passed across his face, one can understand why more young men of that class did not graduate at the end of the three-years’ limit.

SCOUTING IN THE ENEMY’S COUNTRY

There are many other gallant navy men of whom the public has not heard, but two more will suffice. Within a week after the declaration of war two young ensigns, Ward and Buck, the former in the Bureau of Navigation and the latter at the Naval Academy, disappeared from the face of the earth. So completely did they destroy all traces of themselves that for all the Bureau of Navigation or their relatives seemed to know they might have ceased to exist.

Speculation was rife concerning them, but nothing could be learned of their duties, the impression being, even among Navy Department officials, that they were installing a system of coast-signals in New England. Ward, it appears, disguised himself as an Englishman, and went straight into the heart of the enemy’s country, making his headquarters at Cadiz, the principal Spanish naval station, and from there sending the Navy Department continuous and accurate reports of the fighting strength and actual movements of the Spanish fleet.

He was under suspicion, but watched his time, and succeeded in getting away to Porto Rico. There he was arrested as a suspicious character and spy. He managed, it is supposed through the British representatives, to obtain his release, and, escaping from San Juan, cabled the department a full account of the state of defences there and the movements of Cervera’s fleet. While Ward was in Porto Rico, Buck was following Camara’s fleet in the Mediterranean, keeping watch on its movements, and sending daily reports of its condition, armament, and plans.

We do not know what is in the hearts of men. We do not know whether the men who did the creditable things during the war did them in spite of themselves, or whether in the glory of action and adventure they took their lives into their hands gladly, fearlessly, for their country. We do know that there were hundreds ready and willing to court danger and death for a useful end who for lack of opportunity could not.

HEROES OF THE DEEP

All the long winter the “Polly J.” had slept snugly in Gloucester Harbor, rigging unrove and everything snug aloft that the wind could freeze or the ice could chafe. Careful eyes had watched her as she swung at her moorings, and rugged hands had gripped the familiar gear as the skipper or some of the men had made their periodical visits. But however gray and desolate she loomed, with her topmasts housed and the black lines of ratline and stay across the brightening sky, nothing could hide the saucy cut-under of the bow and the long, free sweep of the rail.

The afternoon sun of March melted the snow on the south slopes of the fish-sheds, and great gray-and-green patches came out here and there against the endless white.

A brisk breeze, with a touch of the spring, blew up from the south, and the “Polly,” heedless of the tide, turned her head to it, sniffing and breathing it, bobbing and jerking nervously at her anchor, impatient to be dressed in her cloud of canvas, and away where the wind blows free and the curl dashes high under the forefoot.

WHEN THE SNOW MELTS

Ashore in Gloucester town there are signs a-plenty of the work to come. The sleepy village throws off her white mantle and rises from the lethargy of the winter past. The spring is in the air, and the docks and wharves, white and ice-trussed during the long, bleak winter, are trod by groups of men, rubber-coated and “sou’ westered,” moving briskly from one shed to another.

In the town they gather like the stray birds of spring that flutter under the eaves of the store-houses. By twos and threes they appear. On street corners they meet, pipe-smoking, reminiscent, gloomily hopeful for the future, and grateful that they have helped themselves over “March Hill” without a loan from owner or buyer. And as they lounge from post-office to store, from store to shed, and back again, their talk is of dealings with owners and skippers, of vessels and luck.

For luck is their fortune. It means larger profits by shares, new dresses for the wife and little ones, and perhaps an easy time of it in the winter to follow. It means that there will be no long, hard winter of it at the haddock-fisheries at “George’s,” where trawls are to be set in weather which makes frozen hands and feet, and perhaps a grave in an icy sea, where thousands have gone before.

The skipper of the “Polly,” even before he gets his men, has broken out his gear and reckoned up his necessities for the run up to the Banks. If he ships the same crew he had the year before, they work in well together. The “Polly’s” topmasts are run up with a hearty will and a rush. There is a cheerful clatter of block and tackle, and the joyous “Yeo-ho” echoes from one schooner to another as sail and rigging are fitted and run into place.

The snow yet lingers in little patches on the moors when some of the vessels warp down to an anchorage. Dories are broken from their nests and skim lightly across the harbor, now alive with a fleet in miniature. Jests and greetings fill the air, as old shipmates and dory-mates meet again, – Gloucester men some of them, but more often Swedes, Portuguese, and men from the South.

For to-day the fleet is not owned in the villages, and Gloucester, once the centre of the fishing aristocracy, the capital of the nation of the Banks, is now but a trading- and meeting-place for half the sea-people who come from the North and East.

The skipper of the “Polly J.,” himself perhaps the scion of three generations of fishing captains, may wag his head regretfully, for fishers cannot be choosers; but he knows that his fishing has to be done, and, after all, a “Portygee” is as good a sailor-man and dory-mate as another, – better sometimes, – if he keeps sober.

So long as the ship-owner makes his credit good at the store for the people at home, the fisherman takes life as joyfully as a man may who looks at death with every turn of the glass. If he takes his pleasures seriously, it is because he lives face to face with his Maker. Nature, in the awful moods he knows her, makes trivial the little ills that flesh is heir to.

So when the crews are aboard, and the stores and salt are being hoisted in, there is a hurry to be among the first away. Chains and windlasses creak and clang, nimble feet fly aloft, hoarse voices ring across the rippling water, and many a cheerful song echoes from ship to shore and back again.

Willing hands, strangers for months to hemp and tar, lay on to the tackle, as spar and boom are run into place. The fish-bins below are cleaned and scrubbed to the very quick. Bright-work, if there be any, is polished, and sail-patching and dory-painting and caulking are the order of the day, and most of the night. The black cook, below in the mysterious blackness of the galley, potters with saucepan and kettle, and when the provisions are aboard serves the first meal. There is coffee, steaming hot in the early hours of the morning, and biscuit and meat, – plenty of it. There is not much variety, but, with the work to be done above and below decks, a full-blooded appetite leaves no chance for grumbling.

At last the bag and baggage of the crew are tossed aboard, – packs of tobacco innumerable, new rubber clothes, all yellow and shiny in the morning dampness, boots and woollens to keep out the cold of spring on the Bank Sea, – all bought on credit at the store, to be charged against “settling-day.”

WAVING GODSPEED TO THE FISHER-FOLK

It is morning, just before the dawn. The “Polly J.,” her new paint all silver in the early light, rides proudly at her anchor in the centre of the tideway. The nip of winter lingers in the air, but the snow is gone and the rigging is no longer stiff to the touch.

It is just daylight when the last dory is hoisted aboard into its nest. Three or four figures on the wharves, outlined against the purple sky and hills, stand waving Godspeed to their fisher-folk. Women’s voices ring out between the creakings of the blocks, “Good luck! Good luck! ‘Polly J.’; wet your salt first, ‘Polly J.’” It is the well-wishing from the hearts of women, who go back to weep in silence. Which one of them is to make her sacrifice to the god of winds and storms?

There is a cheerful answer from the “Polly,” drowned in the flapping of the sails and creaking of the windlass. The anchor, rusty and weed-hung, is broken out and comes to the surface with a rush, while sheets are hauled aft, and, catching the morning breeze, the head of the schooner pays off towards Norman’s Woe, the water rippling merrily along her sides.

The figures on the wharves are mere gray patches in the mass of town and hills. The big sails, looming dark in the gray mists of the morning, round out to the freshening wind, and push the light fabric through the opal waves with ever-increasing speed. By the time the first rays of the rising sun have gilded the quivering gaff of the main, Eastern Point is left far astern, and the nose of the vessel ploughs boldly out to sea, rising with her empty bins light as a feather to the big, heavy swell that comes rolling in, to break in a steady roar on the brown rocks to leeward.

There is man’s work and plenty of it during those sailing days past “George’s,” Sable Island, and the St. Lawrence. The provisions and salt are to be stowed and restowed, ballast is to be shifted, sails to be made stronger and more strong, fish-bins to be prepared, old dories to be made seaworthy, rigging to be tautened, and reels and lines to be cleared and hooked. Buoy-lines and dory-roding are to be spliced, and miscellaneous carpenter work takes up the time about the decks. For a skipper unprepared to take advantage of all that luck may throw in his way does an injustice to his owner and his crew. But, busy as the time is, the skipper has his weather-eye open for the “signs.” The feel of the air, the look and color of the cold, gray Bank Sea, tell him in so many words how and where the fish will be running. At last a hand takes the heavy sea-lead and moves forward where the line may run free. Deliberately the line is coiled in great turns around the left hand, and then, like a big pendulum, the weight begins to swing with the strong right arm.

IN THE EXCITEMENT OF THE FIRST CATCH

There is a swirl of the line as the lead goes all the way over, a splash forward, and, as the skipper luffs her up into it, the line comes upright, and gets a depth of thirty fathoms. As she comes up into the wind, the noisy jib flaps down with a run, and the anchor drops to the sandy bottom. Now the buckets of bait are tossed up from below, and the skipper leaves his helm to take to the lines. Over the sides and stern they go, dragging down to leeward.

There is quiet for a moment, and then a line runs out. There is a tug as the strong arm checks it and hauls it in quickly, hand over hand. There is a gleam of light, a swish at the surface, and the fish flies over the rail, flopping helplessly on to the deck, the first catch of the season, – a big one.

Another tug, and another, and soon the work is fast and furious. It takes honest elbow-muscle, too, to haul ten pounds of floundering cod up five feet of freeboard to the rail and deck. Soon the deck is covered with the long, slim, gleaming bodies, and the boys of the schooner have man’s work in tossing them into the gurry-pen amidships. Before the pen is filled, the fishes stop biting as suddenly as they struck on, and there is a rest for a while to bait-up and clean down.