Part 64

STAUNCH PRIVATEERSMAN OF NEW ENGLAND

(1751-1813)

"Talk about your clipper ships, chipper ships, ripper ships, Talk about your barquentines, with all their spars so fancy, I'll just take a sloop-o'-war with Talbot, with Talbot, An' whip 'em all into 'er chip, an' just to suit my fancy.

"So, heave away for Talbot, for Talbot, for Talbot, So, heave away for Talbot, an' let th' Capting steer, For, he's the boy to smack them, to crack them, to whack them, For he's th' boy to ship with, if you want to privateer."

--Ballads of Rhode Island.--1782.

A trading vessel, laden with wheat, from Cardigan in Wales, was lying to in the English Channel. Nearby rolled a long-bodied American Privateer, while a boat neared the trader, in the stern of which sat a staunch, weather-beaten officer in a faded pea-jacket. It was the year 1813 and war was on between England and the United States.

When the blustering captain entered the cabin to survey his prize, he spied a small box with a hole in the top, on which was inscribed the words, "Missionary Box." He drew back, astonished.

"Pray, my bold seaman," said he, turning to the Welsh captain, "what is this?"

"Oh," replied the honest, old sailor, heaving a sigh, "'tis all over now."

"What?" asked the American privateersman.

"Why, the truth is," said the Welshman, "that I and my poor fellows have been accustomed, every Monday morning, to drop a penny each into that box for the purpose of sending out missionaries to preach the Gospel to the heathen; but it's all over now."

The American seemed to be much abashed.

"Indeed," said he, "that is very good of you." And, pausing a few moments, he looked abstractedly into the air, humming a tune beneath his breath.

"Captain," said he, at length, "I'll not hurt a hair of your head, nor touch your vessel."

So saying, he turned on his heel, took to his boat, and left the Welshman to pursue its even course. And--as the privateer filled away to starboard--a voice came from the deck of the helpless merchantman,

"God bless Captain Silas Talbot and his crew!"

But we do not know what the owners of the privateer said to the humane skipper about this little affair when he returned to New York. They might have uttered hard words about a Welshman who scored upon him by means of a pious fraud. At any rate Silas Talbot had done a good deed.

This valorous privateer was born at Dighton, Massachusetts, on the Sakonet River about the year 1752; beginning his career at sea as a cabin-boy. At twenty-four he was a captain in the United States army and fought in the Revolutionary war, for a time, on land. But--by reason of his nautical training--he was placed in command of a fireship at New York, and was soon promoted to be Major--but still with duties upon the water and not the shore. While here, a soldier came to him, one day, with his eyes alight in excitement.

"Major," said he, "there's a chance for a splendid little enterprise. Just off the coast of Rhode Island, near Newport, lies a British vessel, moored to a kedge. She mounts fifteen guns and around her is stretched a stout netting to keep off a party of boarders. But we can cut it and get through, I'll warrant. And the game is worth the candle."

Young Talbot was delighted at the thought of a little expedition.

"I'll tell you how we'll cut through," said he. "We'll fix a small anchor at the bowsprit of our sloop. Then, we'll ram her into the netting at night, and--if our vessel can punch hard enough--we'll have forty Americans upon the deck before you can say 'Jack Robinson.'"

The soldier laughed.

"Major Talbot," said he, "you are a true fighting man. I'll have a crew for you within twenty-four hours and we'll take the good sloop Jasamine, lying off of Hell Gate. Ahoy for the capture of the Englishman!"

In two days' time, all was ready for the expedition. The sloop Jasamine slowly drifted into the harbor of New York, an anchor spliced to her bowsprit, a crew of sturdy adventurers aboard; and, filling away in a stout sou'wester, rolled down the coast in the direction of Rhode Island. Reaching the vicinity of Newport, she lay to behind a sheltering peninsula, waiting for the night to come, so that she could drop down upon the Englishman under the cloak of darkness.

Blackness settled upon the still and waveless water. With muffled oars the sloop now glided towards the dark hull of the British gun-boat; her men armed to the teeth, with fuses alight, and ready to touch off the cannon at the slightest sign of discovery. All was still upon the towering deck of the war-vessel and the little lights twinkled at her bow.

But what was that?

Suddenly a voice came through the darkness.

"Who goes there?"