The Boatswain Tells the Story

One or two other men were writing at a table, and another stalwart officer of rank was sitting by the fire reading.  None of the four men coming into the room had seen the general before, except Talbot.  As the door opened, his excellency glanced up inquiringly, and, recognizing the first figure, stepped forward quickly, extending his hand, all the other officers rising and drawing near at the same time.

“What, Talbot!  I trust you bring good news, sir?”

“I do, sir,” said the young officer, saluting.

“The transport?” said the general, in great anxiety.

“Captured, sir.”

“Her lading?”

“Two thousand muskets, twenty field-pieces, powder, shot, intrenching tools, other munitions of war; ten thousand suits of winter clothes, blankets, and shoes; and four officers and fifty soldiers; all bound for Quebec, where the British army is assembling.”

“Now Almighty God be praised!” exclaimed the general, with deep feeling.  “From whence do you come now?”

“From Philadelphia, sir.”

“Ah!  You thought best to take your prize there instead of Boston.  It was a risk, was it not?  But now that you are there, it is better for us here.  Who are your companions, sir?  Pray present them to me.”

“Lieutenant Seymour, sir, of the navy, who brought in the prize.”

“Sir, I congratulate you.  I am glad to see you.”

“And this is Philip Wilton, a midshipman.  I think you know him, general.”

“Certainly I do; the son of my old friend the commissioner, Colonel Wilton of Virginia, now unhappily a prisoner.  You are very welcome, my boy.  And who is this other man, Talbot?”

“William Bentley, sir, bosun of the Ranger, at your honor’s service,” answered the seaman himself.

“Well, my man,” said the general, smiling, “if the Ranger has many like you in her crew, she must show a formidable lot of men.  I am glad to see you all.  These are my staff, gentlemen, the members of my family, to whom I present you.  General Greene, General Knox; and these two boys here are Captain Alexander Hamilton and the Marquis de La Fayette, a volunteer from France, who comes to serve our country without money or without price, for love of liberty.  This is Major Harrison, this Captain Laurens, this Captain Morris of the Philadelphia troop, our only cavalry; they serve like the marquis, for love of liberty.  I know not how I could dispense with them.”  The gentlemen mentioned bowed ceremoniously, and some of them shook hands with the new-comers.

“Billy,” continued Washington, turning to his black servant, “I wish you to get something to eat for these gentlemen.  It’s only bread and meat that we can offer you, I am sorry to say; we are not living in a very luxurious style at present,-on rather short rations, on the contrary.  But meanwhile you will take a glass of this excellent punch with us, and we will drink to a merry Christmas.  Fill your glasses, gentlemen all.  Your news is the first good news we have had for so long that we have almost forgot what good news is.  It is certainly very pleasant for us, eh, gentlemen?  Now give us some of the details of the capture of the transport.  How was it?  You, Mr. Seymour, are the sailor of the party; do you tell us about it.”

Then, in that rude farmhouse among the hills on that bitter winter day, Seymour told the story of the sighting of the convoy, and the ruse by which the capture of the two ships had been effected, at which General Washington laughed heartily.  Then he described in a graphic seamanlike way the wonderful night action; the capture of the Juno by the heroic captain of the Ranger, the successful escape of that ship from the frigate, and the sinking of the Juno.  He was interrupted from time to time by exclamations and deep gasps of excitement from the officers crowding about him; even Billy bringing the dinner put it down unheeded, and listened with his eyes glistening.  And then Seymour delivered Jones’s message to General Washington.

“Wonderful man! wonderful man!” he said.  “We shall hear of him, I think, in the English Channel; and the English also, which is more to the point.  But your own ship-had you an eventless passage, Mr. Seymour?  And, gentlemen, you look as solemn as if you were the bearers of bad news instead of good tidings, or had been retreating with us for the past six months.  Thank goodness, that’s about over tonight.  Fill your glasses, gentlemen.  ’T is Christmas day.  Now for your own story.  Did you meet an enemy’s ship?”

“We did, sir.-Talbot, you tell the story.”

“No, no, I cannot; ’t is your part, Seymour.”

Here, in the presence of friends, and friends who knew and loved Colonel Wilton and his daughter, neither of the young men felt equal to the tale.  Each day brought home to them their bitter sorrow more powerfully than before, and each hour but deepened the anguish in their hearts.

“Why, what is this?  What has happened?  The transport is safe, you said,” continued the general, in some anxiety.  “What is it?”

“I can tell, if your honor pleases, sir,” said the deep voice of Bentley.

“Speak, man, speak.”

“It happened this way, sir:  we were off Cape Cod, heading northwest by west for Boston, about a week ago, close hauled on the starboard tack in a half gale of wind.  Your honor knows what the starboard tack is?”

“Yes, yes, certainly; go on.”

“When about three bells in the afternoon watch,-your honor knows what three bells-Ay, ay, sir,” continued the seaman, noting the general’s impatient nod.  “Well, sir, we spied a large sail coming down on us fast; we ran off free, she following.  Pretty soon we made her out a frigate, a heavy frigate of thirty-six guns, and a fast one too, for she rapidly overhauled us.  We cracked on sail, even setting the topmast stunsail, till it blew away.  Then we cut away bulwarks and rails, flattened the sails by jiggers on the sheets and halliards until they set like boards, pumped her out, cast adrift the boats, cut away anchors, but it was n’t any use; she kept a-gaining on us.  By and by we came to George’s Shoal extending about three leagues across our course to the southeast of Cape Cod.  There is a pass through the shoal; Lieutenant Seymour knows it, we surveyed it this last summer.  We brought the ship to on the wind on the same tack again, near the shoal, and ran for the mouth of the pass.  The frigate edged off to run us down.  Lieutenant Talbot broke out a field-piece from the hold and mounted it as a stern-chaser, and used it too-”

“Good! well done!” said the general, nodding approvingly.  “Go on.”

“We came to the mouth of the pass.  The frigate fired a broadside.  One shot carried away the mizzen topgallant mast; another sent a shower of splinters inboard, killing the man at the wheel.  The ship falls off and enters the pass.  I seize the helm.  Mr. Seymour conned us through.  The frigate chased madly after us.  She sees the breakers; she can’t follow us, draws too much water; she makes an effort to back off.  It is too late; she strikes.  The wind rises to a heavy gale.  We see her go to pieces, and never a soul left to tell the story, never a plank of her that hangs together.  She’s gone, and we go free.  That’s all, your honor, and may God have mercy on their souls, say I,” added the solemn voice of the boatswain in the silence.

“A frightful catastrophe, indeed, and a terrible one!  I do not wonder at your sadness.  But, young gentlemen, do not take it so to heart.  It is the fate of war, and war is always frightful.”

“Did you find out the name of the ship, boatswain?” asked General Greene.

“Yes, your honor; the Radnor, thirty-six.”

“Could no one have been saved?” queried General Knox.

“No one, sir.  No boat could have lived in that sea a moment.  We could n’t put back, could do no good if we had, and so we came on to Philadelphia, and that’s all.”

“No, general,” cried Seymour; “it’s not all.  We will tell the general the whole story, Talbot.  You remember, sir, the raid on the Wilton place and the capture of the colonel and his daughter?” The general nodded.  “Well, sir, before the Ranger sailed, I received a note from Miss Wilton saying they were to be sent to England in the Radnor.”

“You received the note?  I thought she was Mr. Talbot’s betrothed, Mr. Seymour!”

“I thought so too, general; but it seems that we are both wrong.  Lieutenant Seymour captured her during his visit there with Colonel Wilton,” said Talbot, with a faint smile.

“I am very sorry for you, Talbot, and you are a fortunate man, Mr. Seymour.  But go on; we are all friends here.  Did you say they were to go on the Radnor?”

“Yes, sir.  The pursuing frigate was recognized by one of my men who had been pressed and flogged while on her, as the Radnor, the ship on which they were.  I heard the man say so just as we neared the reef.  To go through the pass was to lead the English ship to destruction and cause the death of those we-of the colonel, sir,” continued Seymour, in some confusion.  “To refrain from attempting the pass was to lose the ship and all it meant for our cause.  I could not decide.  I say frankly I could not condemn those I-our friends to death, and I could not lose the ship either.  This old man knew it all.  He has known me from a child.  He spoke out boldly, and laid my duty before me, and pleaded with me-”

“He did not need it, your honor.  No, sir; he would have done it anyway,” interrupted Bentley.

The general took the hand of the embarrassed old boatswain and shook it warmly; then, fixing his glowing eyes upon the two young men, said,-

“Continue, Mr. Seymour.”

“I know not what I might have done, but the old seaman’s appeal to my honor decided me.  I went aft with horror in my heart, but resolved to do my duty.  On my way there I took out of my pocket the little note received from Miss Wilton; a gust of wind blew it to the hand of Mr. Talbot.  It was only a line.  As he picked it up, he read it involuntarily.  We had some words.  I drew on him, sir.  It was my fault.”

“No, no, general, the fault was mine!” interrupted Talbot.  “I said it was my letter, refused to give it up, insulted him.  He would have arrested me.  Bentley and Philip interfered.  I taunted him, advanced to strike him.  He had to draw or be dishonored.”

“Nay, general, but the fault was mine.  I was the captain of the ship; the safety of the ship depended on me.”

“Go on, go on, Mr. Seymour,” said the general; “this dispute does honor to you both.”

“The rest happened as has been told you.  One of the splinters struck Mr. Talbot’s sword and swept it into the sea; the note went with it, and then the frigate was wrecked, and Colonel Wilton and his daughter, with all the rest, lost.”

It was very still in the room.

“My poor friend, my poor friend,” murmured the general, “and that charming girl.  Without a moment’s warning!  Young gentlemen,” taking each of the young men by the hand, “I honor you.  You have deserved well of our country,-for the frankness with which one of you admits his fault, for it was a fault, and takes the blame upon himself, and for the heroic resolution by which the other sacrifices his love for his duty.  Laurens, make out a captain’s commission for Mr. Talbot.  Hamilton, I wish you would write out a general order declaring the capture of the transport and her lading, and the sinking of the Juno and the wreck of the English frigate; it will hearten the men for our enterprise to-night.  As for you, Mr. Seymour, I shall use what little influence I may be able to exert to get you a ship at once; meantime, as we contemplate attacking the enemy at last, I shall be glad to offer you a position as volunteer on my staff for a few days, if your duties will permit.  And to you, Philip, let me be a father indeed-my poor boy!  As for you, boatswain, what can I do for you?”

“Nothing, your honor, nothing, sir.  You have shaken me by the hand, and that’s enough.”  The old man hesitated, and then, seeing only kindness in the general’s face, for the old sailor attracted and pleased him, he went on softly:  “Ay, love’s a mighty thing, your honor; we knows it, we old men.  And love of woman’s strong, they say, but these boys have shown us that something else is stronger.”

“And what is that, pray, my friend?”

“Love of country, sir,” said Bentley, in the silence.