THE CHASE.

AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR OF 1812.

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BY CHARLES J. PETERSON, AUTHOR OF “CRUISING IN THE LAST WAR.”

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“Sail O!” cried the look-out from the mast-head.

“Whereaway?” asked the officer of the deck.

“On the lee-beam.”

We had been dodging about the horse-latitudes for several weeks, most of the time becalmed; and, of course, without meeting a single vessel. At this announcement, therefore, a general excitement pervaded the decks; the watch above placed themselves eagerly on the look-out, while the watch below crowded up the gangway to catch a glance of the stranger if possible.

In due time the character of the chase became evident. She was a heavy, fore-topsail schooner, and apparently a man-of-war. Instead of flying us, as was the case with most vessels, she stood boldly on her course, and in consequence was soon within range. Meantime, through our glasses, we could see that her decks were filled with men, who appeared to be eagerly scrutinizing us.

“Show him our flag,” at last said our captain.

The roll of bunting ascended to the gaff, and blowing out, disclosed our country’s ensign, the white stars sprinkling the field of azure, and the crimson stripes gleaming out against their white background.

No answer came from the schooner, however. She had apparently mistaken us for a friend, but now being assured of the contrary, and aware also by this time of our greatly superior force, she tacked hurriedly, and went off almost dead before the wind.

“Give her a shot,” cried the captain, “and see if that will bring her to.”

The ball went richochetting over the waters, and passing through her main-sail, plunged into the water a short distance ahead. A moment after the red-cross of Britain shot up to the schooner’s gaff, where it glared, blood-red, in the brazen sky. But, instead of lying to, the chase steadily kept on her way.

“Another shot,” cried the captain; “and let us see this time if we can’t cripple her.”

The ball whistled sharply across the air, but fell short of its mark; and another, fired immediately after, shared the same fate. It was evident that we were scarcely within range. As every shot deadened our progress, the captain ordered the gunner to desist; and, in place of firing, directed the sails to be wet down. The enemy, with a truer perception of the character of the combat, had declined, from the first, to return our shots, but had turned all his energies to spreading what light sail he could, and throwing water on his canvas from an engine on board.

“A stern-chase is a long chase,” said the captain. “But there is no help for it. However, as the fellow is a schooner, and we are square-rigged, I do not despair of eventually overhauling him. I wonder whether he really is an Englishman; he looks more like a slaver to my eye.”

The chase was, indeed, one of the most beautiful craft I had ever seen. She was painted of a deep black, relieved only by a crimson streak in the line of her ports. The mould of her hull was clean and graceful; her bows were sharp as a knife; and her tall, whip-stalk masts, that rose to an immense height, raked backwards with an air at once saucy and beautiful. A high bulwark, with a monkey rail running aft, concealed her decks entirely; but the number of faces peering at us, and the row of ports, proved her to be no mere yacht, as otherwise might have been supposed.

“That craft,” I replied, “was never built in England. There’s not a naval architect in the whole three kingdoms—take my word for it—who could turn out such a beautiful model. I’d bet a month’s pay that good, solid Rappahanock timbers hold her together, and that there’s more than one shipwright in Baltimore has handled the adze upon her.”

“Then she must be a slaver.”

“I think not. And you will agree with me when you have reflected a moment. We are a week’s sail out of the track of such scoundrels. Besides that craft carries too many men for a slaver.”

“You are right,” answered the captain, after a moment’s thought. “But what can she be?”

“That is more than I can tell. She may be either an Englishman or a pirate—more likely the latter than the former; for the British, even when they capture one of our fast-sailing schooners, are not apt to commission them; the lazy islanders think them too wet forward.”

“A pirate!”

“Yes! we have heard of several being about the West Indies, and this may be one, who, having followed the homeward-bound fleet, in hopes to catch a stray prize, has been, like ourselves, set into these infernal latitudes.”

“You reason well,” said the captain. “However, we shall soon know. We evidently gain upon her. I think we could now reach her with our guns. But,” he added, after hesitating a moment, “we’ll keep on till we range alongside, and then give him a broadside that will settle him at once.”

The plan of the captain was not destined, however, to succeed. He had scarcely spoken when the wind began perceptibly to die away, and before an hour it was almost a dead calm. Puffs of air, indeed, would occasionally distend our sails for awhile and urge us on a space, but the effect of this, on the whole, was to increase rather than lessen the distance between us and the chase, the latter making more headway in a light breeze.

By the middle of the afternoon we were rocking on the surface of the deep, with every sail set, yet without advancing an inch. The day had been intensely sultry, and now that not a breath of air was stirring, the heat became almost insupportable. The vertical rays of the tropical sun, pouring down on our white decks, nearly blinded the eyesight; but in vain we turned our gaze elsewhere to seek relief, for the broad expanse of ocean to the very verge of the horizon, glowed like molten silver; while above the fiery luminary blazed in a sky of brass. Panting and exhausted we lay about the decks, or leaned over the sides gasping for air.

As the hours wore on the captain began to show signs of uneasiness. He would look first at the sails and then at the chase, then up at our idle canvas again, and once more at the stranger. At last he addressed me.

“The night will soon be here,” he said, “and under cover of it this fellow may escape. Since your suggestion that he may be a pirate, I feel doubly anxious to capture him. What do you think of carrying him with the boats?”

I mused a moment before I replied.

“It would be a perilous enterprise,” I answered at last, “but I think it might be made to succeed. If you are willing, sir, to risk the lives of the men, I shall be willing to lead the attack; only, if the attempt is to be made, the sooner it is done the better.”

“Then my mind is made up.” And elevating his voice, he cried, “Boatswain, pipe away the boat’s crews; we will cut out the chase.”

The long inaction to which the men had been subjected, made them especially eager for a prize; and thus, notwithstanding the depressing influence of the atmosphere, they welcomed the enterprise with joy. In a comparatively short time we were speeding across the waters, the launch, with myself in command, leading.

How shall I describe that long pull across the hot and glittering deep? The men baring their brawny arms, bent steadily to their oars, yet reserving their strength at first with the caution long experience had taught them. And well was it that they acted thus! Soon great drops of perspiration gathered on their brows, and rolled down their swarthy chests, and before long it became evident that, with all their care, the task before them would prove almost beyond their strength. Indeed, in all my experience, I had never known a day so debilitating. As we proceeded, too, the atmosphere appeared to become more and more suffocating, until several of the men, in the different boats, actually gave out, declaring they could not breathe and work both. The difficulty of respiration on my part assured me that there was no pretence in this.

Meantime the schooner, like a ship painted on canvas, lay motionless on the deep, her whole figure reflected in the water, from the trucks down. Occasionally a light ripple would ruffle this shadow for a second, betraying its real character, but at other times it required but little fancy to imagine the reflection an inverted ship, and no mere cheat of the imagination. The men on board the chase were not, however, idle, but busily engaged in tricing up the hammock nettings; and when we had approached nearer, a carronade was run back to her stern, aimed at us, and fired.

“Better luck next time,” ironically said an old sea-dog, who pulled the stroke-oar of my boat, as the ball plumped into the water just ahead of us. “The man that trained that gun don’t understand his business, shipmates. We’ll be on board directly, if we pull sharp.”

“Yes, my lads,” I cried, “it’s no time to trifle now. The next ball may be truer sent. Besides,” I added, glancing over my shoulder at a black cloud rising rapidly in the sky, “this close atmosphere has not been without its meaning; yonder is a thunder-squall coming up, and if we don’t carry the schooner before it overtakes us, there may be the devil to pay.”

The men gave a cheer to show that they were ready to do their best, and bent, with renewed vigor, to their oars. Under this momentary excitement the boats surged along at a vastly accelerated rate, and the schooner rapidly drew within musket-shot. At this point another jet of fire was seen to flash from the carronade astern; a cloud of white smoke puffing out, broke away over the quarter, and then, with a dull report across the murky air, a ball came skipping toward us, striking the bow oar just as it rose from the water, and breaking the ashen blade, while it knocked the seaman over on his seat.

“Pull, with a will, boys, pull,” I cried, excited by the peril; “dash in on them.”

“Hurrah!” answered my men; and we shot like an arrow along.

Intent as I was on reaching the schooner before the carronade could be loaded again, I scarcely had noticed the rapid changes of the sky. I only knew that the air was growing thicker than ever, and that the clouds had completely shut in the sun. But now, when I saw the men at the carronade abandon it, and all hands address themselves to taking in sail, I knew that the danger from the squall was close and imminent; and I looked hastily up and around.

When I had called the attention of my men, scarcely ten minutes before, to the approaching tempest, there had been only a small cloud perceptible far down on the seaboard. But now, from pole to pole, and all round the horizon, a vast, black curtain shut out the light of day; yet not entirely shut it out, for here and there a lurid gleam, like that seen through the chinks of a furnace, penetrated the thick vapors. Over and over, in vast whirling masses, tossed and tumbled the inky clouds. The ghostly radiance that broke, as I have said, through the gaps of the ominous curtain, threw a spectral gleam across the seas that conjured up visions of dread and disaster. Oh! never can I forget that spectacle. The sultry closeness of the air; the sudden and sepulchral stillness; the awful gloom, and the lurid glare, like that from the bottomless pit, all seemed to say that sea and sky were at their last gasp, and that the great day of judgment had arrived.

The men had made the same observations, and apparently came to similar conclusions, for they ceased rowing, as if under a spell, while a look of blank horror occupied their faces. Every eye was turned toward me for a moment, and then, as by one common impulse, directed at the ship. Far up in the distance, almost undistinguishable against the sable back-ground, the —— was faintly visible. She was stripped entirely bare, with the exception of a bit of head-sail, which glowing red and ghastly in the sepulchral light, gave her the appearance of a demon vessel. Nor was this first impression removed on a second view, but rather heightened, so unearthly was the effect produced by the faint outlines of her spars, which were seen a moment and then lost to sight, like those of some spectral ship.

Suddenly, while we were thus looking at our distant craft, a dazzling, blinding glare shot athwart the firmament, and as instantly vanished, leaving eye and brain, however, dizzy with that instant of concentrated light. A sulphurous smell, at the same moment, pervaded the atmosphere. Then followed a roar so stunning, so close at hand, that, if a thousand batteries had been discharged right overhead, the noise could not have been more deafening. For a second I thought one of the boats, or at least the schooner, had been struck by the lightning; but when my brain ceased reeling, I saw they had escaped. This dazzling flash, this awful thunder-clap were succeeded by a darkness and silence as profound, as oppressive, as foreboding as before. Then came a few rain-drops, which, big and heavy, pattered, like huge hail-stones, on the waters around us. These were followed by another silence as deep as before; and then the hurricane, with a roar like a lion, was upon us.

It would be vain to attempt finding language adequate to describe what followed. In an instant the air was filled with millions of particles of spray, which, torn from the surface of the deep, and carried in the arms of the tempest, hid every thing, except objects within a few feet, entirely from sight. The stinging of these fine particles, as they struck the cheek, was like that of mustard-shot. Meantime the force of the wind was such that it was impossible to sit erect—and all stooped, as if by a common impulse, before the blast. Shading my eyes with my hand, to protect the orbs from the spray, I glanced at the place where the schooner had been last seen. But she was no longer visible there. A moment after, however, in a casual opening of the prospect, I caught a glimpse of her form, far away ahead, as, half buried in mist, she drove, like a sheeted spectre, before the gale. The instant after she vanished from my vision, and the squall closed around us like the walls of a dungeon.

Fortunately the launch was already before the wind, so that we had only to hold on, and wait the issue. The other boats were soon out of sight, and speedily out of hearing also. I could, therefore, do nothing for the rest of my command, and resigning myself to fate, I bent my head between my knees, ordered the men to lie down, and so let the hurricane have its way. The rain was now falling, as it falls only in the tropics, in vast sheets of water: the drops, instead of descending perpendicularly, driving slantingly before the hurricane, and striking the water with gigantic force, keeping the deep in commotion all around. The hissing of the rain, the roar of the tempest, the blinding glare of lightning, and the terrific thunder-claps combined to make a scene more awful than I had ever witnessed in all my long experience.

For half an hour the storm continued in its fury. At the end of that time the intense darkness began to give way; but it was nearly half an hour more before the squall had entirely passed over us. At last the rain ceased, the clouds began to break, and the wind in part subsided. I now ventured, for the first time since the tempest had burst upon us, to rise up and look around. I was anxious to see what had become of the remaining boats, as well as to learn in what direction our ship was; for the schooner, I had no doubt from the speed with which I saw her going last, was hull down on the horizon by this time.

Eagerly I scanned the prospect, therefore. My first object of search was the ship, for I knew that on her depended our safety. Her greater size had placed her, I reasoned, even more at the power of the gale than ourselves, and consequently I looked for her to be in advance of us considerably. I had fancied, indeed, during the height of the hurricane, that I saw her tall masts, for a single instant, shooting, meteor-like, past us: but in the blinding rain that then closed in the prospect, it was easy, I was sure, to be deceived. My search, however, for her was unsuccessful. Nowhere, on the whole horizon, was she or the schooner to be seen. Up to windward, where it was now entirely clear, the view was unbroken; and she was plainly not there. In front, for a long distance, the prospect was equally unbroken; but she was not in sight in this direction either. Far down, however, in the furthest horizon, where the squall was disappearing, there still hung a black cloud, from which the sullen thunder occasionally growled, and across whose gloomy front the lightning, every few minutes, crinkled. That dark curtain, I knew, enveloped our missing ship, or else she, and her three hundred souls, were buried in the deep.

With a heavy sigh I beheld this condition of affairs. Parted from the ship, without water or provisions on board, destitute even of a compass, and with night coming on, our situation was indeed piteous in the extreme. How far the squall might carry the ship before outrunning her, it was impossible to conjecture. Perhaps, when the hurricane should be over for our comrades on board, the gallant craft might be hull down on the horizon. In that event, though she would naturally retrace her path to seek us, night might shut in before we could be seen from the mast-head even: and, in the darkness that would follow, nothing could be easier than for her entirely to miss us. Days, in that event, would probably elapse before we would be picked up, if ever. The thought was terrible, and I turned from it, sick at heart, to look for the other boats.

I was not, indeed, without misgivings as to the fate of these. The launch, being large, was better fitted to ride out the gale than her companions, and I expected that the smaller of the two boats, at least, had been swamped. However, I soon discovered both her and her companion, one about a cable’s length astern, and the other nearly abeam. With a glad hallo, that sounded strangely on the now lonely seas, my crew took to their oars, and pulled rapidly in the direction of the boat abeam, the one astern following our example. The first voice I heard was the junior lieutenant’s.

“Can you see any thing of the ship?” he said.

“No,” I replied, “she is entirely out of sight.”

“What is to be done?” he asked.

“You have no water or provisions on board, I suppose?”

“Nothing but a beaker of water, and not a solitary biscuit.”

“How far is it to the nearest land?”

“About five hundred miles, I take it.”

“So I thought,” I answered.

And now I mused for a moment, the crews of the three boats resting on their oars, and looking eagerly at me. Every man knew, as well as myself, that, in all likelihood, we should never see the ship again: in which event a lingering death by starvation was our almost inevitable doom. On my decision, whether to pull after the ship, which would carry us further from land, or, abandoning the hope of meeting the ship, seek to reach the coast by the nearest route, hung, perhaps, our lives: and all were aware of this.

“Follow the squall,” I said, at last, turning my eyes to the dark cloud, now fast disappearing on the eastern horizon, “it is our only chance. If we don’t find the ship we are dead men. It is madness to think of reaching land.”

“I would to God the sun was a few hours higher!” said the lieutenant, looking at that luminary, which now hung, a blazing orb, a few degrees only above the horizon. “We haven’t even a lantern on board, to show a light!”

Nothing further was said. The boats were headed east, the men bent to their tasks, and, in another minute, the little fleet was speeding silently across the waters. But with what different feelings from those with which we set out from the ship two hours before!

As the time wore on, and the sun declined lower to the horizon, yet still no sign of the ship became visible, our hearts sunk within us. The squall in the distance had now dwindled to a bank of clouds, low on the furthest seaboard; but no vestige of the ship, between it and us, was perceptible. At last the sun’s disc touched the western horizon, and, in another instant, had entirely disappeared. Darkness, deep and profound, now fell upon us; for, in that tropical latitude, there is no twilight to prolong, in part, the day. As the gloom settled around us, a deep drawn breath rose from the boat’s crew: it was an involuntary expression of the general feeling, that, with the sun, hope too had set.

For more than an hour we pulled on in silence. As no sail had been in sight when darkness shut in, it was useless to hail: and so we continued without a word being spoken. Not a sound, therefore, broke the hush except the measured rollicking of the oars, and the surging noise of the launch as it was propelled heavily through the water. The darkness still continued, for numerous clouds flecked the sky, and every here and there, in consequence, would a star find its way out. But in the azure west, like a lustrous gem, there shone through all one bright, large orb, whose light, flickering and dancing along the water, cheered us with its beauty and kept us from entirely desponding.

Suddenly the old veteran, whom I have before alluded to, looked up.

“If I’m not mistaken, sir,” he said, addressing me, “there’s a bunch of rockets in the locker in the stern-sheets. They were put there by the gunner some days ago, and have never, I believe, been removed. At any rate it is worth while to look.”

Never did I hear words sweeter to my ears. I was up in an instant and searching the locker. Sure enough, as the old tar had said, the rockets were still there, the result of a carelessness which now appeared to me to have been little less than providential.

The intelligence was immediately announced to the other boats; and the crews, inspired by the news, rested on their oars, as of one accord, and gave vent to three hearty cheers.

“I will signal the ship,” I said to my second in command, “and if she is any where within range of vision, we shall hear from her instantly.”

Accordingly, I let off two rockets in rapid succession. The fiery missiles shot up to a great height in the sky, and falling in a shower of stars, illuminated the horizon far and near for a moment. Many an eye, during that half instant, scanned the seaboard eagerly, in order to see if the ship was in sight; but not a sign of her was perceptible, and a deep sigh told the disappointment.

I, however, did not yet despair. I knew that the ship, though invisible in that partial light, might still be near enough to discern our rockets; and I was well aware that on board of her half a hundred eager eyes were at this moment on the look-out. Without despair, yet with a beating heart, I watched for the reply to my signal. One minute passed, and then another, but still there was no sign of an answering rocket.

My heart grew faint. My limbs tottered beneath me. Minute after minute succeeded, and my hopes were gradually dwindling away—when suddenly the old tar before me shouted,

“Huzza, there she goes! Huzza—huzza—we are safe, lads, huzza!”

Quick as thought my eyes followed his, and I saw, far off, apparently on the very surface of the water, a single spark of light. But that spark grew and grew, and, as it grew, it rose, until finally it ascended high into the blue ether, leaving a train of light, comet-like, behind it. All at once it burst into a dozen fire-balls, some blue and some red, which, hovering a moment in mid-air, fell at last slowly toward the deep. Every one who saw those colors was aware of their meaning: they were the well-known signals of our gallant ship.

Such a shout as then went up to the sky! It rings in my ears even yet, and the very memory of it makes the blood leap quicker in my veins.

Two hours after we were safely on board, having been guided on our way by signal rockets till the ship came into sight.

As for the schooner, we never saw her more!