SOME AMERICANS

[14] Captain Smith appears, however, to have been very harshly used, through the implications, rather than any specific accusation, of his senior, Captain Osborn; and upon his presenting a memorial to the King (George III.), setting forth the circumstances under which he was tried in the East Indies, the case was referred to the law officers of the Crown and the Admiralty Counsel, who declared that the finding of the court was unwarrantable, and should not be upheld. Captain Smith, who had been dismissed the Service, was thereupon reinstated; but an officer who thus "scores" off his superiors is not readily pardoned, and he was never again employed. It appears to have been a shady business, with some personal spite in the background.

SOME AMERICANS

CHAPTER XVII

Mr. Roosevelt, in his "History of the Naval War of 1812," alludes to their privateers in very disparaging terms, pointing out that they were far more keen upon plunder than fighting, and were utterly unreliable; would fight one day, and run away the next.

Mr. George Coggleshall, in the introduction to his "History of the American Privateers during our War with England in the years 1812-14," says: "I commence my plea, soliciting public approbation in favour of privateersmen, and for those who served in private armed vessels in the war"; and quotes Jefferson in support of his views.

Mr. E.S. Maclay, in his "History of American Privateers," says: "In general, the conduct of American privateersmen on the high seas was most commendable."

It is, of course, most natural that these writers should stand up for their countrymen, and Englishmen, as has already been stated, are not slow to acknowledge the prowess of American privateersmen. For the details of actions between these and British vessels we are indebted almost entirely to American accounts, and particularly to the two works above mentioned; such engagements are usually only referred to in the briefest terms, or altogether unnoticed, in our naval histories; and the American writers—especially Mr. Coggleshall—display a bitterly hostile spirit which is apt to be very detrimental to the merits of so-called history. And so, while there is no intention of questioning their good faith, one is at least at liberty to wonder where they obtained their information.

According to these writers, British naval officers and privateersmen habitually treated prisoners of war with shocking, wanton brutality: while the Americans exhibited invariable kindness, even beneficence, towards British prisoners: an allegation to which it is impossible to accord full credence, especially when statements are made without reference or authentication.

Moreover, the exploits of American privateersmen are frequently exhibited in an artificially heroic light; the most trivial and obvious measures for the safety of the ship, for instance, related as though they demonstrated extraordinary qualities of courage and resource; while the "long bow" is occasionally conspicuously in evidence, the author apparently not possessing the requisite technical knowledge to perceive the absurdity of some story which he has come across.

In support of his contention that the conduct of American privateers was admirable, Mr. Maclay tells the following story, which, he says, appeared in a London newspaper in December 1814—he does not tell us the precise date, or the name of the paper. Still, here is the story (page 15):

"A trading vessel laden with wheat, from Cardigan, was taken in the Channel by an American privateer. When the captain of the latter entered the cabin to survey the prize, he espied a small box with a hole in the top, on which the words 'Missionary Box' were inscribed. On seeing this the American captain seemed not a little astonished, and addressed the Welsh captain as follows:

"'Captain, what is this?' pointing to the box with his stick. (Why a stick, at sea?)

"'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 is all over now.'

"After pausing a few minutes, he said, 'Captain, I'll not hurt a hair of your head, nor touch your vessel'; and he immediately departed, leaving the owner to pursue his course."

There is no disputing the humanity of this American privateer skipper, if the tale be true; but one would be disposed to wonder what his owners said to him about the business. They might want to know what he meant by allowing a Welshman to score off him by means of a pious fraud! A privateer skipper, however religiously disposed, should not put to sea without his sense of humour.

"A still more forcible illustration of the humanity of American privateersmen," says Mr. Maclay (page 16), "is had early in 1782, when the private armed sloop Lively, Captain D. Adams, of Massachusetts, rescued the officers and crew of the British frigate Blonde, which had been wrecked on a barren and desolate island. The treatment which all American prisoners, and especially privateersmen, had received at the hands of the British would have almost justified the commander of the Lively in leaving these shipwrecked mariners to their fate. But the American jack tar is a generous fellow, and nothing appeals so strongly to his compassion as a fellow-seaman in distress, and on this occasion the people of the Lively extended every assistance to their enemies and brought them safely into port."

Really, they would have been no better than pirates if they had left them there. There does not appear to be any reason for supposing that American privateersmen were either more or less scrupulous than their British cousins; there was always plunder in view on both sides, and, if plunder could be obtained without fighting, so much the better.

The editor of De Bow's Commercial Review (vol. i., page 518, June 1846), in a note appended to an article upon privateering, says: "Privateering constitutes a separate chapter in the laws of nations. Every nation has resorted to this method of destroying the commerce of the enemy, without questioning for a moment their right of doing so. Many have affected to consider it, after all, but legalised piracy, and calculated to blunt the finer feelings of justice and sear the heart to noble sentiments. We are at a loss, ourselves, to understand how the occupation of a mere privateer can be reconciled with any of the higher feelings of our nature: an occupation whose whole end and purpose is pillage upon the high seas and pecuniary gain out of the fiercest bloodshed. The love of country, patriotic self-devotion, and ardour, have no place in such concerns.... It cannot be doubted, that men estimable in other respects have been found in the pursuit of privateering; but exceptions of this kind are rare, and could not, we think, occur again, in the improved moral sense of mankind."

With these preliminary remarks, let us now recount the doings of some of the American privateersmen, commencing with Silas Talbot.

"The Life and Surprising Adventures of Captain Silas Talbot; containing a Curious Account of the Various Changes and Gradations of this Extraordinary Character." Such is the title of a small volume published in America about the year 1803; and the editor states that the bulk of the information contained therein was communicated personally by Talbot, and has since been substantially confirmed from various quarters.

Silas Talbot, we learn, was born at Dighton, Mass., about the year 1752, and commenced his career at sea as cabin-boy. At the age of twenty-four, however, he blossoms into a captain in the U.S. Army—or the rebel army, according to British notions—in the year 1776; and by virtue, we must suppose, of his nautical training, he was placed in command of a fireship at New York, and soon after promoted to the rank of major—but still with naval duties. He speedily attracted attention as a daring and ingenious officer, and was very successful in several enterprises, the most notable being the conquest and capture of a well-armed stationary British vessel, moored in the east passage off Rhode Island. He made the attack at night, and devised an ingenious plan for breaching the high boarding-nettings of the Britisher, fixing at the bowsprit end of his sloop a small anchor, which, being forcibly rammed into the net by the impetus of the vessel, tore it away. The attack was devised as a surprise, but the approach of the gallant Talbot was observed, and it was under a heavy fire that he and his men succeeded in their desperate enterprise.

In 1779, having meanwhile been promoted to the rank of colonel, he commenced his career as a privateer commander. The British had a considerable number of private ships of war afloat on the American coast at that time, and Talbot was placed in command of the Argo, a sloop of under 100 tons, armed with twelve 6-pounders, and carrying 60 men. She was very heavily sparred—with one mast, of course, and an immense mainsail, the main boom being very long and thick. She was steered with a long tiller, had very high bulwarks, a wide stern, and looked like a clumsy Albany trader; we are told, however, that "her bottom was her handsomest part," which is only another way of saying that, with her big spars, she was, in spite of her uncouth appearance, a swift and handy craft.

In this little stinging wasp Talbot set forth, and, after one or two indecisive skirmishes, he encountered the King George, a privateer commanded by one Hazard, a native of Rhode Island, who had been very busy. Captain Hazard had been greatly esteemed, until he elected to fight on the British side, "for the base purpose of plundering his neighbours and old friends"; after which he was naturally regarded with the bitterest hatred, and Talbot approached to the attack, no doubt, with a grim determination to put a stop to the depredations of the renegade.

The King George was of superior force to the Argo, carrying 14 guns and 80 men; but her captain apparently permitted Talbot to come to close quarters without opposition, for the writer tells us that he "steered close alongside him, pouring into his decks a whole broadside, and almost at the same instant a boarding party, which drove the crew of the King George from their quarters, and took possession of her without a man on either side being killed."

Talbot was, unquestionably, a born fighter and well versed in nautical strategy and attack; but the writer of these records strikes one as being an enthusiastic and ingenuous person, without practical knowledge of seamanship or warfare, and consequently liable to be imposed upon by any one who could not resist the temptation to tell a "good yarn." Silas Talbot may have been afflicted with this weakness, for all we know. It is a genuine American characteristic, and by no means incompatible with the highest attributes of personal courage and skill in warfare. However, there is no cause to doubt the truth of the account of the capture of the King George, for which Talbot and his men deserve credit.

The next antagonist of the Argo was the British privateer Dragon, of 300 tons, 14 guns, and 80 men—rather a small armament and crew for a vessel of that tonnage, in those days.

This was a desperate engagement, carried on for four and a half hours, at pistol-shot. The gallant Talbot had some narrow shaves, for we are told that his speaking-trumpet was pierced with shot in two places, and the skirts of his coat torn off by a cannon-shot! We cannot avoid the conclusion that the gentle narrator was, in vulgar parlance, being "had" over this story. A modern small-bore bullet, with high velocity, would probably make a clean hole through a tin speaking-trumpet, which might possibly be retained in the hand, if held very firmly, during the process. But a clumsy, slow-sailing pistol or musket ball of that period would simply double up the tin tube and send it flying; while as to the coat-tails—well, it is not stated that Captain Talbot experienced any discomfort in sitting down afterwards, or inconvenience for lack of anything to sit upon. It was a most discriminating cannon-ball!

Nearly all the men on deck—a vessel like the Argo certainly did not fight any men below—were either killed or wounded; and the Dragon, losing her mainmast, at length struck her colours.

Then came an alarm that the Argo was sinking; "but," says the gentle story-teller, "the captain gave orders to inspect the sides of the sloop, upon which he found several shot-holes between wind and water, which they plugged up." And a very good device, too, though a somewhat obvious one, to prevent a vessel from sinking!

Having refitted his ship, Talbot put out again, this time with the Saratoga, another privateer, of Providence, commanded by Captain Munroe, in company; and in due course they came across the Dublin, a very smart English privateer cutter of 14 guns, coming out of Sandy Hook. It was agreed that Talbot should first give chase, for fear the sight of two vessels bearing down upon him should make the Britisher shy: rather a transparent device, since Munroe's craft was in sight, at no great distance, the whole time. The Englishman, however, awaited the attack, and a spirited duel ensued by the space of an hour. When Munroe thought it was time for him to cut in, he found that his ship would not answer her helm. This is explained as follows: "The Saratoga was steered with a long wooden tiller on common occasions, but in time of action the wooden tiller was unshipped and put out of the way, and she was then steered with an iron one that was shipped into the rudder-head from the cabin.... The Saratoga went away with the wind at a smart rate, to the surprise of Captain Talbot, and the still greater surprise of Captain Munroe, who repeatedly called to the helmsman, 'Hard a-weather! Hard up, there!' 'It is hard up, sir!' 'You lie, you blackguard! She goes away lasking! Hard a-weather, I say, again!' 'It is hard a-weather, indeed, sir!' Captain Munroe was astonished, and could not conceive what the devil was the matter with his vessel. He took in the after-sails, and made all the head-sail in his power. All would not do—away she went! He was in the utmost vexation lest Captain Talbot should think he was running away. At last one of his under-officers suggested that possibly the iron tiller had not entered the rudder-head, which, on examination, was found to be the case. The blunder was now soon corrected, and the Saratoga was made to stand towards the enemy; and, that some satisfaction might be made for his long absence, Captain Munroe determined, as soon as he got up, to give her a whole broadside at once. He did so, and the Dublin immediately struck her colours; yet, strange to tell, it did not appear, on strict inquiry and examination afterwards, that this weight of fire, which was meant to tear the cutter in pieces, had done the vessel or crew the least additional injury."

Here is a capital yarn, for the uninitiated; but it serves to illustrate the danger of entering upon technical details without adequate understanding. It may be true enough that the tiller was not properly shipped in the first instance; but, this granted, to begin with, any sailing-vessel that is properly trimmed will, upon letting go the tiller, come up into the wind, instead of running off it. Even admitting, however, that the Saratoga was so "slack on her helm," in nautical parlance, as to "go away lasking"—i.e. almost before the wind—under such conditions, the very last order the captain would give would be "Hard up," or "Hard a-weather," which would only cause her to run away worse than ever; while taking in the after-sail and piling on head sail would aggravate the evil! If the writer had represented Captain Munroe as shouting, "Hard down! Hard a-lee, you blackguard!" hauling in his mainsheet and taking off the head-sail, one might believe that Talbot or some other sailor-man had told the story. As it stands, it is ridiculous; but it is repeated, word for word, in various accounts—among others by Mr. Maclay.

Well, the Dublin was captured, hauling down her colours after Munroe's innocuous broadside; and Talbot's next antagonist was the Betsy, an English privateer of 12 guns and 38 men, "commanded by an honest and well-informed Scotchman." After some palaver at pistol-shot, Talbot hoisted the stars and stripes, crying, "You must now haul down those British colours, my friend!" To which the Scot replied, "Notwithstanding I find you an enemy, as I suspected, yet, sir, I believe I shall let them hang a little longer, with your permission. So fire away, Flanagan!"

Had the honest Scot been of the same type of privateer captain as George Walker he would certainly have banged in his broadside before the stars and stripes were well above the rail, and perhaps altered the outcome of the action. As it was, Talbot took him, killing or wounding the captain and principal officers and several men.

The little Argo was subsequently put out of commission and returned to her owners; and in 1780 Talbot was given command of another privateer, the General Washington. After making one capture, however, he was taken, we are told, by an English squadron off Sandy Hook, and sent on board the Robuste, Captain Cosby, where he was courteously treated. Being transferred, however, to a tender—name not stated—for conveyance to New York, the commander—"a Scotch lord," we are told, "put his gallant captive into the hold. The only excuse for this dastardly behaviour is to be found in the craven fears of his lordship. By a remarkable coincidence, the pilot he employed was the same formerly on board the Pigot (the stationary vessel captured by Talbot at Rhode Island), and this man so frightened his superior with the story of his prisoner's reckless daring that he—notwithstanding a written remonstrance which Captain Talbot forwarded to the British admiral—was thus kept confined below until they reached New York; and the arm-chest was removed to the cabin."

This is quoted from "The Life of Silas Talbot," by Henry T. Tuckerman, published in 1850. The story is given for what it is worth. Had the name of the tender and of the so readily scared "Scotch lord" been given, it would have been more worthy of consideration.

After this Talbot was confined on board the Jersey prison-ship, off Long Island, where it is said that prisoners were treated with gross inhumanity; and being eventually conveyed to England on board the Yarmouth, was kept in prison on Dartmoor, where he made four desperate attempts to escape. He was liberated in the summer of 1781, and found his way home to Rhode Island. He died in New York, June 30th, 1813.

CHAPTER XVIII

Upon this Robinson delivered his broadside, which inflicted considerable damage upon the other, bringing down his foretopsail, cutting some of his rigging, and causing, we are told, much surprise and confusion on board—though why the Englishmen should be surprised it is difficult to comprehend, as it is to be presumed that they chased with the intention of fighting.

Then commenced a running action, which lasted until nearly midnight. The English captain, finding that the Pomona had no stern-gun ports, endeavoured to keep as much as possible astern and on the quarter where he could ply his bow-guns without receiving much in return; but, we are told, the crew had been thrown into such confusion by the Pomona's first broadside that they were able to fire only one or two shots every half-hour—three or four rounds an hour; so Robinson had a port cut in his stern, and ran out a 3-pounder gun there; and, when the English vessel was coming up again for another of her leisurely discharges, she received a dose of grape which caused her captain to haul off—nor did he venture near enough during the night to fire another shot.

Daylight showed the English brig to be armed with sixteen guns; and several officers were observed, displaying themselves in conspicuous places, in uniforms resembling those of the Navy. This was supposed to be a ruse, whereby the Americans were to be demoralised, imagining themselves to be engaged with a regular ship of war. "This, the English thought," says Mr. Maclay, "would show the Americans the hopelessness of the struggle, and would induce them to surrender without further resistance"; but he does not know what the English thought, or whether the officers in this privateer habitually dressed in some kind of uniform of their own.

However, the enemy, about sunrise, approached the quarter of the Pomona with the obvious intention of boarding; and then the 3-pounder came into play once more. It was loaded with grape-shot, "and the charge was topped off by a crowbar stuck into the muzzle." Waiting until the enemy was just about to board, Robinson, with his own hand, let go this charge of grape and crowbar, "and with such accurate aim" (at, say, ten yards range!) "that the British were completely baffled in their attempt, their foresails and all their weather foreshrouds being cut away."

Well, one cannot, of course, say that this is untrue; but that 3-pounder was certainly a marvellous little piece. It carried a solid ball, the size of which may be judged by any one who will toss up a three-pound weight from an ordinary set of scales, and the bore of the gun was just large enough to admit it easily; yet we are told that the charge of grape—small iron or leaden bullets—was equal to cutting all the foreshrouds, and all the head-sail halyards—if this is what is meant by "foresails," which is a vague term, not in use among seamen.

This, however, is the story; and the English captain immediately putting his helm "hard up" to take the strain off his unsupported foremast, Robinson took occasion to give him a raking broadside; and this was the last shot fired, the Englishman failing to come up to the scratch again, and the Pomona proceeding on her voyage.

The British vessel was said to be the privateer Rosebud, with a crew of one hundred men, of whom forty-seven were killed and wounded; we are not told the Pomona's loss. Captain Duncan, of the Rosebud, complained at New York that the Americans had not "fought fair," using "langrage"—i.e. rough bits of iron, old nails, etc.; but this illusion was put down to the crowbar—quite a legitimate missile!

There is no British account to hand of this action; but it is impossible to feel any great admiration of the "Rosebuds," in allowing a vessel of such inferior force to beat them off. They must have been sadly lacking in thorns!

The Pomona reached Bordeaux in safety, and there her captain, having sold his tobacco, purchased a more satisfactory lot of guns, powder, and shot, and raised his crew to 70 men; and, having shipped a cargo of brandy, made sail on his return voyage to America.

On the road he encountered a British privateer of 16 guns and 70 men; after several encounters, the Englishman all the while endeavouring to escape, Robinson captured her: British loss, 12 killed, and "a number" wounded; American loss, 1 killed, 2 wounded.

The Pomona, however, was destined to have her career cut short by capture, and then there commenced a series of adventures for Joshua Barney as a prisoner of war. We are not told when or by whom the Pomona was captured; Mr. Maclay, on page 148, says: "In the chapter on 'Navy Officers in Privateers', mention was made of the capture of the armed brig, Pomona, commanded by Captain Isaiah Robinson, who had, as his first officer, Lieutenant Joshua Barney, also of the regular service." There is nothing, however, to be found, in the chapter referred to, about the capture of the Pomona. The final allusion is to her safe arrival in America from Bordeaux, probably in September 1779.

However, it appears that Joshua Barney became a prisoner some time between September 1779 and the autumn of 1780, and was placed in one of the prison-ships. The arrival of Admiral Byron, it is said, brought about a welcome change in the prison administration; some additional ships were ordered for the accommodation of the American officers, and the admiral personally inspected all the prison-ships once a week; while some of the officers who belonged to the regular navy were taken on board the flagship Ardent.

Barney, it appears, was selected for special consideration by Admiral Byron, having a boat placed at his service, and being entrusted with the duty of visiting the prison-ships in which his compatriots were confined and reporting upon their condition to the admiral. The only restriction placed upon his liberty was the obligation to sleep on board the Ardent: he was certainly a most highly favoured prisoner of war.

Upon one occasion, landing in New York in his American naval uniform, to breakfast with one of the admiral's staff, he was seized upon by an infuriated mob, who were proceeding to throw him into a fire which was raging, alleging that he had originated the conflagration. A British officer fortunately intervened and explained the situation.

Upon the advent of Admiral Rodney, however, this pleasant time came to an end; and in November—not December, as in Mr. Maclay's account—1780, Barney, in company with about seventy other American officers, was placed on board the Yarmouth, a 64-gun ship, under the command of Captain Lutwidge, for conveyance to England; and here is Mr. Maclay's description of the treatment they received.

"From the time these Americans stepped aboard the Yarmouth their captors gave it to be understood, by hints and innuendoes, that they were being taken to England to 'be hanged as rebels'; and, indeed, the treatment they received aboard the Yarmouth on the passage over led them to believe that the British officers intended to cheat the gallows of their prey by causing the prisoners to die before reaching port. On coming aboard the ship of the line these officers were stowed away in the lower hold, next to the keel, under five decks, and many feet below the water-line. Here, in a twelve-by-twenty-foot room, with up-curving floor, and only three feet high, the seventy-one men were stowed for fifty-three days like so much merchandise, without light or good air, unable to stand upright, with no means and with no attempt made to remove the accumulating filth! Their food was of the poorest quality, and was supplied in such insufficient quantities that, whenever one of the prisoners died, the survivors concealed the fact until the body began to putrefy, in order that the dead man's allowance might be added to theirs. The water served them to drink was so thick with repulsive matter that the prisoners were compelled to strain it between compressed teeth.

"From the time the Yarmouth left New York till she reached Plymouth, in a most tempestuous winter's passage, these men were kept in this loathsome dungeon. Eleven died in delirium, their wild ravings and piercing shrieks appalling their comrades, and giving them a foretaste of what they themselves might soon expect. Not even a surgeon was permitted to visit them. Arriving at Plymouth the pale, emaciated, festering men were ordered to come on deck. Not one obeyed, for they were unable to stand upright. Consequently they were hoisted up, the ceremony being grimly suggestive of the manner in which they had been treated—like merchandise. And what were they to do, now that they had been placed on deck? The light of the sun, which they had scarcely seen for fifty-three days, fell upon their weak, dilated pupils with blinding force, their limbs unable to uphold them, their frames wasted by disease and want. Seeking for support, they fell in a helpless mass, one upon the other, waiting and almost hoping for the blow that was to fall upon them next. Captain Silas Talbot was one of these prisoners.

"To send them ashore in this condition was 'impracticable,' so the British officers said, and we readily discover that this 'impracticable' served the further purpose of diverting the just indignation of the landsfolk, which surely would be aroused if they saw such brutality practised under St. George's cross. Waiting, then, until the captives could at least endure the light of day, and could walk without leaning on one another or clutching at every object for support, the officers had them moved to old Mill Prison."

This is a terrible picture of the treatment of American prisoners of war, in striking contrast to the generous conduct of Vice-Admiral the Hon. John Byron—to give him his correct title—towards Barney and his fellow-prisoners. If it is to be accepted as absolutely true, it should make Englishmen blush to read it, constituting a shameful record against us, as represented by Captain Lutwidge and his subordinates.

But is it absolutely true? This question is suggested, in the first instance, by the utter wildness of the writer's chronology with regard to the pleasing episode in connection with Admiral Byron; for it was during Joshua Barney's first period of imprisonment that he came in contact with Byron, in the year 1778. It could not have been after the capture of the Pomona, as Byron was in the West Indies in the summer of 1779, in pursuit of the French Admiral D'Estaing, and returned thence to England, arriving on October 10th in that year—he was not employed again. Moreover, during the time of Barney's second imprisonment, at New York, there was no Ardent on the Navy List: she was captured by the French on August 17th, 1779—while Barney was on his homeward voyage in the Pomona—and recaptured in April 1782.

Such reckless chronicling might well discredit the whole of this writer's account of the incidents; fortunately—or unfortunately—for him, however, there is another source of information in a "Biographical Memoir of Commodore Barney," by Mary Barney—his daughter, perhaps—published in 1832, in which the dates are more consistent with possibilities. Probably Mr. Maclay derived his information from this volume, and, by an extraordinary oversight, confused the two periods.

From this record it appears that Barney was a lieutenant on board the frigate Virginia when she was captured by the British on April 1st, 1778, and that he was very kindly treated by two English captains, Caldwell and Onslow, under whose charge he found himself for a time and subsequently, as related, by Admiral Byron.[15] Moreover, it is here stated that it was while serving on board a regular war-ship, the Saratoga, that Barney was a second time made prisoner, being captured when in charge of a prize, and not on board the Pomona at all: so here is more recklessness of narration, which appears quite inexcusable, as the writer, it is to be presumed, had access to this memoir, which is said to be compiled from Barney's own statements to the author.

Now, with regard to the shocking treatment of the prisoners on board the Yarmouth.

Mary Barney disclaims any wish to aggravate the case, declaring that she had the story from the lips of Joshua Barney, and appeals to his generous recognition of former kindness as a guarantee against wilful misrepresentation on this occasion.

Very good. But there is in existence the captain's log of the Yarmouth, also his letter to the Admiralty, reporting his arrival in England, and these official documents tend to discredit the dismal story in some important particulars.

The Yarmouth, we learn, sailed on November 15th, 1780, and arrived at Plymouth on December 29th—so she was forty-four, not fifty-three days at sea. The weather was very rough, and the ship developed some serious leaks, which increased alarmingly through the straining in the heavy sea. Under these circumstances, the ship's company being very sickly, with more than one hundred men actually on the sick list—one hundred and eleven, according to the "State and Condition" report on arrival—Captain Lutwidge states that he had the prisoners "watched"—i.e. divided into port and starboard watch, and set them to the pumps: "I found it necessary to employ the prisoners at the pumps, and on that account to order them whole allowance of provisions—the ship's company, from their weak and sickly state, being unequal to that duty."

According to the log, five prisoners, not eleven, died on the voyage, the deaths and burials at sea being precisely recorded.

So here we have the official record that, while the ship's company were too much enfeebled by sickness to work the pumps—in addition, of course, to constant handling of the heavy sails and spars in tempestuous weather—the American prisoners were sufficiently robust to perform this duty, and probably save the vessel from serious peril through her leaky condition.

In order to do this they must have been called on deck and mustered, placed in watches, and subsequently summoned in regular turn for their "spell" at the pumps.

This story is obviously incompatible with the other, and it is, to say the least of it, very remarkable that this pumping in watches, and full provision allowance, should have been entirely forgotten by Barney in his narration.

It is certainly open to any one, in view of this omission, to question the accuracy of other statements; to hesitate before accepting the story of seventy-one men being confined in a space twenty feet by twelve and only six inches higher than an ordinary table; of eleven of them dying in shrieking delirium, denied medical attendance, and six out of eleven deaths being suppressed. The treatment of our American prisoners was undoubtedly sometimes unduly harsh, but it is impossible to accept this story as literally true.

Mr. Maclay's book and Mary Barney's memoirs are alike accessible to any one, and for this reason it is necessary that the other side should be heard—Joshua Barney having been a very prominent American privateersman.

While on the subject, it is as well to refer to the treatment of prisoners in Mill Prison, at Plymouth, of which Mr. Maclay has a good deal to say; and in support of his contention as to their being placed upon a different diet from other prisoners of war, he has two sentences in inverted commas (page 152), which are stated in a footnote to be quoted from the Annual Register of 1781, page 152; but no such passages occur there, nor in adjacent pages.

It is, however, perfectly true that a petition was presented, on June 20th, 1781, to the House of Lords, and discussed on July 2nd following, from these prisoners. The only complaint which was found to be substantiated was that the Americans were allowed half a pound less bread daily than the French and other nationalities. It would have been more accurate to put it that the French had half a pound more—for this was stated to be supplied, as being equal to the allowance to British prisoners in France. The question of increasing the allowance was put to the vote, and negatived; but it was shown that the American prisoners' diet was, as a whole, superior to that allowed to our own troops on board transports; and their health was stated to be excellent, which is borne out by the fact, as stated by Mr. Maclay, that they indulged in athletic games as a pastime. Men who are half naked and nearly starving do not indulge in such pastimes.

And now for the continued adventures of Joshua Barney, privateersman. Bold and resourceful, he determined to face the difficulties of escape, and the very unpleasant consequences of detection.

One day, playing at leap-frog, he pretended to have sprained his ankle, and for some time afterwards went about on crutches, maintaining the deception so skilfully as to throw the warders off their guard, and completely deceive all but a few of his intimate friends. He had already paved the way, by making friends with a soldier of the prison guard, who had served in the British army in America, and had there received some kindness, which he was willing to requite by civility to the Americans in Mill Prison.

On May 18th, 1781, this man was on sentry outside the inner gate—the prison being encircled by two high walls, with a space between—and Barney, hopping by on his crutches, whispered through the gate: "Today?" "Dinner," replied the sentry, with equal terseness, which meant one o'clock, when the warders dined. The friendly but disloyal soldier had provided Barney with the undress uniform of a British officer—which appears an unusual sort of thing for a private soldier to be able to lay hands upon without detection—and this Barney donned in his cell, putting on his greatcoat over it—his greatcoat, which, since he sprained his ankle, he had been wearing "for fear he should catch cold": Barney was a man of details.

Still upon crutches, he left his cell, and, at a prearranged signal, some of his friends proceeded to engage the several sentries in conversation, while one, a stalwart individual, stood close by the gate.

Throwing aside his crutches, Barney walked across the enclosure towards the gate, and, first exchanging a reassuring wink with the sentry, sprang with catlike agility upon the shoulders of his athletic accomplice, and in a moment was over the wall. Slipping off his greatcoat, and "tipping" the soldier to the extent of four guineas, he passed through the gate in the outer wall, which was usually left open for the convenience of the prison officials, but with an attendant on duty who, though we are not told that he had been "squared," obligingly turned his back as the escaping prisoner passed through.

So far, so good. And really Joshua Barney is to be congratulated upon the accommodating character of his custodians, which rendered it possible for him to cross the prison-yard at one o'clock on a May day and scale the wall, while the sentries conversed with his friends and the warders enjoyed their dinner, having previously been permitted to malinger with a sham sprained ankle. We are told that he had it bathed and bandaged for some time without being challenged and detected by the surgeon, though somebody in authority must have provided him with crutches. It appears somewhat absurd to insist upon the rigour of confinement in Mill Prison, in the face of this.

However, Barney was free, and he had friends near by who concealed him, and took him on to the house of an old clergyman in Plymouth in the evening. No immediate inquiry was made for him in the prison, for he had provided a substitute to answer his name at roll-call in the cell every day—a "slender youth," we are told, "who was able to creep through the window-bars at pleasure," and so crawled into Barney's cell and answered for him. We are not told who the "slender youth" was, or how, if he was an American prisoner, he contrived also to answer for himself in his own cell. Anyhow, this was an amazingly slack prison, for any such freak to be possible.

Finding two fellow-countrymen who had been captured as passengers in a merchant vessel and were looking for a chance of returning, they secured a fishing-smack, Barney rigged himself up in an old coat tied with tarred rope round the waist and a tarpaulin hat, and soon after daybreak they sailed down the River Plym, past the forts and men-of-war, and safely out to sea.

But they were not destined so easily to reach the coast of France, whence they hoped to find a passage to America. An inconveniently zealous British privateer from Guernsey boarded the smack, and the skipper was unduly inquisitive. Upon Barney opening his coat and showing his British uniform, the privateersman, though more polite, was obviously suspicious. What business had a British officer on the enemy's coast?—for Barney had stated that he was bound there. Barney made an official mystery of his "business," and refused to reveal it—a state secret, and so on.

No use! The privateer captain's sensitive conscience would not permit him to let the smack go, and so the two vessels beat up for the English coast in company, and on the following morning came to anchor in a small harbour about six miles from Plymouth, probably Causand Bay. Here the privateer captain went on shore, on his way to Plymouth, to report to Admiral Digby, while most of his crew also landed to avoid the risk of being taken by the press-gang on board. Barney, however, though he was treated with courtesy, was detained on board the privateer.

There was a boat made fast astern, and into this the American quietly slipped, hurting his leg as he did so, and sculled on shore, shouting to some of the idlers on the beach to help him haul up the boat.

The customs officer was disposed to be inquisitive and talkative, but Barney pointed to the blood oozing through his stocking, and said he must go off and get his leg tied up.

He was told they were at the Red Lion, at the end of the village, which he discovered, much to his annoyance, that he was obliged to pass. He had almost succeeded in doing so unobserved, when one of the men shouted after him, and, approaching, gave him to understand that some of the privateer's crew had an idea of shipping in the Navy, and wanted some particulars from him; showing that his disguise had deceived them.

Barney invited the man to accompany him to Plymouth, walking away rapidly while he spoke; but, as Mr. Maclay puts it, the tar "seemed to think better of his plan of entering a navy noted for its cruelty to seamen," and accordingly turned back.

Barney now began to be very anxious about his safety. He was on the high road to Plymouth, where he might at any moment encounter a guard sent out to recapture him; so he jumped over a hedge into Lord Mount-Edgecumbe's grounds, where the gardener, pacified by a "tip," let him out by a private gate to the waterside—and none too soon, for, as he passed out, the guard sent to seek him tramped along on the other side of the hedge he had jumped over. A butcher, conveying some stock by water, took him across the river, and that night he found himself back at the old clergyman's house from which he had started. His two friends of the fishing-smack adventure here joined him once more, and while they were at supper the town-crier bawled under the window that five guineas reward would be paid for the capture of Joshua Barney, a rebel deserter from Mill Prison.

Three days later, dressed in fashionable attire, Barney stepped into a post-chaise at midnight and drove off for Exeter. He was stopped at the Plymouth gate, and a lantern thrust in to see if he corresponded with the description of himself which had been circulated. Apparently he did not, for he was permitted to proceed, and eventually passed on to Bristol and London, France, and Holland; whence he shipped on board the armed ship South Carolina, which he saved, by prompt measures and good seamanship, from being wrecked on the Dutch coast—her officers being, apparently, timid and incompetent.

Eventually, having transhipped on board the Cicero, another American privateer, Barney reached Beverley, Massachusetts—the writer does not give the date, but it must have been in the autumn of 1781. At Boston, we are told, he met several of his fellow-prisoners who had also escaped from Mill Prison.