The Home and State (Dallas, Tex.), Vol. 5, No. 6, Ed. 1 Sunday, April 1, 1906 Page: 6 of 24
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DALLAS, TEXAS, APRIL, 1906
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Vol. 5, No. 6
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Copyright 1906, by the Home and State Co.
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For Love of Country
By Cyrus Townsend Brady
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We see her go to pieces, and
a
She’s gone, and we go free. It was my fault.”
It
never a
gether.
soul left to tell the story,
plank of her that hangs to-
and a terrible one!
at your sadness.
! I do not wonder
But, young gentle-
gale.
never
Entered at the Dallas Post Office as
Second Class Mail Matter
27
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Yearly Subscription, 50c.
Single Copy. 5c.
men, do not take it so to heart.
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That’s all your honor, and may God
have mercy on their souls, say I,”
added the solemn voice of the boat-
swain in the silence.
“A frightful catastrophe, indeed,
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we ran off free, she following. Pret-
ty soon we made her out a frigate, a
heavy frigate of thirty-six guns, and
a fast one too, for she rapidly over-
hauled us. We cracked on sail, even
setting the topmast stunsail, ’till it
blew away. Then we cut away bul-
warks 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 wasn’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; Lieuten-
ant 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 Tal-
bot broke out a field-piece from the
hold and mounted it as a sternchaser,
and used it too—”
“Good! well done!” said the gen-
eral, nodding approvingly. “Go on.”
“We came to the mouth of the pass.
The frigate fired a broadside. One
shot carried away the mizzen topgal-
lant 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 fri-
gate 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
tions, on the contrary. But mean-
while 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 forgotten
what good news is. It is certainly
very pleasant for us, eh, gentlemen?
Now give us some of the details of
tne 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 sight-
ing 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 ex-
clamations and deep gasps of excite-
ment from the officers crowding
about him; even Billy bringing the
dinner put it down unheeded, and lis-
tened with his eyes glistening. And
then Seymour delivered Jones’ mes-
sage 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 Sey-
mour? And, gentlemen, you look as
solemn as if you were 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. ’Tis 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; ’tis your part,
Seymour.”
Here, in the presence of friends,
and friends who knew and loved Col-
onel 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 deep-
ened 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 af-
ternoon watch, your honor knows what
three bells— Ay, ay, sir,” continued
the seaman, noting the general’s im-
patient nod. “Well, sir, we spied a
large sail coming down on us fast;
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“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 arrest-
ed me. Bentley and Philip interfered.
I taunted him, advanced to strike him.
He had to draw or be dishonored.”
“Nay, general, but the fault is mine.
I was the captian 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 Col-
onel 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. Lau-
rens, make out a captain’s commis-
sion for Mr. Talbot. Hamilton, I wish
you would write out a general order
declaring the capture of the transport
CHAPTER XXI.
The Boatswain Tells the Story.
One or two other men were writing
at a table, and another stalwart offi-
cer of rank was sitting by the fire
reading. None of the four men com-
ing into the room had seen the gen-
eral 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, blan-
kets, and shoes; and four officers and
fifty soldiers; all bound for Quebec,
where the British army is assem-
bling.”
“Now Almighty God be praised!”
exclaimed the general, with deep feel-
ing. “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 mid-
shipman. I think you know him, gen-
eral.”
“Certainly I do; the son of my old
friend the commissioner, Colonel Wil-
ton 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,” an-
swered the seaman himself.
“Well, my man,” said the general,
smiling, “if the Ranger has many like
you in her crew, she must show a for-
midable lot of men. I am glad to see
you all. These are my staff, gentle-
men, the members of my family, to
whom I present you. General Geene,
General Knox; and these two boys
here are Captain Alexander Hamilton
and the Marquis de La Fayette, a vol-
unteer from France, who comes to
serve our country without money or
without price, for love of liberty. This
is Major Harrison, this Captain Lau-
rens .this Captain Morris of the Phila-
delphia troop, our only cavalry; they
serve like the marquis, for love of lib-
erty. I know not how I could dispense
with them.” The gentlemen mention-
ed bowed ceremoniously, and some of
them shook hands with the new-com-
ers.
“Billy,” continued Washington, turn-
ing to his black servant, “I wish you
to get something to eat for these gen-
tlemen. 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 ra-
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tenant 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 pass1 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 at-
tempting 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 any-
way,” interrupted Bentley.
The general took the hand of the
embarassed 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, Tal-
bot. It was only a line. As he pick-
ed it up, he read it involuntarily. We
had some words. I drew on him, sir.
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, thir-
ty-six.”
“Could no one have been saved?”
queried General Knox.
“No one, sir. No boat could have
lived in that sea a moment. We
couldn’t put back, could do no good
if we stayed, 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 Eng-
land 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. Lieu-
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Rankin, George C. The Home and State (Dallas, Tex.), Vol. 5, No. 6, Ed. 1 Sunday, April 1, 1906, periodical, April 1, 1906; Dallas, Texas. (https://texashistory.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metapth1569407/m1/6/: accessed July 16, 2024), University of North Texas Libraries, The Portal to Texas History, https://texashistory.unt.edu; crediting Texas State Library and Archives Commission.