Chapter VII: Part 7

Arnold's quarters were at No. 3 Broadway. Back of the house was a garden, which extended towards the water's edge. Champe soon learned that it was Arnold's habit to seek his quarters about midnight, and that before going to bed he always visited the garden. Adjoining this garden was a dark alley, which led to the street. In short, all the surroundings and circumstances were adapted to the design, and seemed to promise success.

The plan was well laid. Two patriotic accomplices were found. One of them was to have a boat in readiness by the river-side. On the night fixed upon they were to conceal themselves in Arnold's garden at midnight, seize and gag him when he came out for his nightly walk, and take him by way of the alley, and of unfrequented streets in the vicinity, to the adjoining river-side. In case of meeting any one and being questioned, it was arranged that they should profess to be carrying a drunken soldier to the guard-house. Once in the boat, Hoboken could quickly be reached. Here assistance from Lee's corps had been arranged for.

The plot was a promising one. Champe prepared for it by removing some of the palings between the garden and the alley. These he replaced in such a way that they could be taken out again without noise. All being arranged, he wrote to Lee, and told him that on the third night from that date, if all went well, the traitor would be delivered upon the Jersey shore. He must be present, at an appointed place in the woods at Hoboken, to receive him.

This information gave Lee the greatest satisfaction. On the night in question he left camp with a small party, taking with him three led horses, for the prisoner and his captors, and at midnight sought the appointed spot. Here he waited with slowly declining hope. Hour after hour passed; the gray light of dawn appeared in the east; the sun rose over the waters; yet Champe and his prisoner failed to appear. Deeply disappointed, Lee led his party back to camp.

The cause of the failure may be told in a few words. It was a simple one. The merest chance saved Arnold from the fate which he so richly merited. This was, that on the very day which Champe had fixed for the execution of his plot, Arnold changed his quarters, his purpose being to attend to the embarkation of an expedition to the south, which was to be under his command.

In a few days Lee received a letter from his agent, telling the cause of failure, and saying that, at present, success was hopeless. In fact, Champe found himself unexpectedly in an awkward situation. Arnold's American legion was to form part of this expedition. Champe had enlisted in it. He was caught in a trap of his own setting. Instead of crossing the Hudson that night, with Arnold as his prisoner, he found himself on board a British transport, with Arnold as his commander. He was in for the war on the British side; forced to face his fellow-countrymen in the field.

We need not tell the story of Arnold's expedition to Virginia, with the brutal incidents which history relates concerning it. It will suffice to say that Champe formed part of it, all his efforts to desert proving fruitless. It may safely be said that no bullet from his musket reached the American ranks, but he was forced to brave death from the hands of those with whom alone he was in sympathy.

Not until Arnold's corps had joined Cornwallis at Petersburg did its unwilling recruit succeed in escaping. Taking to the mountains he made his way into North Carolina, and was not long in finding himself among friends. His old corps was in that State, taking part in the pursuit of Lord Rawdon. It had just passed the Congaree in this pursuit when, greatly to the surprise of his old comrades, the deserter appeared in their ranks. Their surprise was redoubled when they saw Major Lee receive him with the utmost cordiality. A few minutes sufficed to change their surprise to admiration. There was no longer occasion for secrecy. Champe's story was told, and was received with the utmost enthusiasm by his old comrades. So this was the man they had pursued so closely, this man who had been seeking to put the arch-traitor within their hands! John Champe they declared, was a comrade to be proud of, and his promotion to a higher rank was the plain duty of the military authorities.

Washington knew too well, however, what would be the fate of his late agent, if taken by the enemy, to subject him to this peril. He would have been immediately hanged. Champe was, therefore, discharged from the service, after having been richly rewarded by the commander-in-chief. When Washington, seventeen years afterwards, was preparing against a threatened war with the French, he sent to Lee for information about Champe, whom he desired to make a captain of infantry. He was too late. The gallant sergeant-major had joined a higher corps. He had enlisted in the grand army of the dead.

MARION, THE SWAMP-FOX.

Our story takes us back to the summer of 1780, a summer of war, suffering, and outrage in the States of the South. General Gates, at the head of the army of the South, was marching towards Camden, South Carolina, filled with inflated hopes of meeting and defeating Cornwallis. How this hopeful general was himself defeated, and how, in consequence, the whole country south of Virginia fell under British control, history relates; we are not here concerned with it.

Gates's army had crossed the Pedee River and was pushing southward. During its march a circumstance occurred which gave great amusement to the trim soldiery. There joined the army a volunteer detachment of about twenty men, such a heterogeneous and woe-begone corps that Falstaff himself might have hesitated before enlisting them. They were a mosaic of whites and blacks, men and boys, their clothes tatters, their equipments burlesques on military array, their horses--for they were all mounted--parodies on the noble war-charger. At the head of this motley array was a small-sized, thin-faced, modest-looking man, his uniform superior to that of his men, but no model of neatness, yet with a flashing spirit in his eye that admonished the amused soldiers not to laugh at his men in his presence. Behind his back they laughed enough. The Pedee volunteers were a source of ridicule to the well-clad Continentals that might have caused trouble had not the officers used every effort to repress it.

As for Gates, he offered no welcome to this ragged squad. The leader modestly offered him some advice about the military condition of the South, but the general in command was clothed in too dense an armor of conceit to be open to advice from any quarter, certainly not from the leader of such a Falstaffian company, and he was glad enough to get rid of him by sending him on a scouting expedition in advance of the army, to watch the enemy and report his movements.

This service precisely suited him to whom it was given, for this small, non-intrusive personage was no less a man than Francis Marion, then but little known, but destined to become the Robin Hood of partisan warriors, the celebrated "Swamp-Fox" of historical romance and romantic history.

Marion had appeared with the title of colonel. He left the army with the rank of general. Governor Rutledge, who was present, knew him and his worth, gave him a brigadier's commission, and authorized him to enlist a brigade for guerilla work in the swamps and forests of the State.

Thus raised in rank, Marion marched away with his motley crew of followers, they doubtless greatly elevated in dignity to feel that they had a general at their head. The army indulged in a broad laugh, after they had gone, at Marion's miniature brigade of scarecrows. They laughed at the wrong man, for after their proud array was broken and scattered to the winds, and the region they had marched to relieve had become the prey of the enemy, that modest partisan alone was to keep alive the fire of liberty in South Carolina, and so annoy the victors that in the end they hardly dared show their faces out of the forts. The Swamp-Fox was to pave the way for the reconquest of the South by the brave General Greene.

No long time elapsed before Marion increased his disreputable score to a brigade of more respectable proportions, with which he struck such quick and telling blows from all sides on the British and Tories, that no nest of hornets could have more dismayed a marauding party of boys. The swamps of the Pedee were his head-quarters. In their interminable and thicket-hidden depths he found hiding-places in abundance, and from them he made rapid darts, north, south, east, and west, making his presence felt wherever he appeared, and flying back to shelter before his pursuers could overtake him. His corps was constantly changing, now swelling, now shrinking, now little larger than his original ragged score, now grown to a company of a hundred or more in dimensions. It was always small. The swamps could not furnish shelter and food for any large body of men.

Marion's head-quarters were at Snow's Island, at the point where Lynch's Creek joins the Pedee River. This was a region of high river-swamp, thickly forested, and abundantly supplied with game. The camp was on dry land, but around it spread broad reaches of wet thicket and canebrake, whose paths were known only to the partisans, and their secrets sedulously preserved. As regards the mode of life here of Marion and his men, there is an anecdote which will picture it better than pages of description.

A young British officer was sent from Georgetown to treat with Marion for an exchange of prisoners. The Swamp-Fox fully approved of the interview, being ready enough to rid himself of his captives, who were a burden on his hands. But he was too shrewd to lay bare the ways that led to his camp. The officer was blindfolded, and led by devious paths through canebrake, thicket, and forest to the hidden camp. On the removal of the bandage from his eyes he looked about him with admiration and surprise. He found himself in a scene worthy of Robin Hood's woodland band. Above him spread the boughs of magnificent trees, laden with drooping moss, and hardly letting a ray of sunlight through their crowding foliage. Around him rose their massive trunks, like the columns of some vast cathedral. On the grassy or moss-clad ground sat or lay groups of hardy-looking men, no two of them dressed alike, and with none of the neat appearance of uniformed soldiers. More remote were their horses, cropping the short herbage in equine contentment. It looked like a camp of forest outlaws, jovial tenants of the merry greenwood.

The surprise of the officer was not lessened when his eyes fell on Marion, whom he had never seen before. It may be that he expected to gaze on a burly giant. As it was, he could scarcely believe that this diminutive, quiet-looking man, and this handful of ill-dressed and lounging followers, were the celebrated band who had thrown the whole British power in the South into alarm.

Marion addressed him, and a conference ensued in which their business was quickly arranged to their mutual satisfaction.

"And now, my dear sir," said Marion, "I should be glad to have you dine with me. You have fasted during your journey, and will be the better for a woodland repast."

"With pleasure," replied the officer. "It will be a new and pleasant experience."

He looked around him. Where was the dining-room? where, at least, the table, on which their mid-day repast was to be spread? Where were the dishes and the other paraphernalia which civilization demands as the essentials of a modern dinner?--Where? His eyes found no answer to this mental question. Marion looked at him with a smile.

"We dine here in simple style, captain," he remarked. "Pray be seated."

He took his seat on a mossy log, and pointed to an opposite one for the officer. A minute or two afterwards the camp purveyor made his appearance, bearing a large piece of bark, on which smoked some roasted sweet potatoes. They came from a fire of brushwood blazing at a distance.

"Help yourself, captain," said Marion, taking a swollen and brown-coated potato from the impromptu platter, breaking it in half, and beginning to eat with a forest appetite.

The officer looked at the viands and at his host with eyes of wonder.

"Surely, general," he exclaimed, "this cannot be your ordinary fare?"

"Indeed it is," said Marion. "And we are fortunate, on this occasion, having company to entertain, to have more than our usual allowance."

The officer had little more to say. He helped himself to the rural viands, which he ate with thought for salt. On returning to Georgetown he gave in his report, and then tendered his commission to his superior officer, saying that a people who could fight on roots for fare could not be, and ought not to be, subdued, and that he, for one, would not serve against them.

Of the exploits of Marion we can but speak briefly; they were too many to be given in detail. His blows were so sharply dealt, in such quick succession, and at such remote points, that his foes were puzzled, and could hardly believe that a single band was giving them all this trouble. Their annoyance culminated in their sending one of their best cavalry leaders, Colonel Wemyss, to surprise and crush the Swamp-Fox, then far from his hiding-place. Wemyss got on Marion's trail, and pursued him with impetuous haste. But the wary patriot was not to be easily surprised, nor would he fight where he had no chance to win. Northward he swiftly made his way, through swamps and across deep streams, into North Carolina. Wemyss lost his trail, found it, lost it again, and finally, discouraged and revengeful, turned back and desolated the country from which he had driven its active defender, and which was looked on as the hot-bed of rebellion.

Marion, who had but sixty men in his band, halted the moment pursuit ceased, sent out scouts for information, and in a very short time was back in the desolated district. The people rushed, with horse and rifle, to his ranks. Swiftly he sped to the Black Mingo, below Georgetown, and here fell at midnight on a large body of Tories, with such vigor and success that the foe were almost annihilated, while Marion lost but a single man.

The devoted band now had a short period of rest, the British being discouraged and depressed. Then Tarleton, the celebrated hard-riding marauder, took upon himself the difficult task of crushing the Swamp-Fox. He scoured the country, spreading ruin as he went, but all his skill and impetuosity were useless in the effort to overtake Marion. The patriot leader was not even to be driven from his chosen region of operations, and he managed to give his pursuer some unwelcome reminders of his presence. At times Tarleton would be within a few miles of him, and full of hope of overtaking him before the next day's dawn. But, while he was thus lulled to security, Marion would be watching him from the shadows of some dark morass, and at midnight the British rear or flank would feel the sharp bite of the Swamp-Fox's teeth. In the end, Tarleton withdrew discomfited from the pursuit, with more hard words against this fellow, who "would not fight like a gentleman or a Christian," than he had ever been able to give him hard blows.

Tarleton withdrawn, Marion resumed all his old activity, his audacity reaching the extent of making an attack on the British garrison at Georgetown. This was performed in conjunction with Major Lee, who had been sent by General Greene to Marion's aid. Lee had no little trouble to find him. The active partisan was so constantly moving about, now in deep swamps, now far from his lurking-places, that friend and foe alike were puzzled to trace his movements. They met at last, however, and made a midnight attack on Georgetown, unsuccessful, as it proved, yet sufficient to redouble the alarm of the enemy.

In the spring of 1781 we find Colonel Watson, with a force of five hundred men, engaged in the difficult task of "crushing Marion." He found him,--unlike the predecessors,--but, as it proved, to his own cost. Marion was now at Snow's Island, whence he emerged to strike a quick succession of heavy blows at such different points that he appeared to be ubiquitous. His force met that of Watson unexpectedly, and a fight ensued. Watson had the advantage of field-pieces, and Marion was obliged to fall back. Reaching a bridge over the Black River, he checked his pursuers with telling volleys long enough to burn the bridge. Then a peculiar contest took place. The two forces marched down the stream, one on each side, for ten miles, skirmishing across the water all the way. Darkness ended the fight. The two camps were pitched near together. For ten days Watson remained there, not able to get at Marion, and so annoyed by the constant raids of his active foe that in the end he made a midnight flight to escape destruction in detail. Marion pursued, and did him no small damage in the flight. Watson's only solace was the remark, already quoted, that his troublesome foe would not "fight like a gentleman or a Christian."

Major Lee tells an amusing story of an incident that happened to himself, on his march in search of Marion. He had encamped for the night on Drowning Creek, a branch of the Pedee. As morning approached, word was brought to the officer of the day that noises were heard in front of the pickets, in the direction of the creek. They seemed like the stealthy movements of men. Now a sentinel fired, the bugles sounded for the horse patrols to come in, and the whole force was quickly got ready for the coming enemy. But no enemy appeared. Soon after another sentinel fired, and word came that an unseen foe was moving in the swamp. The troops faced in this direction, and waited anxiously for the coming of dawn. Suddenly the line of sentinels in their rear fire in succession. The enemy had undoubtedly gained the road behind them, and were marching on them from that direction. The line again faced round. Lee went along it, telling his men that there was nothing left but to fight, and bidding them to sustain the high reputation which they had long since won. The cavalry were ordered not to pursue a flying force, for the country was well suited for concealment, and they might be tempted into an ambuscade.

When day broke the whole column advanced with great caution, infantry in front, baggage in centre, cavalry in rear. Where was the foe? None appeared. The van officer carefully examined the road for an enemy's trail. To his surprise and amusement, he found only the tracks of a large pack of wolves.

These animals had been attempting to pass the camp at point after point, turned from each point by the fire of the sentinels, and trying the line on all sides. Great merriment followed, in which pickets, patrols, and the officer of the day were made the butt of the ridicule of the whole force.

We shall close with one interesting story in which Marion played the leading part, but which is distinguished by an example of womanly patriotism worthy of the highest praise. The mansion of Mrs. Rebecca Motte, a rich widow of South Carolina, had been taken possession of by the British authorities, she being obliged to take up her residence in a farm-house on her lands. The large mansion was converted into a fort, and surrounded by a deep ditch and a high parapet. A garrison of one hundred and fifty men, under Captain McPherson, was stationed here, the place being re-named Fort Motte.

This stronghold was attacked, in May, 1781, by Marion and Lee, then in conjunction. Lee took position at the farm-house, and posted his men on the declivity of the plain on which the fort stood. Marion cast up a mound, placed on it the six-pounder they had brought with them, and prepared to assail the parapet while Lee made his approaches. McPherson had no artillery.

Their approaches were made by a trench from an adjacent ravine. In a few days they were near enough to be justified in demanding a surrender. McPherson refused. The same evening word reached the Americans that Lord Rawdon was approaching. On the following night the light of his camp-fires could be seen on the neighboring hills of the Santee. The garrison saw them as well as the assailants, and were filled with renewed hope.

What was to be done? The besiegers must succeed quickly or retreat. Lee was not long in devising an expedient. The mansion of Mrs. Motte was shingled and the shingles very dry. There had been no rain for several days, and the sun had poured its rays warmly upon them. They might be set on fire. Lee suggested this to Mrs. Motte, with much dread as to how she would receive it. Her acquiescence was so cheerful that his mind was relieved. The patriotic woman expressed herself as ready to make any sacrifice for her country.

Lee told his plan to Marion, who warmly approved it. It was proposed to do the work by means of arrows carrying flaming combustibles. As it proved, however, the only bows and arrows they could find in the camp were very inferior articles.

"They will never do," said Mrs. Motte. "I can provide you with much better. I have in the house an excellent bow and a bundle of arrows, which came from the East Indies. They are at your service."

She hastened from the room, and quickly returned with the weapons, which she handed to Lee as cheerfully as though she looked for some special benefit to herself from their use. Word was sent to McPherson of what was intended, and that Rawdon had not yet crossed the Santee. Immediate surrender would save many lives. The bold commandant still refused.

At midday, from the shelter of the ditch, Nathan Savage, one of Marion's men, shot several flaming arrows at the roof. Two of them struck the dry shingles. Almost instantly these were in a flame. The fire crept along the roof. Soldiers were sent up to extinguish it, but a shot or two from the field-piece drove them down.

There was no longer hope for McPherson. He must surrender, or have his men burned in the fort, or decimated if they should leave it. He hung out the white flag of surrender. The firing ceased; the flames were extinguished; at one o'clock the garrison yielded themselves prisoners. An hour afterwards the victorious and the captive officers were seated at an ample repast at Mrs. Motte's table, presided over by that lady with as much urbanity and grace as though these guests were her especial friends. Since that day Mrs. Motte has been classed among the most patriotic heroines of the Revolution.

This is, perhaps, enough in prose, but the fame of Marion and his men has been fitly enshrined in poetry, and it will not be amiss to quote a verse or two, in conclusion, from Bryant's stirring poem entitled "Song of Marion's Men."

Our band is few, but true and tried
Our leader frank and bold:
The British soldier trembles
When Marion's name is told.
Our fortress is the good greenwood,
Our tent the cypress-tree;
We know the forest round us,
As seamen know the sea.
We know its walls of thorny vines,
Its glades of reedy grass;
Its safe and silent islands
Within the dark morass.

Well knows the fair and friendly moon
The band that Marion leads,--
The glitter of their rifles,
The scampering of their steeds.
'Tis life to guide the fiery barb
Across the moonlit plain;
'Tis life to feel the night wind
That lifts his tossing mane.
A moment in the British camp,--
A moment,--and away
Back to the pathless forest
Before the peep of day.

Grave men there are by broad Santee,
Grave men with hoary hairs;
Their hearts are all with Marion,
For Marion are their prayers.
And lovely ladies greet our band
With kindliest welcoming,
With smiles like those of summer,
And tears like those of spring.
For them we wear these trusty arms,
And lay them down no more
Till we have driven the Briton
Forever from our shore.

THE FATE OF THE PHILADELPHIA.

It was a mild evening on the Mediterranean, the wind light, the sea smooth, the temperature--though the season was that of midwinter--summer-like in its geniality. Into the harbor of Tripoli slowly glided a small, two-masted vessel, all her sails set and moderately well filled by the wind, yet moving with the tardiness of a very slow sailer. A broad bay lay before her, its surface silvered by the young moon whose crescent glowed in the western sky. Far inward could be dimly seen the masts and hull of a large vessel, its furled sails white in the moonlight. Beyond it were visible distant lights, and a white lustre as of minaret tops touched by the moonbeams. These were the lights and spires of Tripoli, a Moorish town then best known as a haunt and stronghold of the pirates of the Mediterranean. All was silence, all seemingly peace. The vessel--the ketch, to give it its nautical name--moved onward with what seemed exasperating slowness, scarcely ruffling the polished waters of the bay. The hours passed on. The miles lagged tardily behind. The wind fell. The time crept towards midnight. The only life visible in the wide landscape was that of the gliding ketch.

But any one who could have gained a bird's-eye view of the vessel would have seen sufficient to excite his distrust of that innocent-seeming craft. From the water-side only ten or twelve men could be seen, but on looking downward the decks would have been perceived to be crowded with men, lying down so as to be hidden behind the bulwarks and other objects upon the deck, and so thick that the sailors who were working the vessel had barely room to move.

This appeared suspicious. Not less suspicious was the fact that the water behind the vessel was ruffled by dragging objects of various kinds, which seemed to have something to do with her slowness of motion. As the wind grew lighter, and the speed of the vessel fell until it was moving at barely a two-knots' rate, these objects were drawn in, and proved to be buckets, spars, and other drags which had been towed astern to reduce the vessel's speed. Her tardiness of motion was evidently the work of design.

It was now about ten o'clock. The moon hovered on the western horizon, near its hour of setting. The wind was nearly east, and favorable to the vessel's course, but was growing lighter every moment. The speed of the ketch diminished until it seemed almost to have come to rest. It had now reached the eastern entrance to the bay, the passage here being narrowed by rocks on the one hand and a shoal on the other. Through this passage it stole onward like a ghost, for nearly an hour, all around being tranquil, nothing anywhere to arouse distrust. The craft seemed a coaster delayed by the light winds in making harbor.

The gliding ketch had now come so near to the large vessel in front, that the latter had lost its dimness of outline and was much more plainly visible. It was evidently no Moorish craft, its large hull, its lofty masts, its tracery of spars and rigging being rather those of an English or American frigate than a product of Tripolitan dock-yards. Its great bulk and sweeping spars arose in striking contrast to the low-decked vessels which could be seen here and there huddled about the inner sides of the harbor.

A half-hour more passed. The ketch was now close aboard the frigate-like craft, steering directly towards it. Despite the seeming security of the harbor, there were sentries posted on the frigate and officers moving about its deck. From one of these now came a loud hail in the Tripolitan tongue.

"What craft is that?"

"The Mastico, from Malta," came the answer, in the same language.

"Keep off. Do you want to run afoul of us?"

"We would like to ride beside you for the night," came the answer. "We have lost our anchors in a gale."

The conversation continued, in the Tripolitan language, as the ketch crept slowly up, an officer of the frigate and the pilot of the smaller vessel being the spokesmen. A number of Moorish sailors were looking with mild curiosity over the frigate's rails, without a moment's suspicion that anything was wrong. The moon still dimly lit up the waters of the bay, but not with light enough to make any object very distinct.

As the ketch came close a boat was lowered with a line, and was rowed towards the frigate, to whose fore-chains the end was made fast. At the same time the officer of the large vessel, willing to aid the seemingly disabled coaster, ordered some of his men to lower a boat and take a line from the stern to the ketch. As the boat of the latter returned, it met the frigate's boat, took the line from the hands of its crew, and passed it in to the smaller vessel.

The ketch was now fast to the frigate bow and stern. The lines were passed to the men lying on the deck, none of whom were visible from the frigate's rail, and were slowly passed from hand to hand by the men, the coaster thus being cautiously drawn closer to the obliging Moorish craft.

All this took time. Foot by foot the ketch drew nearer, her motion being almost imperceptible. The Moors looked lazily over their bulwark, fancying that it was but the set of the current that was bringing the vessels together. But suddenly there was a change. The officer of the frigate had discovered that the ketch was still provided with anchors, despite the story that her anchors had been lost in a gale.

"What is this?" he cried, sternly. "You have your anchors! You have lied to me! Keep off! Cut those fasts there!"

A moment afterwards the cry of "Amerikanos!" was raised in the ship, and a number of the night-watch drew their knives and hastened fore and aft to cut the fasts.

The crew of the Mastico--or the Intrepid, to give it its proper name--were still more alert. At the first signal of alarm, their cautious pull on the ropes was changed to a vigorous effort which sent the ketch surging through the water to the side of the frigate, where she was instantly secured by grappling-irons, hurled by strong hands.

Up to this moment not a movement or whisper had betrayed the presence of the men crouched on the deck. The ten or twelve who were visible seemed to constitute the whole crew of the craft. But now there came a sudden change. The stirring cry of "Boarders away!" was raised in stentorian tones, and in an instant the deck of the Intrepid seemed alive. The astonished Moors gazed with startled eyes at a dense crowd of men who had appeared as suddenly as if they had come from the air.

The order to board had been given by an officer who sprang at the same moment for the frigate's chain-plates. Two active young men followed him, and in an instant the whole crew were at their heels, some boarding the frigate by the ports, others over the rail, swarming upon her deck like so many bees, while the Moors fell back in panic fright.

The surprise was perfect. The men on the frigate's deck ran to the starboard side as their assailants poured in on the larboard, and constant plunges into the water told that they were hastily leaping overboard in their fright. Hardly a blow had been struck. The deck was cleared in almost a minute after the order to board. The only struggle took place below, but this lasted little longer. In less than ten minutes from the time of boarding all resistance was at an end, and the craft was an undisputed prize to the Intrepid's crew.

And now to learn the meaning of this midnight assault. The vessel which had been so skilfully captured was the frigate Philadelphia, of the American navy, which had fallen into the hands of the Tripolitans some time before. For years the Moorish powers of Africa had been preying upon the commerce of the Mediterranean, until the weaker nations of Europe were obliged to pay an annual tribute for the security of their commerce. The United States did the same for some time, but the thing grew so annoying that war was at length declared against Tripoli, the boldest of these piratical powers. In 1803 Commodore Preble was sent with a fleet to the Mediterranean. He forced Morocco to respect American commerce, and then proceeded to Tripoli, outside whose harbor his fleet congregated, with a view of blockading the port.

On October 31 Captain Bainbridge of the Philadelphia, while cruising about, saw a vessel in shore and to windward, standing for Tripoli. Sail was made to cut her off. The chase continued for several hours, the lead being kept constantly going to avoid danger of shoals. When about a league distant from Tripoli it became evident that the fugitive craft could not be overtaken, and the frigate wore round to haul off into deeper waters. But, to the alarm of the officers, they found the water in their front rapidly shoaling, it having quickly decreased in depth from eight to six and a half fathoms. A hasty effort was now made to wear the ship, but it was too late; the next instant she struck on a reef, with such force that she was lifted on it between five and six feet.

This was an appalling accident. No other cruiser was near. The enemy was close at hand. Gunboats were visible near the town. The moment it was discovered that the frigate was in trouble these dogs of war would be out. Captain Bainbridge gave orders to lighten the ship with all speed. All but a few of her guns were thrown overboard. The anchors were cut from the bows. The water-casks in the hold were started, and the water pumped out. All heavy articles were thrown overboard, and finally the foremast was cut away. But all proved in vain. The ship still lay immovable on the rocks. The gunboats of the enemy now surrounded her, and were growing bolder every minute. There was nothing for it but surrender. Resistance could only end in the death of all on board.

But before hauling down his flag, Captain Bainbridge had the magazine drowned, holes bored in the ship's bottom, the pumps choked, and every measure taken to insure her sinking. Then the colors were lowered and the gunboats took possession, three hundred and fifteen prisoners being captured. The officers were well treated by the bashaw of Tripoli, but an enormous ransom was demanded for them, and all signs of an inclination to peace disappeared.

Captain Bainbridge's efforts to sink the Philadelphia proved ineffectual. During a high wind the prize was got off the reef, her leaks stopped, and she taken in triumph to the city. Her guns, anchors, and other articles were raised from the reef, the ship was moored about a quarter of a mile from the bashaw's castle, and her injuries repaired, it being the intention to fit her for sea as a Tripolitan cruiser.

These were the events that preceded the daring attempt we have detailed. Lieutenant Stephen Decatur had volunteered to make an effort to destroy the vessel, with the aid of a recently-captured ketch, called the Mastico. This, renamed the Intrepid, manned with a crew of seventy-six men, had entered the harbor on the evening of February 3, 1804. What followed, to the capture of the frigate, has been told. The succeeding events remain to be detailed.

Doubtless Lieutenant Decatur would have attempted to carry off the prize had it been possible. His orders, however, were to destroy it, and the fact that there was not a sail bent or a yard crossed left him no alternative. The command was, therefore, at once given to pass up the combustibles from the ketch. There was no time to be lost. The swimming fugitives would quickly be in the town and the alarm given. Every moment now was of value, for the place where they were was commanded by the guns of the forts and of several armed vessels anchored at no great distance, and they might look for an assault the instant their character was determined.

With all haste, then, officers and men went to work. They had been divided into squads, each with its own duty to perform, and they acted with the utmost promptitude and disciplined exactness. The men who descended with combustibles to the cockpit and after-store-rooms had need to haste, for fires were lighted over their heads before they were through with their task. So rapidly did the flames catch and spread that some of those on board had to make their escape from between-decks by the forward ladders, the after-part of the ship being already filled with smoke.

In twenty minutes from the time the Americans had taken possession of the ship they were driven out of her by flames, so rapidly had they spread. The vessel had become so dry under those tropical suns that she burned like pine. By the time the party which had been engaged in the store-rooms reached the deck, most of the others were on board the Intrepid. They joined them, and the order to cast off was given. It was not an instant too soon, for the daring party were just then in the most risky situation they had been in that night.

The fire, in fact, had spread with such unexpected rapidity that flames were already shooting from the port-holes. The head fast was cast off, and the ketch fell astern. But the stern fast became jammed and the boom foul, while the ammunition of the party, covered only with a tarpaulin, was within easy reach of the increasing flames.

There was no time to look for an axe, and the rope was severed with swords-blows, while a vigorous shove sent the Intrepid clear of the frigate and free from the danger which had threatened her. As she swung clear, the flames reached the rigging, up which they shot in hissing lines, the ropes being saturated with tar which had oozed out through the heat of the sun.

The Intrepid did not depend on her sails alone for escape. She was provided with sweeps, and these were now got out and manned with haste, a few vigorous strokes sending the vessel safely away from the flaming frigate. This done, the crew, as with one impulse, dropped their oars and gave three rousing cheers for their signal victory.

Their shouts of triumph appeared to rouse the Moors from their lethargy. So rapid and unlooked-for had been the affair, that the vessel was in full flame before the town and the harbor were awake to the situation. There were batteries on shore, and two corsairs and a galley were anchored at no great distance from the Philadelphia, and from these now the boom of cannon began. But their fire was too hasty and nervous to do much harm, and the men of the Intrepid seized their sweeps again and bowled merrily down the harbor, their progress aided by a light breeze in their sails.

The spectacle that followed is described as of a beauty that approached sublimity. The ship, aflame from hull to peak, presented a magnificent appearance, the entire bay was illuminated, and the flash and roar of cannon were constant, the guns of the Philadelphia going off as they became heated, and adding to the uproar. She lay so that one of her broadsides was directed towards the town, thus returning the enemy's fire, while the other sent its balls far out into the harbor. "The most singular effect of the conflagration was on board the ship, for the flames, having run up the rigging and masts, collected under the tops, and fell over, giving the whole the appearance of glowing columns and fiery capitals."

The Intrepid moved on down the harbor, none the worse for the cannon-balls that were sent after her, and continued her course until she reached her consort, the Siren, which awaited her outside the harbor. Joining company, they proceeded to Syracuse, where the fleet then lay.

The exploit we have here described was one of the most notable in the annals of the American navy. It was one that needed the utmost daring combined with the most exact attention to details, and in both these respects there was nothing wanting to insure the success of the enterprise. The hour was well chosen, as that in which the foe would most likely be off their guard, and to this we must ascribe the slowness of their assault on the Americans and the uncertainty of their aim. The mode of approach to the frigate, the skill with which the ketch was laid alongside without exciting suspicion, and the rapidity and completeness with which the destruction of the prize was prepared for, were all worthy of high commendation. As for the boldness of the enterprise, one has but to consider what would have been the fate of the Americans had the attack failed. Directly under the frigate's guns, and in a harbor filled with gunboats and armed cruisers and surrounded by forts and batteries, escape would have been impossible, and every man in the Intrepid must have perished. The greatest courage, coolness, and self-possession, and the most exact discipline, alone could have yielded success in the daring project, and these qualities seem to have been possessed in a high degree.

The success of this exploit gave Lieutenant Decatur a reputation for gallantry which had its share in his subsequent elevation to the highest rank in the navy. The country generally applauded the feat, and the navy long considered it one of its most brilliant achievements, it being deemed a high honor among sailors and officers to have been one of the Intrepid's crew. The writer of these pages may add that it is to him a matter of some interest that the first man to reach the deck of the Philadelphia on that memorable night was a namesake of his own, Midshipman Charles Morris. For the credit of the name he is also glad to say that Mr. Morris in time become a commodore in the navy, and attained a high reputation as an officer both in war and peace.

THE VICTIM OF A TRAITOR.

On the Ohio River, fourteen miles below Marietta, lies a beautiful island, which became, in the early part of this century, the scene of a singular romance. At that time it was a wild and forest-clad domain, except for a few acres of clearing near its upper extremity, on which stood a large and handsome mansion, with spacious out-buildings and surrounding grounds which were laid out with the finest taste. The great elms and gigantic sycamore of the West gave grandeur to the surrounding woodland, and afforded shelter to grazing flocks and herds. Huge water-willows dipped their drooping branches into the waves of the Ohio as they ran swiftly by. In front of the mansion were several acres of well-kept lawn. In its rear were two acres of flower-garden, planted with native and exotic shrubs. Vine-covered arbors and grottos rose here and there. On one side of the house was the kitchen garden, stocked with choice fruit-trees. Through the forest-trees an opening had been cut, which afforded an attractive view of the river for several miles of its course. On the whole, it was a paradise in the wilderness, a remarkable scene for that outlying region, for not far from the mansion still stood a large block-house, which had, not many years before, been used as a place of refuge in the desolating Indian wars.

Here dwelt Harman Blennerhasset and his lovely wife; he a man of scientific attainments, she a woman of fine education and charming manners. He was of Irish origin, wealthy, amply educated, with friends among the highest nobility. But he had imbibed republican principles, and failed to find himself comfortable in royalist society. He had therefore sought America, heard of the beautiful islands of the Ohio, and built himself a home on one of the most charming of them all.

We have described the exterior of the mansion. Interiorly it was richly ornamented and splendidly furnished. The drawing-room was of noble proportions and admirable adornment. The library was well filled with choice books. The proprietor was fond of chemistry, and had an excellent laboratory; he enjoyed astronomy, and possessed a powerful telescope; he had a passion for music, had composed many airs, and played well on several instruments. He was, in his way, a universal genius, courteous in manners, benevolent in disposition, yet of that genial and unsuspicious nature which laid him open to the wiles of those shrewd enough to make use of his weak points.

Mrs. Blennerhasset loved society, and was none too well pleased that her husband should bury himself and her in the wilderness, and waste his fine powers on undeveloped nature. Such guests of culture as could be obtained were hospitably welcomed at their island mansion. Few boats passed up and down the river without stopping at the island, and cultured and noble persons from England and France not infrequently found their way to the far-off home of the Blennerhassets.

Yet, withal, the intervals between the visits of cultivated guests were long. Ohio was rapidly filling up with population, but culture was a rare exotic in that pioneer region, and the inmates of the Blennerhasset mansion must have greatly lacked visits from their own social equals.

One day in the spring of 1805 a traveller landed on the island, as if merely lured thither by the beauty of the grounds as seen from the river. Mr. Blennerhasset was in his study, whither a servant came to tell him that a gentlemanly stranger had landed, and was observing the lawn. The servant was at once bidden to invite the stranger, in his master's name, to enter the house. The traveller courteously declined. He could not think of intruding, begged to be excused for landing on the grounds, and sent in his card. Mr. Blennerhasset read the card, and his eyes lighted up with interest, for what he saw was the name of a former Vice-President of the United States. He at once hastened to the lawn, and with polite insistence declared that Mr. Burr must enter and partake of the hospitality of his house.

It was like inviting Satan into Eden. Aaron Burr, for it was he, readily complied. He had made the journey thither for that sole purpose. The story of Mr. Blennerhasset's wealth had reached the East, and the astute schemer hoped to enlist his aid in certain questionable projects he then entertained.

But no hint of an ulterior purpose was suffered to appear. Burr was noted for the fascination of his manners, and his host and hostess were charmed with him. He was unusually well informed, eloquent in speech, familiar with all social arts, and could mask the deepest designs with the most artless affectation of simplicity. All the secrets of American political movements were familiar to him, and he conversed fluently of the prospects of war with Spain, the ease with which the Mexicans might throw off their foreign yoke, and the possibilities of splendid pecuniary results from land speculations within the Spanish territory on the Red River.

This seed sown, the arch deceiver went his way. His first step had been taken. Blennerhasset was patriotically devoted to the United States, but the grand scheme which had been portrayed to him seemed to have nothing to do with questions of state. It was a land speculation open to private wealth.

Burr kept his interest alive by letters. The Blennerhassets spent the next winter in New York and Philadelphia, and there met Aaron Burr again. Not unlikely they came with that purpose, for the hopes of new wealth, easily to be made, were alluring and exciting. During that winter it is probable that a sort of land-speculation partnership was formed. Very rich lands lay on the Washita River, within Spanish territory, said Burr, which could be bought for a small sum. Then, by encouraging immigration thither, they might be sold at enormous profit.

This was the Burr scheme as Blennerhasset heard it. The dupe did not dream of the treasonable projects resting within the mind of his dangerous associate. These were, to provoke revolt of the people of Mexico and the northern Spanish provinces, annex the western United States region, and establish a great empire, in which Burr should be the leading potentate.

Mr. Blennerhasset, once enlisted in the land-speculation project, supplied the funds to buy the lands on the Washita, and engaged in operations on a large scale for sending settlers to the purchased domain. Colonel Burr came to Marietta and took an active part in these operations. Fifteen large flat-boats were built to convey the immigrants, their furniture, and such arms as they might need for repelling Indians. Five hundred men were fixed as the number for the first colony, and this number Burr succeeded in enlisting. Each was to have one hundred acres of land. This was not in itself any great inducement where land was so plentiful as in Ohio. But Burr did not hesitate to hint at future possibilities. The lands to be colonized had been peacefully purchased. But the Mexicans were eager to throw off the Spanish yoke; war between the United States and Spain might break out at any minute; Mexico would be invaded by an army, set free, and the new pioneers would have splendid opportunities in the formation of a new and great republic of the West and South. Burr went further than this. He had articles inserted in a Marietta newspaper, signed by an assumed name, in which was advocated the secession of the States west of the Alleghanies. These articles were strongly replied to by a writer who signed himself "Regulus," and with whose views the community at large sympathized. His articles were copied by Eastern papers. They spoke of the armed expedition which Colonel Burr was preparing, and declared that its purpose was the invasion of Mexico. Jefferson, then in the Presidential chair, knew Burr too well to ignore these warnings. He sent a secret agent to Marietta to discover what was going on, and at the same time asked the governor of Ohio to seize the boats and suppress the expedition.

Mr. Blennerhasset assured the secret agent, Mr. Graham, that no thought was entertained of invading Mexico. The project, he said, was an eminently peaceful one. But the public was of a different opinion. Rumor, once started, grew with its usual rapidity. Burr was organizing an army to seize New Orleans, rob the banks, capture the artillery, and set up an empire or republic of his own in the valley of the lower Mississippi. Blennerhasset was his accomplice, and as deep in the scheme as himself. The Ohio Legislature, roused to energetic action by the rumors which were everywhere afloat, passed an act that all armed expeditions should be suppressed, and empowered the governor to call out the militia, seize Burr's boats, and hold the crews for trial.

Public attention had been earnestly and hostilely directed to the questionable project, and Burr's hopes were at an end. The militia were mustered at Marietta, a six-pounder was planted on the river-bank, orders were given to stop and examine all descending boats, and sentries were placed to watch the stream by day and night.

While these events were proceeding, Mr. Blennerhasset had gone to the Muskingum, to superintend the departure of the boats that were to start from that stream. While there the boats were seized by order of the governor. The suspicions of the people and government were for the first time made clear to him. Greatly disturbed, and disposed to abandon the whole project, costly as it had been to him, he hastened back to his island home. There he found a flotilla of four boats, with a crew of about thirty men, which had passed Marietta before the mustering of the militia. They were commanded by a Mr. Tyler.