CHAPTER LXIV.
MAN-OF-WAR TROPHIES.
When the second cutter pulled about among the ships, dropping thesurgeons aboard the American men-of-war here and there--as a pilot-boatdistributes her pilots at the mouth of the harbour--she passed severalforeign frigates, two of which, an Englishman and a Frenchman, hadexcited not a little remark on board the Neversink. These vessels oftenloosed their sails and exercised yards simultaneously with ourselves,as if desirous of comparing the respective efficiency of the crews.
When we were nearly ready for sea, the English frigate, weighing heranchor, made all sail with the sea-breeze, and began showing off herpaces by gliding about among all the men-of-war in harbour, andparticularly by running down under the Neversink's stern. Every timeshe drew near, we complimented her by lowering our ensign a little, andinvariably she courteously returned the salute. She was inviting us toa sailing-match; and it was rumoured that, when we should leave thebay, our Captain would have no objections to gratify her; for, be itknown, the Neversink was accounted the fleetest keeled craft sailingunder the American long-pennant. Perhaps this was the reason why thestranger challenged us.
It may have been that a portion of our crew were the more anxious torace with this frigate, from a little circumstance which a few of themdeemed rather galling. Not many cables'-length distant from ourCommodore's cabin lay the frigate President, with the red cross of St.George flying from her peak. As its name imported, this fine craft wasan American born; but having been captured during the last war withBritain, she now sailed the salt seas as a trophy.
Think of it, my gallant countrymen, one and all, down the sea-coast andalong the endless banks of the Ohio and Columbia--think of the twingeswe sea-patriots must have felt to behold the live-oak of the Floridasand the pines of green Maine built into the oaken walls of Old England!But, to some of the sailors, there was a counterbalancing thought, asgrateful as the other was galling, and that was, that somewhere,sailing under the stars and stripes, was the frigate Macedonian, aBritish-born craft which had once sported the battle-banner of Britain.
It has ever been the custom to spend almost any amount of money inrepairing a captured vessel, in order that she may long survive tocommemorate the heroism of the conqueror. Thus, in the English Navy,there are many Monsieurs of seventy-fours won from the Gaul. But weAmericans can show but few similar trophies, though, no doubt, we wouldmuch like to be able so to do.
But I never have beheld any of thee floating trophies without beingreminded of a scene once witnessed in a pioneer village on the westernbank of the Mississippi. Not far from this village, where the stumps ofaboriginal trees yet stand in the market-place, some years ago lived aportion of the remnant tribes of the Sioux Indians, who frequentlyvisited the white settlements to purchase trinkets and cloths.
One florid crimson evening in July, when the red-hot sun was going downin a blaze, and I was leaning against a corner in my huntsman's frock,lo! there came stalking out of the crimson West a gigantic red-man,erect as a pine, with his glittering tomahawk, big as a broad-ax,folded in martial repose across his chest, Moodily wrapped in hisblanket, and striding like a king on the stage, he promenaded up anddown the rustic streets, exhibiting on the back of his blanket a crowdof human hands, rudely delineated in red; one of them seemed recentlydrawn.
"Who is this warrior?" asked I; "and why marches he here? and for whatare these bloody hands?"
"That warrior is the _Red-Hot Coal_," said a pioneer in moccasins, bymy side. "He marches here to show-off his last trophy; every one ofthose hands attests a foe scalped by his tomahawk; and he has justemerged from Ben Brown's, the painter, who has sketched the last redhand that you see; for last night this _Red-Hot Coal_ outburned the_Yellow Torch_, the chief of a band of the Foxes."
Poor savage thought I; and is this the cause of your lofty gait? Do youstraighten yourself to think that you have committed a murder, when achance-falling stone has often done the same? Is it a proud thing totopple down six feet perpendicular of immortal manhood, though thatlofty living tower needed perhaps thirty good growing summers to bringit to maturity? Poor savage! And you account it so glorious, do you, tomutilate and destroy what God himself was more than a quarter of acentury in building?
And yet, fellow-Christians, what is the American frigate Macedonian, orthe English frigate President, but as two bloody red hands painted onthis poor savage's blanket?
Are there no Moravians in the Moon, that not a missionary has yetvisited this poor pagan planet of ours, to civilise civilisation andchristianise Christendom?