"Avast this 'ere swillin', lads," he said; "there shall be no Dutch courage on board this ship." He folded his arms and stood looking at the angry crowd. The First Lieutenant had observed the whole occurrence, and immediately gave the order to beat to quarters. The boy, thinking that his old friend was about to be attacked, had jumped to his side. But his station in action was on the forecastle, where he was powder-monkey for the two forward guns.

The call to quarters and the rolling of the drum had stopped any trouble that might have arisen owing to the quartermaster's sudden action, but the men were surly, and it would have been hard for him if they could have reached him unseen.

Every second now brought the _Const.i.tution_ closer to the enemy. Never could the boy forget his sensations as he saw the gunners bend down and aim the forward gun on the larboard bow. The smoke from the shot blew back through the port. The gun next to it now spoke, but both b.a.l.l.s fell short, and neither of the ships replied.

They were both ably handled, and their commanders had now reached some understanding as to the conduct of the action; for when the _Const.i.tution_ was yet a mile's distance from them they pa.s.sed near enough to one another to speak through the trumpet.

The beginning of an action at sea, before the blood is heated by the sight of carnage and the ear accustomed to the strange sounds and the indifference to danger has grown over the consciousness of self, is the most exciting moment. There is a sense of unreality in the appearance of the enemy. If he is coming bravely up to fight, there is no hatred felt for him. Men grow intensely critical at such moments, strange to say. They admire their opponent's skill, although they are inclined to smile exultantly if they perceive he is making missteps. Captain Stewart and his officers, grouped at the side, were discussing calmly the probable designs of the enemy.

"Egad! They are hauling by the wind, and they are going to wait for us," said Stewart.

"They are not going to run, at any event," observed the First Lieutenant. "They are tidy-looking sloops of war, sir!"

In five minutes both the English vessels had made all sail, close-hauled by the wind, with the plain intention of trying to outpoint the frigate.

"No, you don't, my friends," remarked Stewart to himself. "Not if I know my ship."

The crew, who were watching the oncomers, shared his sentiment, for they knew that the _Const.i.tution_ was not to be beaten on that point of sailing; and the strangers soon noticed this, also, for they shortened sail and formed on a line at about half a cable's length apart. Not a shot had been fired since the two bow guns had given challenge, but now the time had come, the huge flag of the _Const.i.tution_ went up to the peak, and in answer both ships hoisted English ensigns. Scarce three hundred yards now separated the antagonists. The English ships had started cheering. It was the usual custom of the Anglo-Saxon to go into battle that way. Quartermaster Renwick called for three cheers from the _Const.i.tution's_ men, but they had not forgotten, at least some of them, his upsetting of the grog. His unpopularity at that present moment was evident, for few answered the call, and thus silently the men at the guns waited for the word to fire.

The boy was half-way down the companion ladder when it came. There was a great jar the whole vessel's length. A deafening explosion, and the fight was on!

For fifteen minutes it was hammer and tongs. Broadside after broadside was exchanged, and then it was noticed that the English had begun to slacken their return; and now they suddenly were silent. A strange phenomenon here took place. As all the combatants were close-hauled and the wind was light, a great bank of opaque sulphurous smoke had gathered all about them. The _Const.i.tution_ ceased firing, also; for although the enemy was within two hundred yards' distance, not a sight of either ship could be seen. They were blotted out; their condition and their exact positions were unknown. Not a gun was fired for three minutes, and then the smoke cleared away.

"Here they are!" cried Stewart, and his exclamation was drowned with a broadside, for the gunners of the _Const.i.tution_ had discovered that the headmost ship was just abreast of them and but a hundred feet away.

The sternmost was luffing up with the intention of reaching the _Const.i.tution's_ quarter. The smoke from the big guns had hidden everything again, but orders were now coming fast from the quarter-deck. Men were hastening aloft, and others were tailing on to the braces, tacks, and sheets. The main and mizzen top-sails were braced aback against the mast, and slowly the _Const.i.tution_ began to move stern foremost through the water. It was as if nowadays the order had come to reverse the engines at full speed. All the sailors saw the importance of this act. They were cheering now, and they had good right to do so. Instead of finding herself on the larboard side and in good position for raking, the English vessel was in a very bad position. It must have astonished her commander to find himself so unexpectedly confronted, but he was directly beneath the _Const.i.tution's_ guns again. There was no help for it. He was forced to receive her fire. The big sloop of war, which had been deserted so unceremoniously, kept on making a great hubbub, aiming at the place where she supposed the Yankee frigate yet to be.

To repeat all the details of the rest of the struggle would be but to recount a tale filled with the detailed working of a ship and nautical expressions, but it is safe to state that never was a vessel better handled, and never did a captain win a t.i.tle more honestly than did Charles Stewart the sobriquet of "Fighting Stewart."

It was ten minutes of seven in the evening when the first English vessel struck her flag. She proved to be His Britannic Majesty's sloop of war _Cyane_, under the command of Captain Gordon Falcon, a gallant officer, and one who had earned distinction in the service. His ship, that he had fought bravely, mounted thirty-four guns. He was so overcome with emotion at having to surrender, that he could scarcely return Captain Stewart's greeting when he came on board, for he had entered the fight declaring that he was going to receive the Yankee's sword. As soon as he had placed a prize crew on board the _Cyane_, Stewart headed the _Const.i.tution_ for the other sloop of war, who was doing her best to get away. So fast did he overhaul her that the _Levant_--for that was her name--turned back to meet her big opponent, and bravely prepared to fight it out. But it was no use, and after some firing and manoeuvring Captain George Dougla.s.s struck his colors, as his friend Falcon had been forced to do some time earlier.

But what of old Renwick and the boy? They lay below in the c.o.c.kpit--the old man with a shattered leg and the hero of the royal yard with a bad splinter wound across his chest. Men forget their wounds in moments of great mental excitement; since he had been brought below, the quartermaster had been following every movement of the ship as if he had been on deck.

"We are luffing up," he would say. "Ah! there we go, we headed her that time! By tar, my hearties, we will win the day! Hark to 'em! Hear 'em bark!" And so he kept it up, regardless of the fact that his shattered leg was soon to be taken off; and all of the thirteen wounded men there under the surgeon's care listened to him, and when the news came down that the first vessel had struck, Renwick called for cheers, and they were given this time with a will!

[Ill.u.s.tration: "A discussion that grew more heated every moment."]

Three or four days after the fight, Captain Stewart was dining in his cabin, and as usual his guests were the English captains, who had not yet entirely recovered from the deep chagrin incident to their surrender. How it started, no one exactly knew. It is not on record which of the gentlemen was at fault for the beginning of the quarrel, but they were fighting their battles over again in a discussion that grew more heated every moment. Suddenly one of the officers, jumping to his feet, accused the other of being responsible for what he termed "the unfortunate conclusion of the whole affair." Hot words were exchanged. Stewart, who, of course, had his own opinions on the matter in question, said nothing, until at last he perceived that things might be going too far, and it was time for him to interfere. Smiling blandly, and looking from one of the angry men to the other, he spoke as follows:--

"Gentlemen, there is only one way that I see, to decide this question,--to put you both on your ships again, give you back your crews, and try it over."

This ended the argument, but the story went the rounds of the ship, and one of the lieutenants in writing to a brother officer described the incident in those exact words.

Quartermaster Renwick survived the loss of his leg, and he used to relate the story of how and where he lost it to the youngsters who would gather about his favorite bench fronting the Battery seawall.

The boy recovered also, and he served his country until they laid him on the shelf after the Civil War was over. Very nearly forty years had he pa.s.sed in the navy, where he grew to be a great hand at yarn-spinning, and was much quoted, for he linked the service back to the days of wind and sail, although he had lived to see the era of steam and steel. His favorite story of them all was of the old _Const.i.tution_ and how she behaved under the command of "Fighting Stewart."

TWO DUELS

"Oh, Bainbridge, you're going ash.o.r.e with us, aren't you?"

At these words a young man who was walking up and down the frigate's quarter-deck turned quickly. He was dressed in the same uniform as the one who had just asked the question,--that of a midshipman of the American navy.

"Not if you are starting at once, Raymond," he replied. "I won't be off duty for a quarter of an hour. Is the boat ready?"

"Not yet--maybe you will have time--have you asked for leave?"

"I have that right enough, but I can't be in two places at once. I'd like to go, though, if I could."

"It's too bad; all the fellows were counting on your coming." And Midshipman Raymond left the quarter-deck, and strolled forward to the mast, where five or six other middies were waiting, all dressed in their best uniforms, with rows of polished bra.s.s b.u.t.tons, and neat little dirks swung at their left hips by slender chains. They were impatient at the delay. Every one wished to be ash.o.r.e, as it was the intention to dine together and afterwards to attend a concert at the Malta Theatre; for the _Const.i.tution_ was lying at anchor just off the town, and not far from the walls of the heavy fortifications that make the island England's greatest stronghold in the Eastern Mediterranean--second in importance among her possessions only to the impregnable Gibraltar.

"I hear Carlotti is going to sing to-night," observed one of the midshipmen knowingly, interrupting the chorus of grumblings at the slowness of the sh.o.r.e boat in returning. "She's great," he added.

"How do you know?" asked a short tow-headed reefer; "you never heard her."

"No, but Bainbridge has, and he told me."

"Wish Bainbridge was going with us----"

"So do we all," was the chorus to this, and just at this moment the ship's bell clanged the hour, and the one to whom they referred ran past them. He paused at the head of the ladder.

"I'll be up in a minute; don't you fellows go without me."

With these words he jumped below, and running into the steerage, he slammed open the lid of his chest and shifted into his best uniform in "presto change" fashion. He was just in time to hasten down the ladder and leap into the boat as she shoved off from the side. There were two lieutenants going ash.o.r.e, and they don't wait for tardy midshipmen.

"Quick work, Joseph," said Middy Raymond, laying his hand on Bainbridge's knee.

"Rather," was the panted reply. "Do I look shipshape? Feels as if I'd forgotten something."

"All ataunto--far as I can see."

Joseph Bainbridge was a younger brother of Commodore William Bainbridge, and like him he had gifts of popularity. He possessed a magnetic personality that attracted to him the notice of both officers and men, and a bold, adventurous spirit that won their admiration.

Added to this was the fact that he was tall and strong, and conceded to be the handsomest young officer in the service.

When the boat drew up at the pier, the middies flocked off by themselves, and the two young lieutenants fell behind.

"You didn't hear the lecture,--the lecture the old man gave us while you were below, Bainbridge," said Midshipman Raymond. "Phew! but he piled it on thick in telling us how to behave ourselves. Any one might think that we were going ash.o.r.e to offer challenges right and left to all the British army."

"What do you mean?" asked Bainbridge, slipping his arm through his friend's, and looking down at him, for he stood head and shoulders above the other youngsters.

"Why, just this," was the response. "The old man" (in this manner was the Commodore referred to) "says that there are plenty of fire-eating, snap-shooting 'eight-paces' chaps, just longing for a chance to pick a quarrel with a Yankee officer; and as he told us it took two to make trouble, he said he would hold us responsible if there was any row. We will have to mind our tacks and sheets. He expects us to be blind to all ugly looks, and deaf to all remarks, I suppose. Besides, we are all under promise to return by the last boat, that leaves at eleven o'clock."

"Well," observed the tall midshipman, laughing, "there seems to be no great hardship in that; we have some hours before us. Let's turn in here and get our grub--then, ho for the theatre!"

The crowd of laughing young fellows entered a cafe, and seated themselves quietly at a corner table. But their entrance had been observed. A group of officers, in scarlet coats and gilt braid and shoulder knots, gazed insolently at them.