The Orpheus C. Kerr Papers Volume I Part 45

"Crack my turret!" says the commodore, as the Fleet pushed off amid the cheers of Company 4, Regiment 1, Mackerel Brigade; "I'll take that craft by compound fracture. Belay the starboard ram there, you salamander, and take a reef in the grating. Up with the signal--two strips of pig iron rampant, with a sheet of tin in the middle."

All this was splendidly performed by the crew, my boy, who trimmed the rudder, did the rowing, and tended the gun--all at once. The craft fairly flew through the water in the direction of the rebel craft, whose horse-pistol amids.h.i.+p still remained silent.

It was an awfully terrific and sublime sight, my boy. I shall never forget it, my boy, if I live till I perish.

The faithful colored pilot sat in the stern of the Fleet, examining some silver spoons which he had found somewhere in the Southern Confederacy, and we could see the n.o.ble old commodore mixing something that steamed in the fore-sheets.

Two seconds had now pa.s.sed since our flotilla had started, and the hostile squadrons were rubbing against each other. We were expecting to see our navy go through some intricate manoeuvre before boarding, when the Mackerel crew accidentally dropped a spark from his pipe on the touch-hole of the swivel; and bang! went that horrid engine of destruction, sending some pounds of old nails right square into the city of Paris.

Simultaneously, four-and-twenty foreign Consuls residing near Paris got up a memorial to Commodore Head, protesting against any more firing while any foreigners remained in the country, and declaring that the use of gunpowder was an outrage on civilized warfare and the rights of man. They tied a stone to this significant doc.u.ment and threw it to Commodore Head, who instantly put the Mackerel crew on half rations and forbid smoking abaft the big gun.

Meanwhile the enemy had wounded our brave pilot on the s.h.i.+ns with his oar, and exploded his horse-pistol in an undecided direction, with such dreadful concussion that every gla.s.s in Commodore Head's spectacles was broken.

It was at this dreadful crisis of the fight that the gay Mackerel crew leaned over the side of our fleet, placed one hand on the inside of the enemy's squadron, and with the other, regardless of the shower of old-bottles and fish-bones flying about him, deliberately bored a small hole, with a gimlet, through the bottom of the adversary. At about the same moment the commodore touched off the swivel-gun at the enemy's rudder, and threw one of his boots against the rear stomach of the rebel captain.

This sickening carnage might have lasted five minutes longer, had not the Confederate squadron sunk in consequence of the gimlet-hole. Down went the doomed craft of unblest treason, and in another moment the officer and crew of her were in the water, which reached nearly to their knees, imploring our fleet not to let them drown.

Oh, that sight! the thrilling yet terrifying and agonizing grandeur of that dreadful moment! shall I ever forget it--ever cease to hear those cries ringing in mine ears? I'm afraid not, my boy--I'm afraid not.

The Commodore rescued the sufferers from a watery grave; and having been privately informed by them that the South might be conquered, but never overcome, brought them ash.o.r.e by the collars.

Need I describe how our n.o.ble old nautical sea-dog was received by the Mackerel Brigade? need I tell how the band whipped out his key-bugle and played all the triumphant airs of our distracted country, and several original cavatinas?

But, alas! my boy, this iron-plate business is taking all the romance out of the navy. How different is the modern from

THE ANCIENT CAPTAIN.

The smiles of an evening were shed on the sea, And its wave-lips laughed through their beardings of foam; And the eyes of an evening were mirrored beneath The shroud of the s.h.i.+p and her home.

And as Time knows an end, so that sea knew a sh.o.r.e, Afar in a beautiful, tropical clime, Where Love with the Life of each being is blent, In a soft, psychological Rhyme.

Oh, grand was the sh.o.r.e, when deserted and still It breasted the silver-mailed hosts of the Deep!

And like the last bulwark of Nature it seemed, 'Twixt Death and an Innocent's sleep.

But grander it was to the eyes of a knight, When clad in his armor he stood on the sands, And held to his bosom its essence of Life-- An heiress of t.i.tles and lands.

Ah, fondly he gazed on the face of the maid!

And blush-spoken fondness replied to his look; While heart answered heart with a feverish beat, And hand pressed the hand that it took.

"Fair lady of mine," said the knight, stooping low, "Before I depart for the banquet of Death, I crave a new draught from the fountain of Life, Whose waters are all in thy breath.

"The breast that is filled with thine image alone, May safely defy the dread tempest of steel; For while all its thoughts are of love and of thee, What peril of Self can it feel?"

He paused; and the silence that followed his words, Was spread like a Hope, 'twixt a Dream and a Truth; And in it, his fancy created a world Wrought out of the dreams of his youth.

Then shadows crept over the beautiful face Turned up to the sky in the pale streaming light, As shadows sweep over the orient pearl, Far down in the river at night.

"You're going," she said, "where the fleets are in leash, Where plumed is a knight for each wave of the sea; Yet all the wide Ocean shall have but One wave, One s.h.i.+p and One sailor for me!"

He left her, as leaveth the G.o.d of a dream The portals that close with a heavier sleep; And then, as he sprang to the shallop in wait, The rowers pushed off in the Deep.

When a captain leaves his lady-fair nowadays, my boy, he's not an economical man if he don't destroy his life-insurance policy, and defer making his will.

Yours, navally,

ORPHEUS C. KERR.

LETTER LI.

GIVING DUE PROMINENCE ONCE MORE TO THE CONSERVATIVE ELEMENT, NOTING A CAT-AND-DOG AFFAIR, AND REPORTING CAPTAIN BOB SHORTY'S FORAGING EXPEDITION.

WAs.h.i.+NGTON, D.C., June 23d, 1862.

Not wis.h.i.+ng to expire prematurely of inanity, my boy, I started again last Sunday for Paris, where I took up my quarters with a dignified conservative chap from the Border States, who came on for the express purpose of informing the Executive that Kentucky is determined this war shall be carried on without detriment to the material interests of the South, otherwise Kentucky will not be answerable for herself. Kentucky has married into the South, and has relations there which she refuses to sacrifice. What does the Const.i.tution say about Kentucky? Why, it don't say anything about her. "Which is clear proof," says the conservative chap, violently, "that Kentucky is expected to take care of herself. Kentucky," says he, b.u.t.toning his vest over the handle of his bowie-knife. "Kentucky will stand no nonsense whatsomever."

I have much respect for Kentucky, my boy; they play a good hand of Old Sledge there, and train up a child in the way he should go fifty better; but Kentucky reminds me of a chap I once knew in the Sixth Ward. This chap hired a room with another chap, and the two were engaged in the dollar-jewelry business. Their stock in trade was more numerous than valuable, my boy, and a man couldn't steal it without suffering a most painful swindle; but the two dilapidaries were all the time afraid of thieves; and at last, when a gentleman of suspicious aspect moved into the lower part of the house, and flavored his familiar conversation with such terms as "swag," "kinchin," and "coppers," the second chap insisted upon buying a watch-dog. The first chap said he didn't like dogs, but if his partner thought they'd better have one, he would not object to his buying it. The second chap bought a sausagacious animal in white and yellow, my boy--an animal covered with bark that pealed off in large pieces all night long. The first chap found he couldn't sleep much, and says he:

"If you don't kill that ere stentorian beast we'll have to dissolve pardners.h.i.+p."

His partner took a thoughtful chew of tobacco, and says he:

"That intelligent dorg is a defending of your property as well as mine, and if we put up with his strains a little while longer, the chap down stairs will understand the hint and make friends."

With that the first chap flamed up, and says he:

"I sold a breast-pin to the chap down stairs the other day, and found out that he considers the dollar-jewelry business the same by nature as his own. I'm beginning to think we misjudged him, and I can't have no dog kept here to worry him. Our lease of these here premises don't say anything about keeping a dog," says the chap, reflectively, "nor our articles of pardners.h.i.+p, and I refuse to sanction the dog any longer."

So the dog was sent to the pound, my boy, and that same night the burglarious gentleman downstairs walked off with the dollar-jewelry, in company with the first chap, leaving the poor second chap to make himself uselessly disagreeable at the police-office, and set up an apple-stand for support.

Far be it from me, my boy, to say that certain Border States are like the first chap; but if Uncle Sam should happen to be the second chap let him hold on to the watch-dog.

Speaking of dogs, I must tell you about a felis-itous canine incident that occurred while I was at Paris. Early one morning, the Kentucky chap and I were awakened by a great noise in the hall outside our door.

Presently an aged and reliable contraband stuck his head into the room, and says he:

"I golly, mars'r, dar's a big fight goin' on in dis yar place."

At the word, my boy, we both sprang up and went to the door, from whence we beheld one of those occurrences but too common in this dreadful war of brother against brother.

Face to face in the hall stood my frescoed dog, Bologna, and the regimental cat Lord Mortimer, eyeing each other with looks of deadly hatred and embittered animosity. High in air curved the back of the enraged Mortimer, and his whiskers worked with intense wrath; whilst the eloquent tail of the infuriated Bologna shot into the atmosphere like a living flag-staff.

"Oh-h-h! How-now?" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Bologna, throwing out his nose to reconnoitre the enemy's first line.

"'Sdeath!--'Sdeath!" hastily retorted Mortimer, skirmis.h.i.+ng along in his first parallel with spasmodic clawing.