All were eager to visit the historical places immediately upon their arrival. As they entered the harbor of Castine Mrs. Travilla remarked that it was quite as picturesque as she expected from Lossing's description.

"Ah, I entirely agree with you, Cousin Elsie," responded Mr. Lilburn; "it is so bonny a place that I do not wonder it was coveted by the enemy."

The whole party presently landed, a guide was found who promised to conduct them to all the points of historical interest, and they set out upon their search. They very much admired the situation of the town, and the view from it of the bay, with its picturesque islands. They visited old Fort George, built by the British in 1779, in the centre of the peninsula, and repaired, fraised, and armed by them in 1814. It was only a ruin now, but interesting because of what it had been in those earlier days. The view from its banks, which were about eighteen feet high from the bottom of the six feet deep ditch, was very interesting. Looking northwestward from the fort they could see on the right the entrance to the canal cut by the British across Castine Neck, turning the peninsula into an island. It was about eighty rods long and twelve feet deep, and now had a bridge across it. Between the promontory and an island could be seen the mouth of the Penobscot River. On the extreme left they could see the town of Belfast, thirteen miles distant. Leaving that point they visited the remains of several other forts built by the British, after which they returned to the yacht for the evening meal and the night's rest.

The Dolphin was allowed to remain stationary until all her passengers were on deck again the next morning; then the anchor was lifted, and she steamed up the river. Favored with delightful weather they greatly enjoyed the trip up the beautiful, winding stream. They had taken on board a man well acquainted with the river and every point of interest upon its banks, and who pointed out each one as they neared it. As they entered Marsh Bay the young people were told that the British squadron lay there one night on their way toward Hampden. Elsie and Ned showed keen interest when told of it, and in hearing from their father of the cannon-ball of the British that lodged in a storehouse there in 1814.

"Do you remember the story Lossing tells about a Norway pine somewhere in this region?" asked Mrs. Travilla, addressing Captain Raymond.

"Something of it," he said, with an amused smile, and the children at once begged to hear it.

"Will you gratify them, mother?" asked the captain. "You probably have a better recollection of his story than I."

"I will do my best," she said, and began at once. "Lossing says the tree was about a mile above here, and the only one of its kind in that region—a round, compact tree, its short trunk looking as if composed of a group of smaller ones, and the limbs growing so near the ground that it was difficult to get under it. At the time that the British landed at Frankford some man who had a large quantity of bacon, being afraid they would rob him of it, carried it to that tree and hung the pieces in among the branches to hide them from the foe; and though the British passed along the road only a short distance from the tree, they did not notice its peculiar fruit, so did not meddle with it, and his bacon was saved; always afterward that Norway pine was called the Bacon Tree."

"Thank you, grandma; that was a nice story," said Elsie.

"Haven't you another little story for us, grandma?" asked Ned, in coaxing tones. "I do always like your stories ever so much."

At that Grandma Elsie laughed a pleasant little laugh, then went on:

"Lossing tells us quite an interesting little story of a remarkable black man whom he visited somewhere near here. His name was Henry Van Meter, and he was then ninety-five years old. During the Revolution he was a slave to Governor Nelson of Virginia. After that he became a seaman, and was one of the crew of the privateer Lawrence, which sailed from Baltimore in 1814. I suppose Lossing questioned him about his long life, and heard his story of it. He remembered having seen Washington many times. The estate of Governor Nelson, his first master, was sold after the war, to pay his debts, and Henry was bought by a planter beyond the Blue Ridge. The new master wanted him to marry one of his slave girls, and told him if he did he would order in his will that he should be made a free man at his (the master's) death. In telling of it Henry said, 'I didn't like the gals, and didn't want to wait for dead men's shoes. So master sold me to a man near Lexington, Kentucky, and there was only one log house in that town when I went there.'

"He was soon sold to another man, who treated him shamefully, and one night he mounted one of his master's horses and fled to the Kentucky River, where he turned the horse loose, and told him to go home if he had a mind to, as he didn't want to steal him. Some kind white people helped Henry over the river into Ohio, and at Cincinnati he then took the name of Van Meter—the family name of some of the Shenandoah Valley people who had been kind to him.

"Afterward Henry became the servant of an officer in the army of General St. Clair, and served with our troops in the Northwest under General Wayne. After that he lived in Chillicothe, then came East to Philadelphia. There some Quaker sent him to school, and he learned to read and write. He became a sailor, went to Europe several times in that capacity, and when the war broke out he shipped as such on board the privateer Lawrence. It was taken by the British, and he was thrown into Dartmoor Prison, and saw the massacre there in 1815."

"Oh, what was that, grandma?" asked Ned, in tones of excitement. "I didn't think I ever heard about it."

"Lossing tells us," replied his grandmother, "that Dartmoor was a depot for prisoners in England; that it was situated in a desolate region, was built in 1809 for a place in which to confine French prisoners. At the time the treaty of peace was made with us there were six thousand American prisoners in it—two thousand five hundred of them American seamen, put there for refusing to fight in the British Navy against their countrymen. They were there when the war began in 1812. For some unknown reason there was great delay in setting those prisoners free after the treaty of peace was made. It was nearly three months before they were allowed to know that the treaty had been signed. From the time they first heard of it they were every day expecting to be set at liberty, and naturally grew very impatient over the delay. On the 4th of April they demanded bread instead of hard biscuit, which they refused to eat. On the evening of the 6th they showed great unwillingness to obey the order to retire to their quarters, and some of them not only refused to do that, but went beyond their prescribed limits. Then Captain Shortland, who had charge of the military guard, ordered them to fire on the Americans, which they did. The soldiers, I believe, fired a second time. Five prisoners were killed and thirty-three wounded."

"Why, that was just murder, wasn't it, grandma?" asked Ned. "And didn't they hang those soldiers for doing it?"

"No; the British authorities called it 'justifiable homicide,' which meant it was all right enough."

"In which decision I, for one, am far from agreeing," remarked Mr. Lilburn emphatically.

"It created intense indignation in this country at the time," said the captain; "but is now seldom remembered, and the two nations are, and I hope always will be, good friends."

The Dolphin ascended the river only as far as Bangor, and returned by moonlight to Castine, where they anchored for some hours; then at an early hour in the morning they steamed out into the ocean again, and pursued a westward course until they reached Portland. There they landed and paid a visit to the cemetery where lay the remains of the brave captains of the Enterprise and the Boxer; also those of Midshipman Kervin Waters.

"They are buried side by side, as if they were brothers, instead of enemies who were killed fighting each other," said little Elsie softly. "But perhaps they were good Christian men, each fighting for what he thought was the right of his own country. Papa, can you tell us about the funeral? I suppose they had one?"

"Yes, daughter, a solemn and imposing one. The two battered vessels were lying at the end of Union Wharf. A civil and military procession had been formed at the court-house at nine in the morning of the 9th of September. The coffins were brought from the vessels in barges of ten oars each, rowed by minute strokes of ship-masters and mates, most of the barges and boats in the harbor accompanying them. When the barges began to move, and while the procession was passing through the streets to the church, minute guns were fired by artillery companies. Also while the procession marched from the church to the cemetery here, which is about a mile distant from the church.

"The chief mourners who followed the corpse of Captain Burrows were Dr. Washington, Captain Hull, and officers of the Enterprise. Those who followed Captain Blyth's were the officers of the Boxer, on parole. Both were followed by naval and military officers in the United States service, the crews of the two vessels, civil officers of the State and city, military companies, and a large concourse of citizens. Only a few weeks before Captain Blyth was one of the pall-bearers at the funeral of our Lawrence, the gallant commander of the Chesapeake, at Halifax."

"That dear brave man that said, 'Don't give up the ship,' papa?" asked Elsie.

"Yes, daughter. Now let us read the inscription on his tombstone: 'In memory of Captain Samuel Blyth, late Commander of his Britannic Majesty's brig Boxer. He nobly fell on the 5th day of September, 1813, in action with the United States brig Enterprise. In life honorable; in death glorious. His country will long deplore one of her bravest sons, his friends long lament one of the best of men. Æ. 29. The surviving officers of his crew offer this feeble tribute of admiration and respect.'"

"It sounds as though they had respected and loved him," said the little girl. "That next grave is where Burrows lies, isn't it, papa? and won't you please read its inscription?"

They drew nearer and the captain read aloud: "'Beneath this stone moulders the body of William Burrows, late commander of the United States brig Enterprise, who was mortally wounded on the 5th of September, 1813, in an action which contributed to increase the fame of American valor, by capturing his Britannic Majesty's brig Boxer, after a severe contest of forty-five minutes. Æ. 28. A passing stranger has erected this memento of respect to the manes of a patriot, who, in the hour of peril, obeyed the loud summons of an injured country, and who gallantly met, fought, and conquered the foeman.'"

"And that one on the pillars, papa—whose is it?" Elsie asked, as her father paused with a slight sigh.

"That is the tomb of Midshipman Waters," he said. "We will go nearer and read its inscription: 'Beneath this marble, by the side of his gallant commander, rest the remains of Lieutenant Kervin Waters, a native of Georgetown, District of Columbia, who received a mortal wound, September 5, 1813, while a midshipman on board the United States brig Enterprise, in an action with his Britannic Majesty's brig Boxer, which terminated in the capture of the latter. He languished in severe pain, which he endured with fortitude, until September 25, 1813, when he died with Christian calmness and resignation, aged eighteen. The young men of Portland erect this stone as a testimony of their respect for his valor and virtues.'"

"Twenty days to suffer so," sighed Elsie. "Oh, it was dreadful!"

Max and Evelyn stood near, side by side.

"Dreadful indeed!" Evelyn sighed, in low quivering tones as they turned away. "Oh, Max! I wish you did not belong to the navy!"

"Why, dearest?" he asked in tender tones. "It is not only in the navy that men die suddenly and of injuries; and many a naval officer has lived to old age and died at home in his bed. And we are under the same Protecting Care on the sea as on the land."

"Yes, that is a cheering thought," she said, "and since you love the sea, it is wrong and selfish in me to regret your choice of a profession. And I could not be induced to resign my sailor lover for any landsman," she added, with a charming blush and smile.

That evening, joining her father, as she so often did, in his quiet promenade of the deck before retiring for the night, Lucilla spoke of their visit to the cemetery, and said, "I have always been so glad that you left the navy, papa, so that we could have you always at home with us, and I am gladder still when I think that if we should have another war you will not be in danger of such a fate as that which befell Burrows and Blyth."

"Unless I am needed, volunteer my services, and am accepted," he returned, in a slightly playful tone.

"Oh, papa, don't, please don't!" she exclaimed, clinging more closely to him. "It will be dreadful enough to have Max in such danger, but to have you, too, in it would be heart-breaking."

"Well, dear child, we won't be so foolish as to trouble ourselves about what may never happen. And if it ever should happen, we must just put our trust in the Lord, believing that he doeth all things well, and trusting his promise, 'As thy days, so shall thy strength be.' And you can rejoice in the fact that Chester is neither sailor nor soldier," he added, with a smile, and softly patting the hand resting upon his arm.

"Yes, father dear, that is no small comfort," she said; "especially as I know he is patriotic enough to do all in his power for his country."

"Ah, no doubt of that! I think Chester would be as ready as any one else to take up arms in her defence if he saw that his services were needed. And I don't believe this daughter of mine would say a word to prevent him."

"I think not, papa; but I hope I may never be tried in that way."

"A hope in which I heartily join you, daughter. I should be glad indeed to know that we were done with wars. But that is so uncertain that we, as a nation, must be ever prepared to repel attack—on land or sea. 'Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty.'"

"And liberty is worth that price, isn't it, father?" she said, with a bright smile up into his face.

"Yes; so we think; we could never be content without it."

They paced silently back and forth for a few moments, then Lucilla asked, "How long are we going to lie quietly here in Portland harbor, papa?"

"That will depend upon the wishes of the majority of our company," he answered; "which I think we will learn at the breakfast table to-morrow morning."