Notwithstanding my enemy went out chivalrously armored, to encounter a ship whose wooden sides were entirely without protection, I should have beaten him in the first thirty minutes of the engagement, but for the defect of my ammunition, which had been two years on board, and become much deteriorated by cruising in a variety of climates. I had directed my men to fire low, telling them that it was better to fire too low than too high, as the ricochet in the former case—the water being smooth—would remedy the defect of their aim, whereas it was of no importance to cripple the masts and spars of a steamer. By Captain Winslow’s own account, the Kearsarge was struck twenty-eight times; but his ship being armored, of course, my shot and shell, except in so far as fragments of the latter may have damaged his spars and rigging, fell harmless into the sea. The Alabama was not mortally wounded, as the reader has seen, until after the Kearsarge had been firing at her an hour and ten minutes. In the mean time, in spite of the armor of the Kearsarge, I had mortally wounded that ship in the first thirty minutes of the engagement. I say, “mortally wounded her,” because the wound would have proved mortal, but for the defect of my ammunition above spoken of. I lodged a rifled percussion shell near her stern post—where there were no chains—which failed to explode because of the defect of the cap. If the cap had performed its duty, and exploded the shell, I should have been called upon to save Captain Winslow’s crew from drowning, instead of his being called upon to save mine. On so slight an incident—the defect of a percussion-cap—did the battle hinge. The enemy were very proud of this shell. It was the only trophy they ever got of the Alabama! We fought her until she would no longer swim, and then we gave her to the waves. This shell, thus imbedded in the hull of the ship, was carefully cut out, along with some of the timber, and sent to the Navy Department in Washington, to be exhibited to admiring Yankees. It should call up the blush of shame to the cheek of every Northern man who looks upon it. It should remind him of his ship going into action with concealed armor; it should remind him that his ship fired into a beaten antagonist five times, after her colors had been struck and when she was sinking; and it should remind him of the drowning of helpless men, struggling in the water for their lives!

Perhaps this latter spectacle was something for a Yankee to gloat upon. The Alabama had been a scourge and a terror to them for two years. She had destroyed their property! Yankee property! Curse upon the “pirates,” let them drown! At least this was the sentiment uttered by that humane and Christian gentleman, to whom I have before had occasion to allude in these pages—Mr. William H. Seward—one of the chief Vandals, who found themselves in the possession and control of the once glorious “Government of the States,” during the war. This gentleman, in one of his despatches to Mr. Adams, prompting him as to what he should say to the English Government, on the subject of the rescue of my men by the Deerhound, remarks: “I have to observe, upon these remarks of Earl Russell, that it was the right of the Kearsarge that the pirates should drown, unless saved by humane exertions of the officers and crew of that vessel, or by their own efforts, without the aid of the Deerhound. The men were either already actually prisoners, or they were desperately pursued by the Kearsarge. If they had perished [by being permitted to be drowned, in cold blood after the action], the Kearsarge would have had the advantage of a lawful destruction of so many enemies; if they had been recovered by the Kearsarge, with or without the aid of the Deerhound, then the voluntary surrender of those persons would have been perfected, and they would have been prisoners. In neither case would they have remained hostile Confederates.”

No one who is not a seaman can realize the blow which falls upon the heart of a commander, upon the sinking of his ship. It is not merely the loss of a battle—it is the overwhelming of his household, as it were, in a great catastrophe. The Alabama had not only been my battle-field, but my home, in which I had lived two long years, and in which I had experienced many vicissitudes of pain and pleasure, sickness and health. My officers and crew formed a great military family, every face of which was familiar to me; and when I looked upon my gory deck, toward the close of the action, and saw so many manly forms stretched upon it, with the glazed eye of death, or agonizing with terrible wounds, I felt as a father feels who has lost his children—his children who had followed him to the uttermost ends of the earth, in sunshine and storm, and been always true to him.

A remarkable spectacle presented itself on the deck of the sinking ship, after the firing had ceased, and the boats containing the wounded had been shoved off. Under the order, which had been given, “Every man save himself who can!” all occupations had been suspended, and all discipline relaxed. One man was then as good as another. The Kearsarge stood sullenly at a distance, making no motion, that we could see, to send us a boat. The Deerhound and the French pilot-boats were also at a considerable distance. Meantime, the water was rushing and roaring into the ship’s side, through her ghastly death-wound, and she was visibly settling—lower and lower. There was no panic, no confusion, among the men. Each stood, waiting his doom, with the most perfect calmness. The respect and affection manifested for their officers was touching in the extreme. Several gathered around me, and seemed anxious for my safety. One tendered me this little office of kindness, and another, that. Kell was near me, and my faithful steward, Bartelli, also, was at my side. Poor Bartelli! he could not swim a stroke—which I did not know at the time, or I should have saved him in the boats—and yet he was calm and cheerful; seeming to think that no harm could befall him, so long as he was at my side. He asked me if there were not some papers I wanted, in the cabin. I told him there were, and sent him to bring them. He had to wade to my state-room to get them. He brought me the two small packages I had indicated; and, with tears in his eyes, told me how the cabin had been shattered by the enemy’s shot—our fine painting of the Alabama, in particular, being destroyed. Poor fellow! he was drowned in ten minutes afterward.

Two of the members of my boat’s crew being around me, when the papers were brought, insisted that I should give them to them to take care of. They were good swimmers, they said, and would be sure to preserve them for me. I gave each a package—put up tightly between small slats—and they thrust them in the bosoms of their shirts. One of them then helped me off with my coat, which was too well laden with buttons, to think of retaining, and I sat down whilst the other pulled off my boots. Kell stripped himself in like manner. The men with the papers were both saved. One swam to a French pilot-boat, and the other to the Deerhound. I got both packages of papers. The seaman who landed on the French coast sought out Captain Sinclair, who was still at Cherbourg, and delivered them to him. A writer in the London “Times” thus describes how I got the other package: “When the men came on board the Deerhound, they had nothing on but their drawers and shirts, having been stripped to fight; and one of them, with a sailor’s devotedness, insisted on seeing his Captain, who was then lying in Mr. Lancaster’s cabin, in a very exhausted state, as he had been intrusted by Captain Semmes with the ship’s papers, and to no one else would he give them up. The men were all very anxious about their Captain, and were rejoiced to find that he had been saved. They appeared to be a set of first-rate fellows, and to act well together, in perfect union, under the most trying circumstances.”

The Combat between the Alabama and the Kearsarge, off Cherbourg, on the 19th of June, 1864.

The ship settled by the stern, and as the taffarel was about to be submerged, Kell and myself threw ourselves into the sea, and swam out far enough from the sinking ship to avoid being drawn down into the vortex of waters. We then turned to get a last look at her, and see her go down. Just before she disappeared, her main-topmast, which had been wounded, went by the board; and, like a living thing in agony, she threw her bow high out of the water, and then descended rapidly, stern foremost, to her last resting-place. A noble Roman once stabbed his daughter, rather than she should be polluted by the foul embrace of a tyrant. It was with a similar feeling that Kell and I saw the Alabama go down. We had buried her as we had christened her, and she was safe from the polluting touch of the hated Yankee!

Great rejoicing was had in Yankeedom, when it was known that the Alabama had been beaten. Shouts of triumph rent the air, and bonfires lighted every hill. But along with the rejoicing there went up a howl of disappointed rage, that I had escaped being made a prisoner. The splendid victory of their iron-clad over a wooden ship was shorn of half its brilliancy. Mr. Seward was in a furor of excitement; and as for poor Mr. Adams, he lost his head entirely. He even conceived the brilliant idea of demanding that I should be delivered up to him by the British Government. Two days after the action, he wrote to his chief from London as follows:—

Mr. Seward and Mr. Adams were both eminently civilians. The heads of both of them were muddled, the moment they stepped from the Forum to the Campus Martius. Mr. Adams was now busy preparing another humiliation for the great American statesman. Some men learn wisdom by experience, and others do not. Mr. Adams seems to have been of the latter class. He had made a great many demands about the Alabama, which had been refused, and was now about to make another which was more absurd even than those that had gone before. The “instructions” coming from Mr. Seward in due time, the demand was made, and here is the reply of Lord Russell:—

This reasoning is unanswerable, and adds to the many humiliations the Federal Government received from England during the war in connection with the Alabama, through the bungling of its diplomatists. The Deerhound, a neutral vessel, was not only under no obligation, in fact, to deliver up the prisoners she had rescued from the water, but she could not, lawfully, have put herself under such obligation. The prisoners had rights in the premises as well as the Deerhound. The moment they reached the deck of the neutral ship, by whatever means, they were entitled to the protection of the neutral flag, and any attempt on the part of the neutral master, whether by agreement with the opposite belligerent or not, to hand them over to the latter, would have been an exercise of force by him, and tantamount to an act of hostility against the prisoners. It would have been our right and our duty to resist any such attempt; and we would assuredly have done so if it had been made. It will be observed that Lord Russell does not discuss the question whether we were prisoners. It was not necessary to his argument; for even admitting that we were prisoners, hospitality forbade him to deliver us up.

But we were not prisoners. A person, to become a prisoner, must be brought within the power of his captor. There must be a manucaption, a possession, if even for a moment. I never was at any time, during the engagement, or after, in the power of the enemy. I had struck my flag, it is true, but that did not make me a prisoner. It was merely an offer of surrender. It was equivalent to saying to my enemy, “I am beaten, if you will take possession of me, I will not resist.” Suppose my ship had not been fatally injured, and a sudden gale had sprung up, and prevented the enemy from completing his capture, by taking possession of her, and I had escaped with her, will it be pretended that she was his prize? There have been numerous instances of this kind in naval history, and no one has ever supposed that a ship under such circumstances would be a prize, or that any person on board of her would be a prisoner. Nor can the cause which prevents the captor from taking possession of his prize, make any difference. If from any cause, he is unable to take possession, he loses her. If she takes fire, and burns up, or sinks, she is equally lost to him, and if any one escapes from the burning or sinking ship to the shore, can it be pretended that he is a prisoner? And is there any difference between escaping to the shore, and to a neutral flag? The folly of the thing is too apparent for argument, and yet the question was pressed seriously upon the British Government; and the head of Mr. Gideon Welles, the Secretary of the Federal Navy, was, for a long time, addled on the subject. I question, indeed, whether the head of the old gentleman has recovered from the shock it received, to this day. He afterward had me arrested, as the reader will see in due time, and conveyed to Washington a prisoner, and did all in his power to have me tried by a military commission, in time of peace, because I did not insist upon Mr. Lancaster’s delivering me up to Captain Winslow! Will any one believe that this is the same Mr. Welles who approved of Captain Stellwagen’s running off with the Mercedita, after he had been paroled?

But here is another little incident in point, which, perhaps, Mr. Welles had forgotten when he ordered my arrest. It arose out of Buchanan’s gallant fight with the enemy’s fleet in Hampton Roads, before alluded to in these pages. I will let the Admiral relate it, in his own words. He is writing to Mr. Mallory, the Secretary of the Navy, and after having described the ramming and sinking of the Cumberland, proceeds:—

Aye, these paroled gentlemen escaped, and Mr. Welles forgot to send them back. There was some excuse for Mr. Seward and Mr. Adams making the blunder they did, of supposing that the rescued officers and men of the Alabama were prisoners to the Kearsarge, but there was none whatever for Mr. Welles. He was the head of the enemy’s Navy Department, and it was his business to know better; and if he did not know better, himself, he should have called to his assistance some of the clever naval men around him. Nay, if he had taken down from its shelf almost any naval history in the library of his department, he could have set himself right in half an hour. James’ “English Naval History” is full of precedents, where ships which have struck their flags, have afterward escaped—the enemy failing to take possession of them—and no question has been raised as to the propriety of their conduct. So many contingencies occur in naval battles, that it has become a sort of common law of the sea, that a ship is never a prize, or the persons on board of her prisoners, until she has actually been taken possession of by the enemy. A few of these cases will doubtless interest the reader, especially as they have an interest of their own, independently of their application.

THE REVOLUTIONNAIRE AND THE AUDACIOUS.

Lord Hood fought his famous action with the French fleet in 1794. In that action, the French ship Revolutionnaire struck her colors to the English ship Audacious, but the latter failing to take possession of her, she escaped. The following is the historian’s relation of the facts:—

It is observable in the above extract, that the historian does not complain that the French ship escaped; does not deny her right to do so, but remarks, as a matter of course, that she did not become a prize, because she was not taken possession of.

THE ACHILLE AND THE BRUNSWICK.

In the same action, the French ship Achille, struck to the British ship Brunswick, and not being taken possession of, endeavored to escape. The relation of this engagement is as follows:—

The escape, however, was prevented by the appearance of a new ship upon the scene, the Ramilles. This ship, after dispatching an antagonist with which she had been engaged, perceiving the attempt of the Achille, made sail in pursuit, and coming up with her, took possession of her, and thus, for the first time, made her a prize. 1 James, 162-4.

THE BELLONA AND THE MILLBROOK.

In the year 1800, the French ship Bellona struck to the British ship Millbrook, and afterward escaped. The following is the account of the engagement. The battle having continued some little time, the historian proceeds:—

THE SAN JOSÉ AND THE GRASSHOPPER.

In 1807, off the coast of Spain, the Spanish brig San JosÉ struck to the British brig Grasshopper—having first run on shore—when the greater part of her crew escaped before she could be taken possession of. The affair is thus related:—

THE VAR AND THE BELLE POULE.

In 1809, in the Gulf of Velona, the French ship-of-war Var, struck to the British frigate Belle Poule, but before she could be taken possession of, the officers, and a greater part of the crew escaped. The action is described as follows:—

THE VIRGINIA AND THE CONGRESS.

In the year 1862, one Gideon Welles being Secretary of the Federal Navy, Admiral Buchanan, of the Confederate States Navy, in the engagement in Hampton Roads, already referred to, for another purpose, sunk the frigate Congress, and, before she could be taken possession of, the crew took to their boats and escaped. Buchanan did not claim that the crew of the Congress, that had thus escaped, were his prisoners; he only claimed that Commander Smith, and Lieutenant Pendergrast were his prisoners, he having taken possession of them, and they having escaped, in violation of the special parole, under which he had permitted them to return to their ship.

It thus appears, that, so far from its being the exception, it is the rule, in naval combats, for both ship and officers, and crew, to escape, after surrender, if possible. The enemy may prevent it by force, if he can, but if the escape be successful, it is a valid escape. I have thus far been considering the case, as though it were an escape with, or from a ship, which had not been fatally injured, and on board which the officers and crew might have remained, if they had thought proper. If the escape be proper in such a case as this, how much more must it be proper when, as was the case with the Alabama, the officers and crew of the ship are compelled to throw themselves into the sea, and struggle for their lives? Take my own individual case. The Federal Government complained of me because I threw my sword into the sea, which, as the Federal Secretary of the Navy said, no longer belonged to me. But what was I to do with it? Where was Mr. Welles’ officer, that he did not come to demand it? It had been tendered to him, and would have belonged to him, if he had had the ability, or the inclination to come and take it. But he did not come. I did not betake myself to a boat, and seek refuge in flight. I waited for him, or his boat, on the deck of my sinking ship, until the sea was ready to engulf me. I was ready and willing to complete the surrender which had been tendered, but as far as was then apparent, the enemy intended to permit me to drown. Was I, under these circumstances, to plunge into the water with my sword in my hand and endeavor to swim to the Kearsarge? Was it not more natural, that I should hurl it into the depths of the ocean in defiance, and in hatred of the Yankee and his accursed flag? When my ship went down, I was a waif upon the waters. Battles and swords, and all other things, except the attempt to save life, were at an end. I ceased from that moment to be the enemy of any brave man. A true sailor, and above all, one who had been bred to arms, when he found that he could not himself save me, as his prisoner, should have been glad to have me escape from him, with life, whether by my own exertions, or those of a neutral. I believe this was the feeling, which, at that moment, was in the heart of Captain Winslow. It was reserved for William H. Seward to utter the atrocious sentiment which has been recorded against him, in these pages. Mr. Seward is now an old man, and he has the satisfaction of reflecting that he is responsible for more of the woes which have fallen upon the American people, than any other citizen of the once proud republic. He has worked, from first to last, for self, and he has met with the usual reward of the selfish—the contempt and neglect of all parties. He has need to utter the prayer of Cardinal Wolsey, and to add thereto, “Forgive, O Lord! him who never did forgive.”

With the permission of the reader, I will make another brief reference to Naval History, to show how gallant men regard the saving of life, from such disasters during battle, as befell the Alabama; how, in other words, they cease to be the enemies of disarmed men, struggling against the elements for their lives.

DESTRUCTION OF L’ORIENT AT THE BATTLE OF THE NILE.

At the battle of the Nile, fought by Lord Nelson, in 1798, with Admiral Brueyes, the flag-ship of the French fleet, L’Orient, took fire and blew up, after having surrendered. Admiral Ganteaume, the third in command of the fleet, was on board the ill-fated ship, and being blown into the water by the explosion of the magazine, was picked up by one of his boats and conveyed to a French brig of war, in which he escaped to Alexandria. This escape, after surrender, was regarded as valid by Lord Nelson. The disaster is thus described by the historian. After giving the position of the French fleet, at anchor in the Bay of Aboukir, and describing the mode of attack by the English fleet, the narrator proceeds:—

The historian then describes the terrible night-scene that followed; how it put an end, for the time, to the action, and the efforts which were made by the English boats to save life. We have only to do, however, with Admiral Ganteaume. This gentleman describes his escape as follows:—

Admiral Ganteaume does not mention the striking of the colors of this ship, and the fact has been disputed. But Lord Nelson believed that she had struck, and that is all we need for our purpose, which is to show that, with the belief of this fact, he did not pretend to regard Admiral Ganteaume as a prisoner. In 2 Clarke’s “Life of Lord Nelson,” p. 135, occurs the following passage:—

Admiral Ganteaume resumed his duties as a naval officer immediately after his escape, repairing to Cairo, where Napoleon then was, to put himself under the orders of the Great Captain. He returned with his distinguished chief to France, in the frigate Le Muiron. The British Government did not demand him of the French Government as a prisoner of war. This case was almost precisely similar with my own. Both ships struck their colors; both ships were destroyed before the enemy could take possession of them, and both commanders escaped; the only difference being that Admiral Ganteaume escaped in one of his own boats, to one of his own brigs of war, and thence to Alexandria, and I escaped by swimming to a neutral ship, and to the cover of a neutral flag; which, as before remarked, was the same thing as if I had swum to neutral territory. Mr. Lancaster could no more have thrust me back into the sea, or handed me over to the Kearsarge, than could the keeper of the Needles light, if I had landed on the Isle of Wight.

I have presented several contrasts in these pages; I desire to present another. The reader has seen how Mr. Seward, a civilian, insisted that beaten enemies, who were struggling for their lives in the water, should be permitted to drown, rather than be rescued from the grasp of his naval commander by a neutral. I desire to show how a Christian admiral forbade his enemies to be fired upon, when they were engaged in rescuing their people from drowning; even though the consequence of such rescue should be the escape of the prisoners. I allude to Lord Collingwood, a name almost as well known to American as to English readers; the same Lord Collingwood, who was second in command to Nelson at the famous battle of Trafalgar. This Admiral, from his flag-ship, the Ocean, issued the following general order to the commanders of his ships:—

But the American war developed “grand moral ideas,” and Mr. Seward’s, about the drowning of prisoners, was one of them.

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