The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Hero of Manila, by Rossiter Johnson This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. Title: The Hero of Manila Dewey on the Mississippi and the Pacific Author: Rossiter Johnson Release Date: March 4, 2015 [EBook #48404] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HERO OF MANILA *** Produced by Ron Swanson Midshipman Dewey. THE HERO OF MANILA DEWEY ON THE MISSISSIPPI AND THE PACIFIC BY ROSSITER JOHNSON AUTHOR OF PHAETON ROGERS, A HISTORY OF THE WAR OF SECESSION, ETC. WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY B. WEST CLINEDINST AND OTHERS NEW YORK D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 1899 COPYRIGHT, 1899, BY D. APPLETON AND COMPANY. PREFACE. If this little book does not show for itself why it was written, how it was written, and for whom it was written, not only a preface but the entire text would be useless. The author believes that in every life that is greatly useful to mankind there is a plan and a purpose from the beginning, whether the immediate owner of that life is aware of it or not; and that the art of the biographer—whether he is dealing with facts exclusively or is mingling fact and fiction—should make it discernible by the reader. The authorities that have been consulted include the Life of David Glasgow Farragut, by his son; Admiral Ammen's Atlantic Coast; Greene's The Mississippi; Battles and Leaders of the Civil War; The Rebellion Record; Marshall's History of the Naval Academy, and especially Adelbert M. Dewey's Life and Letters of Admiral Dewey. R. J. AMAGANSETT, September 8, 1899. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. THE PHILOSOPHY OF FIGHTING II. ON THE RIVER BANK III. BATTLE ROYAL IV. EDUCATION AT NORWICH V. LIFE AT ANNAPOLIS VI. THE BEGINNING OF WAR VII. THE FIGHT FOR NEW ORLEANS VIII. THE BATTLE AT PORT HUDSON IX. THE CAPTURE OF FORT FISHER X. IN TIME OF PEACE XI. THE BATTLE OF MANILA XII. AFTER THE BATTLE XIII. THE PROBLEM ON LAND XIV. HONORS XV. LETTERS LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. Midshipman Dewey By B. West Clinedinst An early battle By B. West Clinedinst A schoolroom episode By B. West Clinedinst Scene of naval operations in Western rivers Farragut and Dewey By B. West Clinedinst Whitewashing the decks By B. West Clinedinst Order of attack on Forts Jackson and St. Philip Farragut's fleet passing the forts Order of attack on Port Hudson Passage of the batteries of Port Hudson Removing the wounded By B. West Clinedinst Diagram of Manila Bay U.S. Cruiser Olympia, Admiral Dewey's Flagship The battle of Manila Admiral Dewey on the bridge of the Olympia Medal presented by Congress Sword presented by Congress Shield presented to the Olympia Dewey Triumphal Arch, New York Charles R. Lamb, Architect The house in which Admiral Dewey was born in Montpelier, Vermont. THE HERO OF MANILA. CHAPTER I. THE PHILOSOPHY OF FIGHTING. It is not necessary to visit the Bay of Naples in order to witness a beautiful sunset. Our own atmosphere and our own waters produce those that are quite as gorgeous, while our own mountains and woodlands give them as worthy a setting as any in the world. Half a century ago a little boy sat at his chamber window in Vermont looking at a summer sunset. He was so absorbed in the scene before him and in his own thoughts that he did not notice the entrance of his father until he spoke. "What are you thinking about, George?" said the father. "About ships," the boy answered, without turning his head. "What kind of ships?" "I can see nearly every kind," said George. "See them—where?" said his father, looking over his shoulder. "Right there in the sunset clouds," said the boy. "Oh!" said his father; and then, after looking a while, added, "Suppose you point out a few of them." "Do you see that small cloud, at some distance from the others—the one that is rather long and narrow, with a narrower one alongside?" "Yes, I see that." "Well, that," said the boy, "is a Brazilian catamaran, and those little knobs at the top are the heads of the men that are paddling it." "Just so," said his father. "What else can you see?" "The catamaran," said George, "is pulling out to that clipper ship which has just come to anchor off the port. The clipper is the large one, with her sails furled. Probably the Indians have some fruit on board, which they hope to sell to the sailors." "Quite natural," said the father. "And that smaller one, under full sail, fore-and-aft rigged, is a schooner in the coasting trade." "That one appears to be changing shape rapidly," said the father. "Yes," said the boy. "She is tacking, and you see her at a different angle." "I might have suspected as much," said the father, "but I never was a good sailor." "That very large one," continued the boy, "with a big spread of canvas and holes in her hull, where the red sunlight pours through, is an old-fashioned seventy-four, with all her battle-lanterns lit." "A pretty fancy," said the father, who evidently was becoming more interested and better able to see the pictures that were so vivid to his son. "Do you see that dark one over at the right, with one near it that is very red and very ragged?" said the boy. "I do." "Those are the Constitution and the Java. They had their famous battle yesterday, and the Java was so badly cut up that to-day Bainbridge has removed her crew and set her on fire. She will blow up pretty soon." "I should like to see it," said the father. "And if you look over there to the left," said the boy, "you see quite a collection of rather small ones, most of them very red, some half red and half black. It looks a little confused at first, but when you know what it is you can see plainly enough that it is the battle of Lake Erie. In the very center there is a small boat, and on it something that looks black and blue and red, with a little white. The black is cannon smoke. The blue and red and white is the American flag, which Perry is taking over to the Niagara, because the Lawrence is so badly damaged that he has had to leave her. That one with only one mast standing is the Lawrence." "Yes, my son, I think you have accounted beautifully for everything there except one. What is that dark one, with rounded ends and no mast, just beyond the clipper?" "Oh, that," said the boy, taking a moment for reflection. "I think that must be a bullhead boat on the Delaware and Hudson Canal." "It is a good representation of one," said his father, smiling. "But, George, how came you to know so much about ships and boats and naval history?" "By reading all I could find about them, sir." "Well, George, I am really pleased," said Dr. Dewey; "pleased and encouraged to know that you have taken to reading instead of fighting. I was afraid you never would love books; but now that you have begun, you shall have all the good ones you will read." "Thank you, father, I shall be glad of them." "But come now, my son, supper is ready, and your sister is waiting for us." "I will come pretty soon," said George, and his father descended the stairs. A little later the boy went slowly down, and quietly slipped into his place at the table. In a few minutes Dr. Dewey looked up, then started as if surprised, and dropped his hands to the edge of the table. He took a sharp look at George, and then said: "What does that mean? How came you by that black eye?" "There is only one way to get a black eye that I know of," said the boy. "Fighting?" "Yes, sir." The doctor was silent for several minutes, and then said: "I don't know what to say to you or do to you, my son. You know what I have said to you about your fighting habit, and you know that I mean it, for I have not only talked to you, but punished you. When I found you had been reading history I took new hope, for I thought you must have got past the fighting age and given your mind to better things. But here you are again with the marks of a pugilist." "I don't fight when I can help it, and I'm afraid I never shall get past the fighting age," said George. "Don't fight when you can help it?" said his father. "Can't you always help it?" "I might by running away. Do you want me to do that?" the boy answered quietly. "Of course I don't," said the doctor quickly. "But can't you keep away?" "I have to go to school," said George, "and I have to be with the boys; and some of them are quarrelsome, and some are full of conceit, and some need a good licking now and then." "And you consider it your duty to administer it," said the doctor. "Conceit is a crime that can not be too severely punished." The boy felt the irony of his father's remark, and saw that he did not quite understand that use of the word "conceit," so he proceeded to explain: "When a boy goes about bragging how many boys he has licked, and how many others he can lick, and how he will do this, that, and the other thing, if everybody doesn't look out, we say he is too conceited and he ought to have the conceit taken out of him; and the first good chance we get we take it out." "Suppose you left it in him and paid no attention to it—what would happen in that case?" said the doctor. "He would grow more and more conceited," said George, "and make himself so disagreeable that the boys couldn't enjoy life, and before a great while you would find him picking on smaller boys than himself and licking them, just to have more brag." "Do you really have any such boys among your schoolfellows, or is this only theoretical?" the doctor inquired. "There are a few," said George. "And how do you determine whose duty it is to take the conceit out of one of them? Do you draw lots, or take turns?" "The boy that enjoys the job the most generally gets it," said George. "Just so," said the doctor. "And is there some one boy in the school who enjoys the job, as you call it, more than all the others?" George evidently felt that this question came so near home he ought not to be expected to answer it, and he was silent. His elder sister, Mary (they had lost their mother five years before), now spoke for the first time. "Perhaps," said she, "we ought to ask George to tell us the circumstances of this last fight. I don't believe he is always the one to blame." "Certainly," said the doctor; "that is only fair. Tell us all about it, George." Thereupon the boy proceeded to tell them all about it in a very animated manner. "Bill Ammon," he began, "is one of the bossingest boys in school. He expects to have everything his way. I don't blame a boy for wanting things his own way if he takes fair means to get them so, but Bill doesn't always. You and the teacher tell me that bad habits grow worse and worse, and I suppose it was that way with Bill. At any rate, we found out a few days ago that he was taking regular toll out of two smaller boys—Jimmy Nash and Teddy Hawkins—for not licking them. Each of them had to bring him something twice a week—apples, or nuts, or marbles, or candy, or something else that he wanted—and he threatened not only to lick them if they did not bring the things, but to lick them twice as hard if they told any one about it." "Why did those boys submit to such treatment?" said the doctor. "Well, you see," said George, "Jimmy Nash's father is a Quaker, and doesn't believe in hurting anybody, and so if Jimmy gets into any trouble he whales him like fury as soon as he finds it out. And Teddy Hawkins's mother gives him plenty of spending money, so he is always able to buy a little something to please Bill, and I suppose he would rather do that than fight." "If they were boys of any spirit," said the doctor indignantly, "I should think they would join forces and give Bill the thrashing he deserves. The two together ought to be able to do it." "Yes, they could," said George; "but, you see, they are not twins, and can't always be together—in fact, they live a long way apart—and as soon as Bill caught either of them alone he would make him pay dear for it. He needed to be licked by some one boy." "I see," said the doctor; "a Decatur was wanted, to put an end to the tribute." "Exactly!" said George, and his father's eyes twinkled with pleasure to see that he understood the allusion. He was specially anxious that his boy should become familiar with American history, but he had no anticipation that his son would one day make American history. "When we found it out," George continued, "Bill tried to make us believe that Jimmy and Teddy were simply paying him to protect them. He said he was their best friend. 'What protection do they need?' said I. 'They are peaceable little fellows, and there is nobody that would be coward enough to attack them.' Bill saw that he was cornered on the argument, and at the same time he got mad at the word coward, thinking I meant it for him. I didn't, for I don't consider him a coward at all." "Not if he is a bully?" said the doctor. "No, sir," said George. "He certainly is something of a bully, but he is not cowardly." "There you agree with Charles Lamb," said the doctor. "Who is Charles Lamb?" said George. "He was an Englishman, who died fifteen or twenty years ago," said the doctor, "and I hope you'll read his delightful essays some day—but not till you've mastered American history. Attend to that first." "I'll try to," said George. "When Bill flared up at that word he seemed to lose his head a little. 'Who are you calling a coward?' said he, coming up close to me, with his fist clenched. I said I never called anybody a coward, because if he wasn't one it wouldn't be true, and if he was everybody would find it out soon enough, without my telling them. 'Well, you meant it for me,' said he, 'and you'll have to fight it out, so you'd better take off your jacket mighty quick.' I said I had no objection——" "You had no objection!" exclaimed his sister Mary. "Well—that is—under the circumstances," said George, "I didn't see how I could have any. I had no right to have any. Those two boys did need protection—they needed to be protected against Bill Ammon, who was robbing them. And I thought I might as well do it as anybody. So I said, 'Come over to the orchard, boys,' and we all went. Teddy Hawkins held my jacket, and Sim Nelson held Bill's. We squared off and sparred a little while, and I suppose I must have been careless, for Bill got the first clip at me, landing on my eye. But pretty soon I fetched him a good one under the cheek bone, and followed that up with a smasher on——" An early battle. Here Mary turned pale, and showed signs of uneasiness and repugnance. George, who was warming up with his subject, did not notice her, but was going on with his description of the fight, when his father stopped him. "Your sister," he said, "has no taste for these particulars. Never mind them until some time when you and I are alone. Only tell us how it turned out." "The boys said it turned out that I gave Bill what he deserved, and I hope I did, but I didn't tell them what a mighty hard job I found it." "Bravo, George!" exclaimed the doctor, and then quickly added: "But don't fight any more." CHAPTER II. ON THE RIVER BANK. A group of boys sat on the bank of Onion River, looking at the water and occasionally casting pebbles into it. Wet hair, bare feet, and other circumstances indicated that they had not long been out of it. Below them, in one of the comparatively shallow, flat-bottomed reaches, a company of smaller boys were paddling about, some taking their first lessons in swimming, some struggling to duck each other, and some carefully keeping aloof for fear of being ducked. Trees, rocks, broken sunlight, and a summer breeze made the little scene quite Arcadian. "My uncle is going to California to dig gold," said one of the larger boys, who answered to the name of Tom Kennedy. "My father says they have discovered gold mines in Australia that are richer than those in California," said another, Felix Ostrom by name. "But that is twice as far away," said the first speaker, "and you can only get there by a long sea voyage. You can go overland to California, and be in our own country all the time. Isn't that a great deal better, even if you don't get quite so much gold?" "It wouldn't be better for me," answered George Dewey. "I would rather go by sea, and would rather go to other countries. I want to see as many of them as I can. I would especially like to sail in the Pacific Ocean." "Why the Pacific?" said Tom. "Because," said George, "that is not only the largest ocean in the world, but it has the most islands and touches the countries that we know the least about." "It's an ugly thing to get to it, round Cape Horn," said Felix. "You can go through the Strait of Magellan," said George. "Last week I found a book of voyages in my Aunt Lavinia's house, and I've been reading all about Magellan. He was the discoverer of the Pacific Ocean, and he sailed through that strait to find it." "He must have been a very modest man," said Tom. "Why?" "Because he didn't name it Magellan Ocean." "He called it the Pacific because he found it so calm," said George. "And he sailed clear across it. Just think of coming to an unknown sea five or six thousand miles wide, and sailing right out into it, and on and on, past islands and reefs, and sometimes long stretches with nothing in sight but sky and water, and no way to tell when you'll come to the end of it! And when you stop at an island you don't know what you'll find, or whether you'll find anything—even good drinking-water. And he didn't know whether the earth was really round, for no one had ever sailed round it before. I think that beats Columbus." "Was he really the first one to sail round the world?" said Felix. "Not exactly," said George. "His ship was the first that ever went round, but he didn't get round with her." "Why not?" "Because when they got to the Philippine Islands, which they discovered, they went ashore on one of them and had a fight with the natives, and Magellan was killed." "I guess the Philippine Islands are pretty good ones to keep away from," said Sammy Atkinson. "I should be willing to take my chances, if I could get there," said George. "But I suppose I never shall." "You can't tell," said Sandy Miller, a boy who had recently come from Scotland with his parents, "what savage countries you may visit afore you die. Two years ago I didn't dream I'd ever come to America." "Do you call ours a savage country?" said Felix, with a twinkle in his eye. "I didn't exactly mean to," said Sandy, "and yet I think I might, when I remember how all you boys wanted to fight me the first week I was here, only because I was a stranger." "Not quite all," said George. "No, I take that back," said Sandy. "You say truly not quite all, for you yourself didn't, and I mustn't forget it of you. I suppose it's human nature to want to fight all strangers, and maybe that's the reason the Philippine men killed Master Magellan. I suppose they'd try to do the same if anybody went there now. But I wish you'd tell us more about him and about the Pacific and the Philippines, for I am aye fond of the sea; I enjoyed every wave on the Atlantic when we came over." Thereupon George, being urged by the other boys as well, gave an account, as nearly as he could remember, of what he had read. "What has become of those islands?" said Bill Ammon. "They are there yet," said George. "Did you think they were sunk in the sea?" said Tom Kennedy. "It might not be very ridiculous if he did," said George, "for they have terrific earthquakes, and a good many of them." "Of course I meant," Bill explained, "who owns them?" "Spain says she does," said George, "and she has had them a long time, for she took possession of them about fifty years after they were discovered; but she came pretty near losing them forever about a century ago." "How was that?" Bill inquired. "A British force attacked them," said George, "and stormed Manila, the capital, and the city had its choice to pay five million dollars or be given up to the soldiers for plunder. It paid the money." "Do you think that was right?" Felix Ostrom asked. "I don't know enough about it to say," George answered; "but I suppose war is war, and when it has to be made at all it ought to be made so as to accomplish something." "What was the name of Magellan's ship?" asked Tom Kennedy. "He started with five ships," said George, "but four of them were lost. The largest was only eighty feet long. The one that went round the world and got home was the Victoria." "Huh!" said Tom, "I might have known it—just like those Britishers, naming everything after their queen." "Magellan was not a Britisher, he was Portuguese," said George. "And Queen Victoria was not born till about three hundred years after his famous voyage." The boys burst into a roar of laughter and hooted at Tom. "It's all very well for you to laugh," said Tom when the merriment had subsided a little, "but I'd like to know how many of you would have known that I made a blunder if George Dewey hadn't explained it to you—probably not one. I can't see that anybody but George has a right to laugh at me, and I noticed that he laughed least of all." The boys appeared to feel the sting of Tom's argument, but at the same time they felt that any opportunity to laugh at him should be improved, because he was critical and sarcastic above all the rest. They wanted to resent his remark, but did not know of any way to do it effectively, and were all getting into ill humor when Felix Ostrom thought of a way to turn the subject and restore good feeling. "Look here, boys," said he, "as we are talking about the sea, and some of us intend to be sailors when we are old enough, I'd like to propose that Sandy Miller sing us a sea song. He knows a ripping good one, and I know he can sing it, for I heard him once at his house." There was an immediate demand for the song, which was so loud and emphatic and unanimous that Sandy could not refuse. "It's one that my great aunt, Miss Corbett, wrote," said he. "I can't remember it all, but I'll sing you a bit of it as well as I can. Ye'll just remember that I'm no Jenny Lind nor the choir of the Presbyterian church." Then he sang: "I've seen the waves as blue as air, I've seen them green as grass; But I never feared their heaving yet, From Grangemouth to the Bass. I've seen the sea as black as pitch, I've seen it white as snow; But I never feared its foaming yet, Though the waves blew high or low. When sails hang flapping on the masts, While through the waves we snore, When in a calm we're tempest-tossed, We'll go to sea no more— No more— We'll go to sea no more. "The sun is up, and round Inchkeith The breezes softly blaw; The gudeman has the lines on board— Awa'! my bairns, awa'! An' ye'll be back by gloamin' gray, An' bright the fire will low, An' in your tales and sangs we'll tell How weel the boat ye row. When life's last sun gaes feebly down, An' death comes to our door, When a' the world's a dream to us, We'll go to sea no more— No more— We'll go to sea no more." When the applause that greeted the song had subsided, little Steve Leonard asked: "I suppose that means they'll sail all their lives, doesn't it?" "Yes, it means just about that," said Tom Kennedy. Paying no attention to the touch of sarcasm in Tom's intonation, Steve added: "Well, they might do that in a fishing boat, but they couldn't do it in the navy. My Uncle Walter is an officer in the navy, and he's got to get out of it next year, because he'll be sixty-two years old, though there isn't a gray hair in his head." "The people in the song were fishermen," said Sandy. At this moment there was a cry of alarm among the small boys in the stream. One of them had got beyond his depth and had disappeared beneath the surface. The larger boys rushed down the bank with eager inquiries: "Where?" "Where did he go down?" But two of them—George Dewey and Bill Ammon—did not need to wait for the answer. They knew the exact depth of every square yard in that part of the river, and the set of the current at every point, for they had been in it and through it more than a hundred times. "Run down the bank and go in by the pine tree, Bill," said George. "I'll go in just below the riffle and explore the cellar- hole!" A few seconds later both of these boys had disappeared under water. The "cellar-hole," as the boys called it, was a place where some natural force, probably frost and the current, had excavated the bed of the river to a depth of eight or ten feet, with almost perpendicular walls. It was a favorite place for the larger boys to dive; and another of their amusements consisted in floating down into it with the current, which, just before entering the cellar-hole, ran swiftly through a narrow channel. The two boys were under water so long that their companions began to fear they never would come up. From the excited state of their minds it seemed even longer than it really was. Bill was the first to appear, and as soon as he could get his breath he reported "No luck!" A moment later George came up, and it was evident that he was bringing something. As soon as Bill saw this he swam toward him, and at the same time two other boys plunged in from the bank. They brought ashore the apparently lifeless body of little Jimmy Nash and laid it on the grass. "What shall we do?" said several. "Shake the water out of him," said one. "Stand him on his head," said another. "Roll him over a barrel," said a third. "Somebody run for a doctor," said a fourth; and this suggestion was quickly carried out by two of the smaller boys, who scampered off in search of a physician. "The barrel is the right idea," said George, "but there is no barrel anywhere in sight. Boys, bring us that big log." Half a dozen boys made a rush for the log, rolled it down the slope, and brought it to the place where it was wanted. They laid Jimmy across it, face down, and gently rolled him back and forth, which brought considerable water out of his lungs. One of the boys who had run for a physician had the good fortune to come upon Dr. Dewey, who was passing in his gig, and shouted: "Doctor! Doctor! there's a drownded boy down here! Come quick!" The doctor sprang to the ground, tied his horse to the fence in less time than it takes to tell it, and followed the excited boy across the field and down the bank. After working over the little fellow about half an hour he brought him back to consciousness, and at the end of another half hour Jimmy was well enough to be taken to his home. He was very weak, and two large boys walked beside him, supporting him by the arms, while all the others followed in a half-mournful, half-joyful procession. "I wonder if Jimmy's father will lick him for being drowned," said Tom Kennedy. CHAPTER III. BATTLE ROYAL. Winter came to Montpelier, and with it frost, snow, and a new school year. The first snowfall was in the night, and by noon of the next day it was soft enough to pack, presenting an opportunity for fun such as American boys never forego. Big or little, studious or indolent, every one of those whose acquaintance we have made in the preceding pages, together with many of their schoolmates whom we have not named, took up handfuls of the cold, white substance, fashioned them into balls, and tried his skill at throwing. It is the Yankee form of carnival, and woe to him who fails to take the pelting good-naturedly. That day the fun was thickest at the orchard near the schoolhouse. Half a dozen boys, partly sheltered by the low stone wall, were considered to be in a fort which a dozen others were attacking. At first it was every man for himself, "load and fire at will," but as the contest grew hotter (if that term will do for a snow battle) it was necessary to organize the work a little. So the smaller boys were directed to give their attention entirely to the making of balls, which the larger ones threw with more accuracy and force. One boy, having a notion to vary the game with an experiment, rolled up a ball twice as large as his head, managed to creep up to the wall with it, and then threw it up into the air so that it came down inside the fort. When it came down it landed on the head and shoulders of Teddy Hawkins, broke into a beautiful shower, and for a moment almost buried him out of sight. This feat of military skill received its appropriate applause, but the author of it had to pay the cost. Before he could get back to his own lines he was a target for every marksman in the fort, and at least half a dozen balls hit him, at all of which he laughed—with the exception of the one that broke on his neck and dropped its fragments inside his collar. When there was a lull in the contest a boy looked over the wall and hailed the besiegers with: "Boys, see who's coming up the road!" A tall man who carried a book under his arm and apparently was in deep thought was approaching. This was Pangborn, the schoolmaster, fresh from college, still a hard student, and assumed by the boys to be their natural enemy from the simple fact that he had come there to be their teacher. When he appeared at this interesting moment there was no need of any formal proclamation of truce between the contending forces. The instinct of the country schoolboy suggested the same thought probably to every one, whether besieger or besieged. The word passed along, "Make a lot of them, quick! and make them hard." The little fellows whose hands were red and stinging with cold worked with double energy, and the larger ones ceased throwing at one another, stepped back to places where they were not so likely to be seen from the road, and by common consent formed an ambush for the unsuspecting teacher. When he came within range a ball thrown by George Dewey, which knocked off his cap, was the signal for a general attack, and the next minute he thought himself in the center of a hailstorm, the hailstones being as large as country newspapers ever represent them. After the first sensation of bewilderment, he realized the situation, and being a man of quick wit, with some experience of boys, he saw what was the one proper thing to do. Coolly laying down his book on his cap where it rested on the snow, and paying little attention to the balls that were still whizzing round him, he proceeded to make five or six, as round and solid as could be desired. Then, looking for the leader of the attack, and recognizing him in Dewey, he charged upon that youngster and delivered every ball with unerring aim. It was so good an exhibition of marksmanship that all the other combatants stood still and looked on, their appreciation of all good throwing balancing their repugnance to all teachers. When he had delivered his last ball, which Master Dewey received courageously and good-naturedly in the breast, Mr. Pangborn picked up his book and his hat and resumed his walk, the small boys now coming to the front and sending their feeble shots after him. "I'm afraid he's game," said Tom Kennedy. "I'm not afraid of it, I'm glad of it," said Sim Nelson. "I want him to be game. Of course we must try to lick him, before the term's over, but I hope we won't succeed. I want the school to go on, and want to learn something. This may be my last winter, for I've got to go to a trade pretty soon. I was just getting a good start last winter. I was nearly through fractions when we licked old Higgins and he gave up the school." "Then why do we lick the teacher at all?" said Sammy Atkinson. "I suppose it wouldn't answer not to," said Sim. "What would the boys over in the Myers district say if we didn't give him a tug?" "The boys in the Myers district tried it with their teacher last week, and got licked unmercifully," said Bill Ammon. "At any rate," said Sim, "it appears to be an old and settled fashion. Father had a visit last night from a schoolmate, and they were talking over old times, and I heard them give a lively description of a fight with a teacher. After they had driven out three men in three winters, the trustees engaged a woman teacher. She was tall and strong, and not afraid of anything. Of course they couldn't fight her, because she was a woman; but all the same she laced those boys with a rawhide whenever they broke the rules. But father said she hadn't much education; she never took them beyond simple fractions, because she didn't understand arithmetic beyond that point herself. When they got there she would say, 'I think now we ought to take some review lessons; I believe in thoroughness.' And in the reading class she taught them to say So'-crates and Her'-cules, instead of Soc'-ra-tes and Her'-cu-les. Father said the boys learned lots of obedience that winter, but nothing else." "Well, of course," said Teddy Hawkins—and his words were slow, because he was trying at the same time to bite off the end of a big stick of Spanish licorice—"if it was the custom of our forefathers—we must keep it up. But we want a good boy—to lead the fight and manage it. If we do it—in a helter-skelter way—we'll—get—licked." "Certainly!" said Sim. "And that may be the result of it any way. Dewey's the fellow to lead the crowd and take charge of it. What do you say—will you do it, George?" "If he does anything that we ought to lick him for, I will," said George. "But if you're going to be the ones to pick the quarrel, you may count me out." The next day the teacher brought a mysterious parcel and laid it in his desk without undoing it. He had had charge of the school only a week, and by overlooking many occurrences that might have been taken as a deliberate challenge, he had hoped to make the boys see for themselves that he bore them no ill-will. His forbearance had been taken for timidity, and many of his pupils saw in the tall young graduate only another victim who was destined very soon to follow the vanquished teacher of the preceding winter. Contrary to their expectations, Mr. Pangborn opened the school as usual, and made no allusion to the snowballing affair. The first class was ordered to take position before his desk. As they filed past, one of the boys, extending his foot, tripped another. The boy that was tripped made a great fuss about it, fell unnecessarily over a bench, and professed to be hurt both in mind and in body. Mr. Pangborn called the aggressor before him and said: "I was willing to pass over what occurred yesterday at the orchard, and I had no intention of informing your parents about it. I recognize the fact that you are boys, and I know that boys like fun and must have it. If you sometimes misplace your fun and overdo it, and act like highwaymen instead of good, healthy, civilized boys, if it is outside the schoolhouse and school hours I have no more to say about it than any other citizen. But when you're here you've got to behave yourselves. I will say no more about what has just occurred, but at the least sign of any further riot or misbehavior I'll put a stop to it in a way that you'll remember, and this will help me." With that he opened the parcel and displayed a large new rawhide. For a few seconds there was a dead silence in the room. Then a boy in one of the back seats—it was George Dewey —stood up and said: "Mr. Pangborn, I want to tell you what I think about that, and I guess most of the boys think as I do. If they don't, I hope you'll let them say what they do think. You've been giving us sums in proportion, and my father tells me I must try to apply everything I learn. If I do anything wrong I'm willing to be licked according; but I don't want to take a big thrashing for a little thing. I don't believe any boy in this school will do anything bad enough to deserve that rawhide; you can't give any but the biggest thrashings with it. And so if you attempt to use it at all we'll all turn in and lick you." A schoolroom episode. "You've made quite a good show of argument, George," said the teacher, "and I like to have a boy exercise his reasoning powers—that's one thing I'm here to teach you. But there is a serious fault or two in your statement of the case. In the first place, no boy is obliged to do any wrong, little or great; he is at perfect liberty to obey all the rules and behave like a gentleman, and if he does so he'll not be touched by this rawhide or anything else. If he chooses to break the rules he knows beforehand what it will cost him, and he has no right to complain. In the second place, the trustees have not put you here to govern the school or judge how it ought to be governed. They have employed me for that; and I intend to do what I have agreed to do and am paid for doing. I have come here to teach the school, but I can't teach without order and obedience on the part of the pupils; and order and obedience I will have—pleasantly if I can, forcibly if I must. If you had stopped, George, at the end of your argument, I should stop here with my answer, and should praise you for having reasoned out the case as well as you could, though you did not arrive at the right conclusion. Nothing will please me better than for the boys to cultivate a habit of doing their own thinking and learn to think correctly. You will always find me ready to listen to reason. But you did not stop at the end of your argument; you added a threat to attack me with the whole school to help you and overcome me. Whatever you may say of big and little faults, you have now committed one of the greatest. If I passed over such a breach of discipline, my usefulness here would be at an end. Unless I am master there can be no school. If you see the justice of this and are manly enough to acknowledge it, you may simply stand up and apologize for your threat, and then we'll go on with the lessons as if nothing had happened. If not, of course you must take the consequences." "I don't know how to apologize," said George, "and I'm not going to." "Then step out here," said the teacher, as he took up the rawhide. The boy went forward at once, with his fists clenched and his eyes blazing. Mr. Pangborn saw there was good stuff in him, if only it were properly cultivated, and could not repress a feeling of admiration for his courage. "Now let's see you strike me," said George. The next instant the rawhide came down across his shoulders, and with a cry of rage the boy threw himself upon his teacher, fighting like a terrier. Then five or six of the larger boys came to George's aid; most of the smaller ones followed them; those who were not anxious to fight did their part by yelling, overthrowing desks, and spilling ink; and the whole place was in a hideous uproar. They charged upon the teacher from all sides, but he held fast to Dewey's collar with one hand while he plied the rawhide with the other. The largest boy, who had received a stinging cut across the face, got a stick from the wood- box and let it fly at the master's head, which it narrowly missed. Feeling that his life might be in danger, Mr. Pangborn picked up the stick and waded into the crowd, using it as a policeman uses his club. The boy who had thrown it was toppled over with a blow on the head, and in three minutes all the others were driven out of the schoolhouse, some of them feeling a little lame about the shoulders and sides—all except Dewey, on whom the teacher had not relaxed his grip. He now resumed the rawhide and gave the boy as much more as he thought he deserved. A little later they left the house together and walked up the street to Dr. Dewey's office, where the boy was turned over to his father, with a brief statement of the circumstances. Dr. Dewey thanked the teacher for what he had done, and the lesson to George was complete. The next morning George was in his seat at the tap of the bell, and throughout the day he was as orderly and studious as could be desired. When the session was over and the teacher was leaving the house, he found the boy waiting for him at the door. George extended his hand and said: "Father and I talked that matter all over, and we both came to the conclusion that you did exactly right. I thank you for it." From that time Zenas K. Pangborn and George Dewey were fast friends. CHAPTER IV. EDUCATION AT NORWICH. A year later George Dewey left the school and went to the Morrisville Academy, and there also Mr. Pangborn's teachings stood him in good stead. His aptitude in sports always made Dewey a favorite with his companions. He was one of the fastest runners and the best skaters, and he had the knack of doing everything he did quickly and neatly, in the way that shows the properly balanced relations between mind and eye and body. He acted as he thought—quickly and surely—and he was certain to resent any insult or infringement of what he considered his rights. Dr. Dewey had been thinking over his son's future, and had decided upon sending George to West Point, although even at this time the boy's inclinations turned more strongly to the other branch of the service. Yet he did not strenuously object, and so after a year at Morrisville he was sent to Norwich University at Northfield, Vermont. Norwich University stands on a plateau above the town of Northfield. It is a fine old place, with a wide parade-ground extending before the buildings, and back of it are the brick barracks that contain the cadets' quarters and the armory and recitation rooms. Everything was managed in military fashion, and there was no better school in which to fit a boy for the life and habits of a soldier. It was in the year 1851 that George Dewey became a pupil there, and from the day of his coming he manifested the powers of leadership that afterward distinguished him. Four or five young fellows in uniform were seated in one of the rooms in the South Barrack. They belonged to the second-year men, and the second year at any institution of learning is perhaps the crucial one. If a boy gets into any mischief that is serious, it is generally in his second year. The doings of the sophomore have cost many a dollar out of the college treasury, to pay for stolen gates and burned fences, smashed lamp-posts and injured constables. And it was so with the second year's men at Norwich. "Where's Doc. Dewey?" asked one of the boys. "We must get him into the scheme, or the whole thing will fall through." "If any of you fellows want to see Doc. Dewey, all you've got to do is to come to the window," said a boy who was gazing out on the parade ground. At the farther end a solitary figure was patrolling up and down, turning at the end of his beat about a large elm that stood in the corner of the campus. The punishments at Norwich were of a military character, and extra sentry duty was the reward for any breach of discipline. "I ought to be the one doing all that marching," said one of the boys, "for George only tried to get me out of the scrape, but he wouldn't let me tell." "Well, he'll be off in half an hour," said another, "and we'll meet in his rooms. What do you say?" "So say we all of us," was the return. "We can hatch up the scheme there better than anywhere else." In a few minutes the party broke up, to meet later in a room down the hallway. Across the Connecticut River, which skirts the town of Northfield, is the town of Hanover, the seat of old Dartmouth College. From time immemorial the greatest rivalry had existed between the two institutions, and in the years that preceded the civil war this feeling had almost grown into a feud, and for a member of either institution to cross the river was to enter the enemy's country, with all the attendant risk. Only three or four evenings previously Dewey and one of the other cadets had boldly crossed the bridge and appeared in the Hanover streets in broad daylight. It had not taken long for the news to reach the ears of a few of the Dartmouth sophomores, who were spoiling for a row, and soon Dewey and his companions had found out that they were followed. But it was not until they had reached the entrance to the bridge that there was any sign of trouble. There, sure enough, they saw four of the Dartmouth belligerents waiting for them. An old farmer, crossing the bridge from Hanover to Northfield, was driving a pair of rather skittish horses that were prancing as they heard the rattling of the boards beneath their feet. It was almost time for the evening assembly, and if the boys were to be prompt they must not be stopped, although such, it was plain, was the intention of the Dartmouth boys who were awaiting them. They asked the farmer if he would give them a ride, and he declined; but they had jumped into the wagon, and, when near the spot where their four enemies had lined across the causeway, one of the cadets leaned forward and, picking up the whip, struck the two horses across their backs. This was all they needed; the Dartmouth boys had barely time to jump aside when the team went tearing by. But it was easier to get the young horses going than to stop them. The rattling of the bridge frightened them more and more, and the people on the streets of Northfield were surprised to see a runaway come roaring into town with an old man and two hatless cadets hauling at the reins without result. It was fortunate that no harm was done, and the horses were stopped halfway up the hill that leads to the University; but the president had seen and recognized the two uniformed figures, and that was one reason why Doc. Dewey was walking about the old elm on this fine spring day. The evening before, one of the cadets had returned from a nocturnal excursion across the river with his coat torn and a story of being badly treated. Revenge was being planned, and the plotters had chosen Dewey as their leader for the coming expedition that was meant to teach the Dartmouth fellows a lesson. This expedition resulted in a lively encounter, in which, though outnumbered, the Norwich boys are said to have been victorious. In the traditions of the school it is known as the Battle of the Torn Coats. In Dewey's last year at Norwich the faculty procured two fine six-pounder howitzers, with limbers, to replace the old iron guns at which the cadets had been exercised. When they arrived, the cadets took down the old guns and brought up the new ones from the railway station. As boys naturally would, they divided into two parties and made a frolic of the occasion. It was tedious work getting the guns out of the car, but as soon as they were out and limbered up the fun began. One of the cadets has told the story very prettily in his diary. "Ainsworth and Munson chose squads to draw them to the parade. I chanced to be in Ainsworth's squad. Ainsworth's squad wanted to lead, but as Munson's squad had the road ahead and we were at the side and in sandy gutters, it was doubtful how we were to do it. They started off with a fine spurt, getting a big lead. Going up the hill where the road was broader we steadily gained until only the length of the trail in the rear; then we gathered and started on a run, passing and keeping the lead, with cheers and great glee. Climbing the hill, we proceeded more slowly, Munson quietly in the rear, on our way round the North Barracks and then through the usual gateway to position. As we entered the village near the southeast corner of the parade, we noticed Munson's squad, apparently under the lead of Dewey, making for a short cut across the grounds, first breaking down the fence for passage. Now our efforts were redoubled, and the boys of the other squad declare that they never saw fellows run as we ran, or expect to see a gun jump as that six-pounder bounded along the main street and around the corner. But we led; round the North Barracks at double quick went gun and gun squad, entered the barrack yard and placed the gun in position before the west front of the South Barracks, giving three cheers for No. 1 to the chagrin of No. 2, just approaching position. It was a great race and pleased the faculty exceedingly." This was only one of many episodes that prevented life at Norwich from being dull for the boys, and sweetened their memories in after time, though not assisting directly in any useful branch of education. CHAPTER V. LIFE AT ANNAPOLIS. When Dr. Dewey had consented to his son's wishes for a naval education, the next step was to secure his appointment to a cadetship at the Academy at Annapolis. Each member of Congress has the privilege of appointing a candidate when there is no cadet from his district in the Academy; and the President has ten appointments at large, besides one for the District of Columbia. The giving of these appointments after a competitive examination was not so common forty years ago as it is now. They were almost invariably bestowed arbitrarily, according to the Congressman's personal relations with those who sought them or his idea of his own political interests. But it was of little use to appoint a boy who could not pass the mental and physical entrance examinations. George Dewey obtained an appointment, but only as alternate. The first place was given to a schoolmate two years older than he,...