*For the facts of this article, the writer is indebted to the "Memoirs of Commodore Joshua Barney," edited by his daughter-in-law, Mrs. Mary Chase Barney; "The Pictorial History of the American Navy," by John Frost; Cooper's Naval History; Maclay's Naval History and "History of American Privateers"; and an interesting sketch of Barney by Mr. M. T. Weller in the Records of the Columbia Historical Society (Vol. XIV).
"Barney? Name sounds familiar. Why there's a tinclad named after him!"
"What'd he do?"
"He—ah—Excuse me! I've got to shove this boat off."
We all admit that Joshua Barney was a "naval hero." But how many know those brilliant, romantic details of his life that would make a best-seller or a moving picture thriller? The story may mean much to Young Turks, for Barney's great military character was made largely by "rubs of the green" in subordinate billets.
Like Paul Jones he lived a war too soon, and like Cushing he was too young: but few ensigns or fleet commanders ever lived more deeply.
His father, a gentleman farmer, was blessed with a large family in which Joshua came fifth. Born in old Baltimore Town in 1759—a stirring year in Colonial history—he left school at ten, spent a year in the counting house and at eleven, at his own strong wish, went to sea. Hoping to cure him of sea-fever, his parents insisted on his spending a year on a pilot boat; but at the end of the year he was keener than ever, so that his father, yielding wisely, apprenticed him to a son-in-law, Captain Drysdale, master of a small brig.
Barney's first long voyage was to Liverpool. Returning, his joy was suddenly checked. He found his family plunged in woe—since, a few days before, a younger brother had accidentally shot his father dead. Some days later (Barney's stays at home were brief) Drysdale summoned him for another trip—on the Sidney, of 300 tons. After several voyages he was such a good seaman that, though still an apprentice, he was made second mate of the vessel—a convenient arrangement for the skipper, who pocketed the extra pay. In December, 1774, Barney, just turned fifteen, sailed for Nice. The Sidney was deeply laden with wheat.
And here the Romance begins. Just outside the Capes of the Chesapeake the ship sprung a leak and was forced back to Norfolk. There the first mate quarreled with old Drysdale—who never said "if you please"—and left the ship. They put to sea; the leak got bad again; and the captain, taking sick, died within a week. Barney, boy of fifteen, found himself responsible for a deep-sea-going ship a crew of "grown people," a valuable cargo, to put across the ocean—and the leak. His first act was to man the pumps; but the leak grew worse, and a great gale of wind on the other side laid the wide seams open. In desperation they just managed to make Gibraltar.
The port officials stared. "By gad, sir! What have we here? Does this shaveling call himself captain?" But Barney was a boy of action. Though without funds, he persuaded the firm of Murray and Company to advance the cost of repairs (some $350o), taking as security a "bottomry bond," executed by Barney and payable ten days after arrival at Nice—and got permission to haul the Sidney into the King's Dock. In three months all was tight, and he was off for the Riviera, with young Mr. Murray aboard. When he arrived, the merchant consignees tried to wriggle out of the debt, on the technical plea that Barney was a minor. However the minor's view was different. He insisted on payment and held up delivery of the cargo.
The merchants thought it easy to browbeat a child, and were enterprising. They appealed to the Governor not to let good money leave Nice; and that patriot ordered Barney to hoist out the grain at once. Barney, in his youth and folly, declined. The Governor stormed, and ordered him to leave the presence, which Barney smilingly did. At the foot of the stairs he was arrested by a file of soldiers, and thrown into a filthy prison. A few hours there made him see light. Pretending to yield, he told the Governor that he was ready to whip out wheat. He was at once released, and returned to the Sidney with an official who was to see the majesty of the law upheld.
Barney hoisted his British flag.
"I yield to superior force," he told the officer. "But you see that flag. No use later to say you didn't know what country you were insulting!"
This insurgent then put his crew aboard another British ship; and at once proceeded, in company with Mr. Murray, to cross the mountains and seek out the British ambassador at the court of Naples.
The "appreciation" of the Alps in his journal has become famous. Lack of space does not prevent its insertion here:
"We crossed the famous Alps, so noted for snow and difficult traveling, on mules, we passed through part of Switzerland, and arrived at Milan."
If Barney was not poetical he was at least convincing; for he got Sir William Lynch, the British ambassador, properly furious and busy. The result was a triumphal return to Nice. The Governor, like the Prodigal's father, saw him afar off, met the little party outside the city, escorted them back with high honors, paid all expenses of the trip, saw the bond promptly paid, called officially on Barney, humbly apologized—and asked what else he could do. Barney declined any further reparation.
Doubtless the Governor said in his heart, like the cross Mr. Kipling after his voyage with an American boy:
"And now I want to see the little American girl—but not yet, not yet awhile!"
The young captain was still in the danger zone. His next port was Alicante, Spain, where arriving just at the wrong time, he found a great expedition fitting out to crush the Barbary States and was impressed into transport service. This great attack by an Armada, with 30,000 troops resulted (unlike our little expedition under Preble!) in bickerings and disaster. The Sidney at last sailed for home.
The long, eventful voyage ended, Barney dropped anchor in Baltimore Harbor, and papers in hand, pulled ashore. We know how he felt—how green the grass looked, how pink the faces under old-time bonnets, how fascinating the busy street-life. Child no longer, with bronzed face forcefully lined by responsibilities well borne, he hurried to the dingy counting house, where the Senior Member was doubling over figures.
The old man looked at Barney under his spectacles.
"Who are you, sir?"
"I am Joshua Barney, master of your ship Sidney just arrived."
"Master of my ship—and how dare you, sir, an apprentice boy presume to take command of a ship of mine?"
Barney disdainfully threw his pile of papers on the desk and walked to the window. "Read those," he said. The merchant picked them up with a grunt—read, and read on, with constantly growing amazement. Finally he arose, seized the young seaman's hand with both of his, and exclaimed:
"Captain Barney, you are welcome home, sir! Your conduct meets my cordial approbation, sir, and I am proud to find that I have so deserving a young man in my employ."
This ended Barney's peaceful boyhood. The death of Drysdale had annulled his apprenticeship. Entering the Chesapeake, on his homeward voyage, he had heard of the "embattled farmers." After a few days at home, he offered his services to the Colony—and for the next six years was never far from burning powder.
His adventures would make material for many articles. One can only skim over them, pausing at the more remarkable. Few naval men ever had more downright fighting. A bout to the finish between Barney and Paul Jones would have been the last word in frenzied fighting.
He began war service on the Hornet, 10 guns, fitted out by the Colony of Maryland and commanded by one Stone, of Bermuda, whose name will not ring through the ages. After some unmolested cruising, Stone "smelt the blood of an Englishman." A British tender of inferior force bore down to capture the seeming merchantman; for the guns were in. Barney, running one out, stood match in hand, ready to fire—when Stone appeared and, remarking that "he had no inclination for shedding blood," ordered Joshua not to fire. Barney was so furiously indignant, that, forgetting discipline, he hurled the matchstick at the captain. Stone dodged, and it lodged in the poop-house. Meanwhile the tender found she had flushed big game, and putting about, escaped. Stone kept to his cabin for the rest of the trip, and left in haste on arrival at Philadelphia. He was one of the first Pacificists.
Since Stone had to hurry on without preferring charges, Barney's standing remained excellent; he next served on the sloop Wasp, Captain Alexander, where he saw good fighting. They were instrumental in saving a valuable cargo on the brig Nancy attacked by two British ships, and later by their boats. The boat attack was disastrous for the enemy; Captain Barry, in abandoning the ship, rigged up a fuse to the remaining cargo, powder—and the unlucky invaders went up in smoke!
The result of the glory won on this cruise was Barney's commission as a lieutenant in the Colonial Navy, and orders to the sloop Sachem (m), Captain Robinson. On July 6, 1776, his seventeenth birthday, the young lieutenant sailed on her. The birthday party (a day or two later) was a stiff fight with a British letter of marque, which was duly captured. Captain Robinson and Barney were promoted to the fine new brig Andrea Doria (14), which received, at St. Eustatia, the first salute to the American flag—a salute for which the Dutch governor lost his "head." Following this was a fight with the Racehorse (12), sent to capture the Doria—in which, through some miscalculation, the Racehorse was taken. Some days later they captured a snow 1 of 6 guns, and Barney went aboard as prize-master. A furious Christmas gale set the prize among the breakers of Chincoteague Shoals, where, while seas broke over them, death seemed near. Barney then spoke a few words:
"I am not much of a chaplain, my good lads—but this I know, that the same Power that protected you before can protect you now, and if we are all to go to old Davy Jones' locker, why damn it! we might as well go with a bold face as a sheepish one."
They escaped; but only to be captured (after Barney had quelled a mutiny of British sailors) by the Perseus (20), Captain Elphinstone. This was the first of various captivities.
An incident occurred on the Perseus. Her purser wrought up by the tales of some paroled British prisoners, smashed the face of the first American in reach, who happened to be the prisoner Barney—the wrong man! Barney knocked him over a gun and kicked him down the hatch. At this moment Elphinstone came up. Being an officer and a gentleman, he rebuked the purser severely and apologized to the prisoner. Soon afterwards Barney was paroled, and landing at Charleston, started overland for Philadelphia.
In North Carolina he passed through a hostile district peopled by Scotch Tories. One afternoon, in a country inn, his party was baited by a mob of young rustics whose wit was very insulting. Being hopelessly outnumbered, the patriots did nothing; but in the dead of the night Barney secured some "lightwood knots" and a bottle of rum, and slipped off, with his friends, to a house where four of the village cut-ups were sleeping. With blazing torches and terrible cries they roused the Tories, convinced them that the whole Whig army was on them, stampeded and captured them, lined them up and made them drink, with fear in their hearts "To the Continental Congress!" "Down with King George!"—and to other selected toasts.
We next find Barney in command of a Baltimore tender. One day a trick was played on him. He was decoyed within range of a large American sloop that the British had just captured, and was astonished to find an enemy barge, full of grinning jackies, concealed on the other side. However he turned-to and captured both sloop and barge.
Not long afterwards the Virginia, Captain Nicholson, on which Barney was serving as lieutenant, was injured through grounding, abandoned by her captain and seized by the enemy. Barney wanted to show fight, but was overruled by faint hearts—and found himself again in captivity.
He was sent to New York on the St. Albans, and treated well by her Captain Onslow—even after his plot to capture the ship was foiled through the treachery of a Frenchman. It is important to note the stamp of men like Elphinstone and Onslow—for there were others! At New York he got a taste of the horrible prisonship life (on the Jersey), but was later removed to the flagship of Admiral Byron, who treated him as a highly privileged prisoner. Barney's own reputation for humanity had been excellent. He did not believe in "frightfulness."
After half a year lost, he was exchanged, and in February '79, crossed on a letter of marque, under his old captain, Robinson, to Bordeaux. They fought a hard battle going and another returning—and added two victories to their string. In one case Barney turned the scale by blazing away at the enemy's rigging with a full load plus a crowbar. In October, 1779, he returned to Philadelphia.
So far this romance has lacked a heroine. But during the winter of '79 Barney took a holiday, and found time to win and marry Miss Ann Bedford, daughter of a Philadelphia alderman. Poor little bride with her naval hero!—she did not know what her luck was to be. Half a year later her sailor was at sea, on the Saratoga. En route he was robbed of his little pile of prize money—a serious matter for a man just married, with two years' pay due and unpaid.
But the Saratoga ran down prizes quickly—a fine ship and three brigs in two days. Financial sunshine seemed at hand for the young Barneys. Moreover Joshua was placed on one of the prizes to return to Philadelphia, where his bride was waiting with laurel and kisses.
At night he found five feet of water in the hold; in the morning he was recaptured by the Intrepid (74). The captain's name should hang in letters "as high as Haman"—A. J. Pye Malloy. The tryst with Ann Barney was postponed.
Malloy kept Barney on deck, scantily clothed, without bedding, almost freezing, until, after a stormy winter passage, the ship reached New York. There he fell into the stern hands of Rodney, and was despatched, with seventy other American officers, to be hanged as "rebels" in England.
The captain of the ship, the Yarmouth (74), was one Lutwidge, who afterwards became an admiral, and died, no doubt, prosperous and highly respected. Strange that Elphinstones, Onslows, Malloys, and Lutwidges, can be fruits of the same tree!
Lutwidge had fun with the rebels. He put them down five decks in a hold 12 feet by 20 and 5 feet high, in which it was impossible to stand up. They were 30 feet below the water line with little air and no light. Their food was nauseous and insufficient; the slimy water had to be drained between their teeth. Sanitary provision was wholly lacking. When pestilence resulted, medical attendance was refused, and eleven poor fellows died raving. The survivors concealed each death as long as possible in order to get the dead man's food. When after a voyage of fifty-three days the Yarmouth reached Plymouth Town, the sixty prisoners were hoisted from the hold—they could not walk—and fell in a ludicrous heap on deck—for they could not stand. The glare of sun-light was insufferable. It was deemed well to feed them up a bit before sending them ashore.
Such were the Lutwidges of that 18th Century Rebellion.
As soon as they were able to walk, the prisoners were taken to Mill Prison. The inner prison was surrounded by a high wall; this, in turn, by another.
The story of Barney's escape is one of the most romantic in his career. Somehow he procured a British officer's uniform (perhaps the cruel gaoler had a daughter). Pretending to sprain his ankle playing leap-frog with other prisoners, he hobbled about for several days with his overcoat on "to avoid catching cold." The sight of the overcoat became quite natural. Through a well-disposed sentry who had received kindnesses in America, Barney learned that the best time for the attempt would be the dinner-hour when the gaolers would be eating and his friend on post. He made arrangements accordingly. He donned his British uniform, put the overcoat over it, and limped over towards the gate. "All right ? " he asked in a whisper. The sentry winked and turned his back. While ,Barney's friends engaged the other sentries in conversation, a tall prisoner, who was at hand, gave Barney his back. In a moment he was up and over. He then walked boldly through the second gate, and throwing his overcoat away, strode across the fields like a good Englishman.
But England was no place at this time for a nervous American, or for one with a price on his head. Barney had a start: for he had arranged for a boy prisoner, who could crawl from one lockup to another, to answer Barney's name in one space after answering his own at another. This the boy faithfully did. The fugitive found friends in the city, and with them two other Americans, not prisoners, who were anxious to get home. Through these two a sail boat was secured; and it was settled that Barney, with his two landsmen, should sail away to France.
Having embarked safely, they sailed out, with beating hearts, past the ships of Admiral Digby's squadron and under the guns of the port. Almost before they realized their good luck, the boat was pitching and rolling in the Channel—and the passengers went below. Barney with a slicker over his uniform, sailed the boat for France, freedom, and home.
A sail on the horizon Barney looked anxiously, and gazed again, with clammy fear, as the stranger bore down displaying a British flag. It was a privateer. The boarding officer asked Barney what the meaning was—why he was sailing fast towards the enemy's country. Barney threw back his coat displaying an officer's uniform.
"On the King's business!" he said. "Molest me at your peril."
The officer was taken aback, apologized, and went to report. The shrewd old skipper came aboard. He demanded proof that Barney was on public business. Barney refused to disclose the King's secrets.
"Then, sir, I am sorry—but back you go!"
"As you please," said Barney calmly. "You may have cause to regret your decision. If you persist, I must demand that you put me at once aboard Admiral Digby's flag-ship."
Then he added as if casually, "Those are fine looking bullies in your gig!"
This was not for flattery. As Barney well knew, privateersmen with good-looking crews, did not enjoy visiting the fleet to risk losing them by impressment.
The old seaman scratched his head. Barney held his breath.
"Can't help it "he growled. "I must take you back sir. Please to step aboard."
It is easy to imagine the reaction, the bitter disappointment, the anticipation of returning to Mill Prison for special treatment.
Arriving at an anchorage, the skipper put on his best jacket and boarded Digby's flagship to report, leaving the special envoy, like a trapped animal, to feverishly await the summons to the flagship. He could almost feel the irons on his wrists and ankles.
A small boat was riding astern. Seeing this, as he wandered restlessly about the poop, Barney lost no time in sliding down, and casting off. In a few minutes he was on the beach, politely asking the customs official where "our people" were. He walked rapidly towards the Red Lion, where the liberty party were drinking beer, and out on the highway towards Plymouth, where his friends were. As he walked he glanced anxiously over his shoulder and looked in vain for a good hiding place. He broke into a run. Coming to a hedge he jumped it, and found himself in a large, cool, private garden. He was roughly accosted by the gardener, who wanted to know what business he had in Lord Edgecomb's gardens. Barney made friends with the old man, and gave him a fee. The man showed him down some steps to a butcher's boat, in which, with a few sheep, he made a fine passage to Plymouth, where he reached his friends. He found his late fellow passengers also back. Not being prisoners, they had not been detained.
That night a town-crier came, ringing his bell, and, halting under their windows, proclaimed the escape of the rebel, Joshua Barney. The household were in a panic. But the crier passed on; and the sounds grew fainter and died away.
Barney was next rigged out as a gentleman, and provided with a chaise to escape to Bristol. They reached the cobblestones after dark, and suddenly stopped. A lantern was thrust in, and a bailiff read off a description of the escaped rebel. He then looked critically at Barney.
"Beg pardon, sir!" he exclaimed in best cockney style. "'ad to obey orders. Sorry to annoy your worship. Thankee, sir! Pass on!"
After a few more adventures, Barney took passage in a packet for Ostend.
Romance followed him aboard. The saloon was crowded with tradespeople and other uninteresting folk. Barney's quick eye soon picked up a graceful figure alone and somewhat apart—a lady young, handsome, with an indescribable something of elegance and distinction. Her dress, quietly fine like her features, set her off from the rest of the company. Being-kind-hearted (like most sailors) he offered assistance, and was of real help to the lady during a rough passage across. On the dock at Ostend was a handsome equipage to meet her. She invited Barney to share her carriage across country to Brussels; he required no urging, and made himself so agreeable, that when at last they drew up before a superb mansion in Brussels, the lady invited him in—and presented him to the Emperor, Joseph II of Austria! Barney then took leave of his fair traveling companion—and after five days in Brussels passed on to Amsterdam. There he took passage for the land he had left on the Yarmouth.
Delays were endless in those wind-jamming, rought-riding days. After a long voyage, Barney at last landed in Beverly, Massachusetts, and was snowbound in Boston for several weeks. Declining a flattering command, he finally began the hard overland journey to Philadelphia, to the home he had steered for in triumph eighteen months before.
Imagine his feelings on that last lap of the long journey. During all this time no word from his young wife: for her, no word from him. Was she alive? Was she ill or destitute? Had the war spared her people? Had she cried herself to sleep, night after night, wondering where he was, or if she would ever see him again?
The 21st of March, 1782. The travelers are gay, for the spires of Philadelphia are gleaming in the distance. They grow nearer; the horses break into a gallop; the guard sounds his horn. Rattling in over the rough stones, followed by urchins and barking curs, the stage dashes down Broad Street and brings up, with a flourish, at Ye Colonial Arms. A traveler descends stiffly, pushes past the bustling servants, and walks rapidly away. He comes to a familiar corner; and with eager steps turns into the street where Alderman Bedford used to live. Is the old house there? Yes—it is standing as he left it. Breathing quickly, he grasps the iron balustrade, mounts the stone steps—and rings. An old mammy comes to the door.
"Is Mrs. Barney here?"
He found his young wife—and a little son of whose birth he had never heard.
Meredith describes a similar touching scene, when Richard Feveril, returning before his fatal duel, finds Lucy in her room, not alone as he left her, but sitting by the cradle of his child.
To my mind, the first Mrs. Barney is one of the pathetic children of history. Marrying for love, she spent her youth waiting for her sailor husband. The years that should have been joyous were full of disappointments and of lonely suspense. Even now, five days after this reunion, Barney was offered command of the Hyder All, and promptly accepted. In 18438 Mrs. Barney, "who had been sorely afflicted with rheumatism for years," passed away—ending her short life before his later years of rest, wealth, and peaceful comfort. In 1809 Captain Barney was again married to the charming Miss Coale, of Baltimore.
The Hyder All was a fine command of 100 tons, mounting sixteen 6-pounders. She was commissioned by the state of Pennsylvania to stop the depredations of Britishers in Delaware Bay and River. On her Barney fought one of the most glorious single-ship actions of the American Navy. None of the famous victories of 1812 was more complete. On April 8, 1782, while convoying a fleet of merchantmen down Delaware Bay, he saw waiting in Cap May Roads two British ships and a brig. Signaling to the convoy to return, he hove-to, with the desperate intention of saving the convoy at the expense, if necessary, of his own ship. The brig bore down first; but, giving Barney only a broadside, passed on after the merchantmen. Barney reserved his fire for the first ship, which was fast approaching; and when she came within pistol shot, gave her a heavy broadside. Then by a trick, it is said (roaring reversed orders to the helmsman, who had secret instructions), he caught the Britishers napping, and threw his ship athwart her hawse, so that he could deliver a raking fire. With twenty salvos in twenty-six minutes (a record Sir Percy Scott would be proud of) he smashed the enemy, captured the ship, and rushed a prize crew aboard; for the other ship was looming near. Meanwhile the brig (the Fair American) ran aground to avoid capture. Knowing that the second ship (the frigate Quebec) far out-classed him, Barney followed the prize and, convoy, but kept well in the rear to protect them. The Britisher, finally dropping anchor, signaled to her unlucky consort to "continue the chase!"
Barney now had time to learn (with joy) that his prize was H. B. M. S. General Monk, under the command of Captain Rodgers, R. N.
A comparison of forces and losses is interesting: Hyder 110 men, sixteen 6-pounders, 15 casualties. General Monk, 136 men, twenty 9-pounders, 53 casualties.
The losses reported by. Rodgers were much smaller—but the captor had possession and facilities for a correct count. British writers assert that Rodgers' guns were defective. If so, these defects seem to have passed unnoticed during two years of previous cruising.
Cooper (an ex-naval officer) says, in his Naval History:
"Throughout the whole affair this officer (Barney) discovered the qualities of a great naval captain; failing in no essential of that distinguished character."
The legislature of Pennsylvania gave him a vote of thanks and a fine gold-hilted sword. On a later occasion the city of Washington presented him with a sword, and the legislatures of Georgia and of Kentucky passed eulogistic resolutions.
Though the war was now practically over, there was no rest for Barney. The navy, that "jealous mistress," still sirened him from his wife and family. In command of the only naval vessel left in commission, he made an important trip to the West Indies, and another with despatches to Paris—returning, after a hard 50-day's trip with the first news of peace. Both trips were full of danger and adventure. Then (strange as it may seem) he spent three months at home—before another winter's run, a record-breaking passage of 14 days to Havre, on which he carried that distinguished passenger, John Paul Jones.
In 1784 the Navy "closed out." Barney's ship, the General Washington (nee General Monk), was sold, and our grizzled veteran laid aside his sword. He was not quite twenty-five years of age!
Having received the thanks of a grateful country, he now had to earn a living. After several years of apparent groping, he accepted a civil position in Maryland, and soon afterwards the billet of "Vendue Master" for Baltimore. Though this latter was lucrative, Barney pined between walls: the Call of the Sea was too strong, and in 1790 he was again afloat on commercial ventures.
These merchant cruises were as exciting as any before. The tranquil life was never Barney's. He won heavily, lost heavily, fought, lost his ship, recaptured it, was tried in Jamaica for piracy, was honorably acquitted, was robbed in Bordeaux—and emerged with a tidy little fortune!
We next find him in the service of the French Republic, where he was appointed "Chief of Division" in the French Navy. He had numerous adventures, fought off Britishers—and made a short visit to his family in Baltimore.
In 1798 he resigned his French Commission. Years afterward he received pay for his services (some $60,000), and at about the same time was awarded $45,000 by the Jamaica Admiralty Court for the seizure of a vessel. It is interesting to note that he then established his three sons in business with a capital of $55,000. Barney evidently had, with very different qualities, a good American aptitude for turning honest dollars. Was this the fruit of that wise year in the counting house before he went to sea? He was also a force in politics, and just missed an election to Congress.
In 1812 he was still keen and active, and in less than three weeks after war was proclaimed was in command of a privateer schooner—which had a short but exciting cruise noteworthy for fighting and for prizes. The sale of these and the settlement of accounts occupied him for almost a year. He was then made commodore of a flotilla to command Chesapeake Bay.
This, his last military service, ended very honorably at the Battle of Bladensburg (the "Bladensburg Races,"), when the British captured Washington (in August, 1814). Barney's tars seem to have done the only real fighting on the American side and were highly praised for their efforts. Barney, who had been singularly immune before this, was wounded in the thigh.
The bullet was never extracted. He was sent, as a mark of honor, to carry important despatches to Europe at the close of the war—and returned in a state of collapse. "Old Sir Richard caught at last" was beginning to weaken. In October, 1818, having wound up his affairs in Maryland, he began a long trip to a new home in Kentucky—but was seized on the way by fever accompanied by spasms in his wounded thigh, and "with a bold face," on the first day of winter, he passed to the Great Beyond.
All in all, Barney's life seems to have been a very happy one. Following the Battle of Bladensburg, in which he had rank enough to attract notice, he was a popular idol. To compare his career with that of his brilliant contemporary, Paul Jones, is to muse on luck in life. Both got (and gave) hard knocks a plenty: but with Jones, as many another genius, there was an undercurrent of bad luck. He was always achieving and always just missing the fruits of success. He captured the Serapis and was displaced by the miserable Landais ; won a victory for the Russians and paeans—for a ne'er-do-well prince. Perhaps that he was an alien, essentially alone in the world—perhaps that he commanded fear or admiration rather than affection—he was the constant victim of injustice, now overslaughed in rank by smaller men, now losing a promised command or deprived of credit for a victory. Barney's life, on the other hand, was a crescendo of fame and happiness. In youth, the joys of adventure and fighting, not without young love; in age, wealth, position, honor. He was a commanding figure, a genial presence. Paul Jones' life was a flash, and darkness—ending among strangers, in a strange land. Barney died, loved and tended, among his own people.
NOTE.—Snow; a vessel formerly much in use. It differs slightly from a brig. It has two masts similar to the main and foremasts of a ship, and close abaft the mainmast a trysail mast. Snows differ only from brigs in that the boom mainsail is hooped to the mainmast in the brig, and traverses on the trysail-mast in the snow.—Sailor's Word Book, Smythe, 1867.