Pike & Cutlass: Hero Tales of Our Navy

Meanwhile the engineer division of the first class is off on a cruise to visit the various navy-yards and docks of the Atlantic coast. Their course of instruction differs from that of the cadets on the “Monongahela,” and they are shown the practical side of engineering work on sea-going ships. Away down below the water-line of their vessel, in the stoke-hole, engine-room, or boiler-room, covered with grease or coal-dust, they do all the work of oilers, engineers, stokers, and mechanics, so as to be able to know accurately all the duties of those men, and to be able to command them in the years to come.

In October the study-term begins, and the cadets are then given their quarters for winter. Most of them are in the building known as the New Quarters, while the others, cadet officers of the first class, are placed in the Old Quarters. The subtle distinction in the titles of these two sets of buildings is hardly appreciated at the Naval Academy, since they have both been built for thirty or forty years, and are in a frightful state of dilapidation. Two cadets of the same class are quartered in each room, and the discipline of household, as well as of person, begins immediately. Each room is plainly furnished, and contains two beds, two wardrobes, two looking-glasses, two iron wash-stands, a common table, and a broom. The charge of the room is taken by each cadet every other week, and this cadet is responsible for its general order and cleanliness. If the officer in charge should happen to inspect the quarters in his absence, and find anything contrary to regulations, the cadet in charge is the one who is reported at the next morning’s formation, although his room-mate may have been the delinquent.

Throughout the year the reveille sounds at six o’clock. At a quarter to seven is morning formation, roll-call, and inspection. The ranks are opened, and the keen-eyed officer in charge, followed by the cadet officer-of-the-day and his ominous scratch-pad, with keen eyes looks for grease spots, specks of dust on blouses, tumbled hair, or unblackened boots. After breakfast the sick-call is sounded, and cadets who are ill, or who think they are, report to the hospital. At eight o’clock the study begins, and lasts until half-past twelve. The cadets of each class are divided into sections of from six to a dozen each, and at the bugle-call are formed by sections and marched to their recitation-rooms for study. The morning is divided into two parts, and each part is divided into two periods, one for study and one for recitation.

Briefly, the course of instruction is as follows: Fourth class, first year: algebra, geometry, English, history of Greece and Rome, French, naval history of the United States, Spanish. Third class, second year: descriptive geometry, trigonometry, the Constitution of the United States, analytical geometry, mechanical drawing, physics, and chemistry. Second class, third year: seamanship, principles of mechanism, differential calculus, integral calculus, physics, chemistry, mechanical drawing, and navigation. First class, line division: seamanship and naval tactics, ordnance and gunnery, theory and practice of navigation, hydrographic surveying, least squares, applied mechanics, naval construction, ballistics, armor, and torpedoes. The engineer division has marine engines, boilers, machinery designing, mechanics, and naval construction.

The first part of the course, it will be seen, deals with the simpler branches of study. The plan is not to burden the mind of the cadet with unnecessary knowledge, yet every branch which will directly, or even indirectly, contribute to his ultimate efficiency has its place in the curriculum. The end – the making of a thoroughly trained seaman – is kept constantly in view. The simpler studies train the mind of the cadet to the technical work which follows in the third and fourth years, and in those two years he gets his principal technical and practical training. Each one of the departments in which he studies has a head, usually a naval officer above the rank of lieutenant-commander. All of these heads of departments, with the superintendent and commandant of cadets, who is also head of the Department of Discipline, form the Academic Board. The afternoon classes begin at two and last till four, after which comes the afternoon drill, which lasts until 5.30 and completes the daily duties.

It does not seem with all this work as though the cadet had very much time to himself, but the cadet is not unhappy. Wednesday and Saturday afternoons are given over as recreation-hours, and football and baseball with neighboring college teams bring crowds of visitors into the Academy. The band plays upon the lawn, and the pathways are filled with fair visitors, who walk with their respective heroes along the shady lanes. Saturday night, too, during the winter, hops are given, sometimes by officers and sometimes by cadets, and a gymnastic entertainment once a year gives the cadets the opportunity to show their prowess in boxing, fencing, and work on the gymnastic paraphernalia.

Towards the end of May the annual exercises begin. The examinations finished, the arrival of the Board of Visitors is announced by the booming of cannons from the sea-wall. The cadets receive them on dress-parade, and the work of showing their progress during the year is at once begun. The Board of Visitors go out on one of the government tugs into Chesapeake Bay, and there they see the upper-class men tack, wear-ship, box, haul, and perform all the evolutions in a seamanlike manner on the old “Monongahela.” Light yards are swung across with the precision of old men-of-war’s-men; sails are reefed, furled, or set in an incomparably short space of time; and the cadets are down from aloft for their target practice. The target is towed out by a launch, anchored, and gun by gun, battery by battery, division by division, or by broadside, the cadets hammer away at it as though it were the vessel of a hostile power, more often than not blowing it entirely to pieces.

Back again at the yard, they go through with their drill as infantry or artillery; and last, but not least, comes the drill by companies for the honor of bearing the Naval Academy flag during the coming year. The judges in this competition are usually army officers, and every movement is carefully watched and marked. The captain of each company, before going to this drill, selects its sponsor, – a very pretty girl, who, the drill over, presents the flag to the victorious company amid loud cheers from the whole battalion.

The exercises are over. The cadet of the first class is now ready to be graduated. Companies are formed up in hollow square, and the secretary of the navy in the centre, with a pleasant word to each, presents the diplomas to the graduates amid cheers from the companies. As quickly as he can the first-class man goes to his quarters and shifts into his new uniform, and comes back to the campus for the congratulations of his friends. That night the June ball takes place, and the graduate bids farewell to his old associations and goes out into the world.

Few articles that have been written about the Naval Academy have given anything of the personal side of the life of the cadet, – the side of his life that is an escape-valve from books and drills. There was a time, years ago, when smoking was permitted by the superintendent, and this is how the privilege was granted: One night, in January, 1879, an alarm of fire was sounded just before ten o’clock. The cadets, then nearly ready for turning in, appeared in all sorts of costumes, but reported promptly in the hall. When the battalion was assembled at fire-quarters, word passed that there was a fire in the city and they were expected to aid.

With a cheer the cadets dashed to the engines, and, in spite of the cold and their scanty costumes, rushed out to the State-House circle, where seven or eight buildings were all ablaze.

It was found that the hydrants could not supply enough water, so the cadet officers immediately took charge and ran a line of hose to the river. Four houses were already past help, but attention was immediately directed towards saving the others.

In order to save three buildings it was found necessary to pull one of these burning structures down. A heavy chain was passed through the doors and one of the windows, which was manned by the cadets and townsfolk, and the building was in a short time demolished. In some unaccountable way, after part of the building had been pulled down, the chain was unshackled, and the townsfolk, who were now manning it, shot half-way up the street. So the cadets, in spite of their hard work, could always find time for skylarking. One officer, who was not very much liked, received the full force of the hose, which was in charge of two cadets, directly under the chin. Of course, apologies were in order, but the officer had to go home. At four o’clock in the morning the cadets, wet and tired out, returned to their quarters.

The next day they found that it was generally considered that they had not only saved the buildings but the greater part of the business portion of the town, as the wind had shifted, and the part of the town towards the harbor would have been completely destroyed. At formation the order of the superintendent was read. It said that, “Whereas, the cadets had shown great bravery in the performance of their duty the night before, and had conducted themselves in a creditable manner, the superintendent desired to express his appreciation and grant to them the privilege of using tobacco.” Ten minutes after breakfast there was not a man in the battalion of nearly four hundred who was not puffing away furiously on pipe, cigar, or cigarette, although not an ounce of tobacco had been drawn from the stock of the storekeeper. Whence it came is a mystery.

The privilege was taken away in 1881; and though to-day there is no smoking allowed, and smoking is considered one of the most serious offences, yet it is safe to say that in many a secret nook this contraband is safely hid from the eye of the officer in charge. In the old days, after taps, or lights out, poker-parties were the order of the night. The windows and transoms were covered with blankets, and every ray was hidden from the eye of the zealous officer and watchman. But to-day the discipline is different, and the cadet, to pass the rigorous mental examination, has no time to transgress the written and unwritten law.

There are, of course, many criticisms from various quarters as to the methods of instruction at the Naval Academy, but it is not desirable to make rapid changes, in spite of new conditions, in a course that has proved successful for many years. It is asked that if cadets are to man steamships without sails, what is the use of educating them to officer sailing-vessels? What was the necessity of building the “Bancroft,” if she was not to be used for the practice-cruises of the cadets? Why has it been proposed to build wooden vessels for their instruction? The superintendent of the Naval Academy, Captain Cooper, Secretary Herbert, and Secretary Long have contended that officer-like qualities can best be attained by experience in sailing-vessels. They believe that intrepidity and alertness come from the old school of sailing-ships.

On the other hand, many of the older officers believe that there is too much book-learning at the Academy and too little practical instruction; but most of them are willing to admit that the naval officer of to-day must be a scientific man to properly meet requirements of modern ships, and that he cannot acquit himself properly unless he has a complete theoretical training. It is certain that the cadet graduated now from the Naval Academy is thoroughly trained in his profession. He has never yet been shown deficient in knowledge of any duty which he has been called upon to perform, nor incapable of mastering the intricate parts of modern ships. Considering the age at which he leaves the Academy, he is better educated in his profession than the college graduate, and is also trained in those qualities for command which make the American naval service what it is to-day. He goes forth thoroughly equipped for his life-work.

OUR NATION’S NEW HEROES

The great General Grant, when a cadet, went through his course at West Point with one foot out of the Academy and the other in. So curiously deficient was he in all the arts and sciences which theory insists must go to make the perfect soldier that he was always in the “Immortals.”

“Immortals” is the name of the section at the foot of the class, admission to whose profane cult means small marks and the possible privilege of resigning at the end of the half-year. Immortals is a neat contraction of “Les Immortals,” – that is, lazy mortals. Immortal Grant became, but not in the way the academic reports of the time would have indicated.

This has proved true again and again among the graduates of the Naval Academy, as well as those of West Point. Though the “child is father to the man” in general tendencies and character, it does not follow that mere mental attainments are an indication of great genius in the practical operation of the great military professions. Works of the brain and works of the body and spirit are two things; and though the finely-ordered mind controls to a degree both body and spirit, no such mechanism can ever accomplish great deeds in which heart and spirit are needed, though it may plan the details with a nicety to challenge criticism. A combination of all these qualities is rare, for the bookworm is seldom an enthusiast on any subject which gets very far away from his theories.

DOES SCHOLARSHIP COUNT IN WAR?

The Spanish war has shown that it is not always the men who stand at the heads of their classes who lead in the more practical duties of ship and camp. Admiral Sampson, one of the greatest thinkers and most profound students in the navy, as a boy and as a man always led in everything he undertook; but, on the other hand, Hobson, though one of the leaders of his class at Annapolis, was demure and retiring, hardly the man one would select to lead a forlorn hope into the jaws of death.

One may go through the list man for man, and find as many backward in their studies as those who have carved high niches for themselves in the Academy records.

No proposition could cover the situation in a general way, for, after all, the men we have heard from were perhaps only lucky, – lucky in being chosen as the instruments of the result. There are hundreds – thousands – of officers in the service, some brilliant, some wise, some brave, some strong, as good as they, who have lacked only opportunity. The singling out of any names for special mention seems an injustice to them, – “the heroes of the heart.”

TAYLOR AND EVANS AS SCHOOL-MATES

Forty years ago Harry Taylor and Bob Evans were boys together in Washington. They were school-mates and chums, fighting each other’s battles and longing for the day when they would be old enough to go to the Naval Academy and fight for their country. They were both lively, active lads, Taylor perhaps the quieter of the two.

As their characters developed, Taylor became more of a student than Evans, and that became the distinguishing feature of their entire careers. While Captain Taylor has been the student of books, Captain Evans is known throughout the navy as a student of men and a “man’s man” in the best sense of the term. The friendship of youth continued without break throughout their young manhood and prime. The bond was strengthened when Evans, at the close of the Civil War, married his chum’s sister.

They were both in the famous three-year class which was admitted to the Naval Academy in 1860. They had hardly entered on their careers long enough to get the smell of the brine into their nostrils when the Civil War broke out. Here was the very chance they were longing for. But they ruefully saw two upper classes go out, and they knew that fighting of the larger sort was not yet for them.

For two years they were kept at their books, when finally the welcome news came that they would be graduated in three years instead of four, if they could pass the examinations. In spite of their many disappointments, there was a wild whoop of joy up and down the corridors, and they set about their work in earnest, studying with a concentration which no diversion could dissipate.

Taylor and Evans both left the Academy before having been graduated, and were ordered to duty with the blockading squadrons along the Gulf and Southern coasts. They went to their ships gleefully, bearing the proud titles of “acting ensigns,” but in reality merely midshipmen of three years’ standing, – destined, however, to do the duties and have the responsibilities of men many years their seniors in theoretical and practical service.

HOW CAPTAIN EVANS SAVED HIS LEG

Evans was in both attacks on Fort Fisher, and in the second fight he was shot twice. The wounds were severe, and he was sent into hospital. His leg was shattered badly, and after examining it carefully the doctors told the young sufferer bluntly that they would be obliged to amputate it.

When they went out Evans made a resolution that his leg was not to be cut off. He came to the conclusion that he would rather quit right there than to go through life one-legged. It was his own leg anyhow, and nobody had a better right to decide the question than himself.

By some means he got hold of one of the big navy revolvers, and had it secreted under his pillow when the surgeons, with a blood-curdling array of knives and saws, made their appearance on the scene and began preparations to carry their threat into execution. But when the chief surgeon turned to the bed to examine the wounds he found himself looking into the black barrel of young Evans’s navy revolver.

“Now, see here,” said Evans, as the doctor retired in some alarm; “I want that leg to stay on. I need it. I will get well with that where it is, or not at all, and that’s the end of it. That leg does not come off. Do you understand what I mean?”

The doctor was dismayed. But he understood perfectly, and Evans carried the day. The wounds were dressed and healed rapidly. In several months he was out again. But he limped then, and will as long as he lives.

SIGSBEE AS A PRACTICAL JOKER

Charles D. Sigsbee, writer, artist, hydrographic expert, mathematician, inventor, and incidentally the central figure, composed and dignified, in the greatest marine tragedy of modern times, is the kind of a man most people – men, women, and children, – like to see and know. His brow can be stern, and no one knows that better than the people who have sailed under him; but he loves peace better than war, and the twinkle behind his glasses never quite dies out.

As a midshipman he was always the prime mover in any affair which could contribute to the gayety of existence; was a better judge of people than he was of test-tubes, and a practical joker of ability, which is saying much. The fascination which the ocean holds for all boys of sound mind gained an early sway over young Sigsbee. He received his appointment to the Naval Academy just before the Civil War, in 1859.

He liked the practical work, but could never settle down to the desperate grind of the academic course. He found himself more often making caricatures of “Dom Roget,” the teacher of Spanish (a language he has since mastered), than in poring over the verbs and adverbs in the text-book. They were good caricatures, too, and when the other youngsters in the section saw them there was merriment which poor Dom Roget could not understand. But the professor solved the matter satisfactorily by marking all the delinquents on a low scale of credit, and, to be certain of the right culprit, Sigsbee lowest of all.

The young artist used to make pictures of everything and everybody he saw, and write pieces about them, – sprightly literature which went from one end of the Academy to the other. And so when the end of the year came round he found that, instead of being enrolled on the academic scroll of fame, he was relegated to the lower half of the class, which they called the “wooden” half.

He went back into the next class, – which entered in 1860, – and with the advantage of a year of experience he obtained a position in the new class which he held until graduation time. He never quite got over his propensities for making fun.

He began as a joke, and afterwards kept it up, an anonymous correspondence with a member of his class. Sigsbee disguised his hand, and in the guise of “Lily Gaines,” a very fascinating young woman of susceptible tendencies, wrote to Midshipman Mullan in such endearing terms that for three months that young gentleman was kept in a state of alternate suspense and rapture. At last, in a burst of confidence some one told Mullan of the deception, and the correspondence suddenly ceased.

But in spite of all this Midshipman Sigsbee went out into the world to practise his profession in stirring times, and ever acquitted himself as a valiant officer and accomplished gentleman. As the months rolled into years the naval service could boast of no officer who studied harder or who brought more steadfast qualities into his work.

THE BRAVE COMMANDER OF THE “WINSLOW”

Lieutenant John B. Bernadou was the commander of the “Winslow” in the fight at Cardenas, at which Ensign Worth Bagley, his second in command, was killed. The story of the fight these young officers made, until Bagley was killed, Bernadou was wounded, and the “Hudson” came and towed them out of danger, has been told again and again, and the tale of it will go down into the history of the Spanish-American War as one of the pluckiest of which there is record. Bagley, being the only naval officer killed during the war, was heard of from one end of the country to the other, but little was told of Bernadou, his commander.

Bernadou’s early career showed in several instances the fearlessness of his disposition and the sturdiness of his character. The boy’s first idea was to go to West Point. Failing in this, he secured an appointment to the Naval Academy, where he entered with a fine standing, which he maintained until he was graduated. He was always a brilliant worker, and in gunnery and foreign languages showed a most remarkable aptitude. To-day he speaks eight languages, and is one of the foremost men in the navy as an authority on smokeless powder.

THE MAN WHO NEVER KNEW FEAR

Bernadou’s classmates say that he fears nothing on earth or water. His fearlessness overcomes any consciousness of self.