THESE are the traditions, which I sort out, as I believe them, from the myths which have been told
about this man for forty years. The lies that have been told about him are legion. The fellows used
to say he was the "Iron Mask"; and poor George Pons went to his grave in the belief that this was
the author of "Junius," who was being punished for his celebrated libel on Thomas Jefferson. Pons
was not very strong in the historical line. A happier story than either of these I have told is of
the War. That came along soon after. I have heard this affair told in three or four ways,—and,
indeed, it may
 have happened more than once. But which ship it was on I cannot tell. However, in one, at least, of
the great frigate-duels with the English, in which the navy was really baptized, it happened that a
round-shot from the enemy entered one of our ports square, and took right down the officer of the
gun himself, and almost every man of the gun's crew. Now you may say what you choose about courage,
but that is not a nice thing to see. But, as the men who were not killed picked themselves up, and
as they and the surgeon's people were carrying off the bodies, there appeared Nolan, in his
shirt-sleeves, with the
 rammer in his hand, and, just as if he had been the officer, told them off with authority,—who
should go to the cockpit with the wounded men, who should stay with him,—perfectly cheery, and
with that way which makes men feel sure all is right and is going to be right. And he finished
loading the gun with his own hands, aimed it, and bade the men fire. And there he stayed, captain of
that gun, keeping those fellows in spirits, till the enemy struck,—sitting on the carriage
while the gun was cooling, though he was exposed all the time,—showing them easier ways to
handle heavy shot,—making the raw hands laugh at
 their own blunders,—and when the gun cooled again, getting it loaded and fired twice as often
as any other gun on the ship. The captain walked forward by way of encouraging the men, and Nolan
touched his hat and said,—
THERE APPEARED NOLAN IN HIS SHIRT-SLEEVES, WITH THE RAMMER
IN HIS HAND, AND JUST AS IF HE HAD BEEN THE OFFICER, TOLD THEM OFF WITH AUTHORITY.
"I am showing them how we do this in the artillery, sir."
And this is the part of the story where all the legends agree; and the Commodore said,—
"I see you do, and I thank you, sir; and I shall never forget this day, sir, and you never shall, sir."
And after the whole thing was over, and he had the Englishman's sword, in the midst of the state and
 ceremony of the quarter-deck, he said,—
"Where is Mr. Nolan? Ask Mr. Nolan to come here."
And when Nolan came, the captain said,—
"Mr. Nolan, we are all very grateful to you to-day; you are one of us to-day; you will be named in
And then the old man took off his own sword of ceremony, and gave it to Nolan, and made him put it
on. The man told me this who saw it. Nolan cried like a baby, and well he might. He had not worn a
sword since that infernal day at Fort Adams. But always
afterwards on occasions of ceremony, he wore that quaint old French sword of the Commodore's.
The captain did mention him in the despatches. It was always said he asked 60
But nothing ever came of it. As I said, that was about the time when they began to ignore the whole
transaction at Washington, and when Nolan's imprisonment began to carry itself on because there was
nobody to stop it without any new orders from home.
AND THE OLD MAN TOOK OFF HIS OWN SWORD OF CEREMONY, AND GAVE IT TO NOLAN
AND MADE HIM PUT IT ON.
I have heard it said that he was with Porter when he took
posses-  sion of the Nukahiwa Islands. Not this Porter, you know, but old Porter, his father, Essex
Porter,—that is, the old Essex Porter, not this Essex. As an artillery officer, who had seen
service in the West, Nolan knew more about fortifications, embrasures, ravelins, stockades, and all
that, than any of them did; and he worked with a right good-will in fixing that battery all right. I
have always thought it was a pity Porter did not leave him in command there with Gamble. That would
have settled all the question about his punishment. We should have kept the islands, and at this
moment we should have one
sta-  tion in the Pacific Ocean. Our French friends, too, when they wanted this little watering-place,
would have found it was preoccupied. But Madison and the Virginians, of course, flung all that away.
All that was nearly fifty years ago. If Nolan was thirty then, he must have been
near eighty when he died. He looked sixty when he was forty. But he never seemed to me to change a
hair afterwards. As I imagine his life, from what I have seen and heard of it, he must have been in
every sea, and yet almost never on land. He must have known, in a formal way, more
offi-  cers in our service than any man living knows. He told me once, with a grave smile, that no man in
the world lived so methodical a life as he. "You know the boys say I am the Iron Mask, and you know
how busy he was." He said it did not do for any one to try to read all the time, more than to do
anything else all the time; but that he read just five hours a day. "Then," he said, "I keep up my
note-books, writing in them at such and such hours from what I have been reading; and I include in
these my scrap-books." These were very curious indeed. He had six or eight, of different subjects.
 was one of History, one of Natural Science, one which he called "Odds and Ends." But they were not
merely books of extracts from newspapers. They had bits of plants and ribbons, shells tied on, and
carved scraps of bone and wood, which he had taught the men to cut for him, and they were
beautifully illustrated. He drew admirably. He had some of the funniest drawings there, and some of
the most pathetic, that I have ever seen in my life. I wonder who will have Nolan's scrap-books.
Well, he said his reading and his notes were his profession, and that they took five hours and two
 respectively of each day. "Then," said he, "every man should have a diversion as well as a
profession. My Natural History is my diversion." That took two hours a day more. The men used to
bring him birds and fish, but on a long cruise he had to satisfy himself with centipedes and
cockroaches and such small game. He was the only naturalist I ever met who knew anything about the
habits of the house-fly and the mosquito. All those people can tell you whether they are
Lepidoptera or Steptopotera; but as for telling how you can get rid of them, or how they
get away from you when you strike them,—
 why Linnĉus knew as little of that as John Foy the idiot did. These nine hours made Nolan's regular
daily "occupation." The rest of the time he talked or walked. Till he grew very old, he went aloft a
great deal. He always kept up his exercise; and I never heard that he was ill. If any other man was
ill, he was the kindest nurse in the world; and he knew more than half the surgeons do. Then if
anybody was sick or died, or if the captain wanted him to, on any other occasion, he was always
ready to read prayers. I have said that he read beautifully.
My own acquaintance with
 Philip Nolan began six or eight years after the War, on my first voyage after I was appointed a
midshipman. It was in the first days after our Slave-Trade treaty, while the Reigning House, which
was still the House of Virginia, had still a sort of sentimentalism about the suppression of the
horrors of the Middle Passage, and something was sometimes done that way. We were in the South
Atlantic on that business. From the time I joined, I believe I thought Nolan was a sort of lay
chaplain,—a chaplain with a blue coat. I never asked about him. Everything in the ship was
 to me. I knew it was green to ask questions, and I suppose I thought there was a "Plain-Buttons" on
every ship. We had him to dine in our mess once a week, and the caution was given that on that day
nothing was to be said about home. But if they had told us not to say anything about the planet Mars
or the Book of Deuteronomy, I should not have asked why; there were a great many things which seemed
to me to have as little reason. I first came to understand anything about "the man without a
country" one day when we overhauled a dirty little schooner which had slaves on board. An officer
was sent to take
 charge of her, and, after a few minutes, he sent back his boat to ask that some one might be sent
him who could speak Portuguese. We were all looking over the rail when the message came, and we all
wished we could interpret, when the captain asked Who spoke Portuguese. But none of the officers
did; and just as the captain was sending forward to ask if any of the people could, Nolan stepped
out and said he should be glad to interpret, if the captain wished, as he understood the language.
The captain thanked him, fitted out another boat with him, and in this boat it was my luck to go.
 When we got there, it was such a scene as you seldom see, and never want to. Nastiness beyond
account, and chaos run loose in the midst of the nastiness. There were not a great many of the
negroes; but by way of making what there were understand that they were free, Vaughan had had their
hand-cuffs and ankle-cuffs knocked off, and, for convenience' sake, was putting them upon the
rascals of the schooner's crew. The negroes were, most of them, out of the hold, and swarming all
round the dirty deck, with a central throng surrounding Vaughan and addressing him in every dialect,
and patois of
 a dialect, from the Zulu click up to the Parisian of Beledeljereed.
As we came on deck, Vaughan looked down from a hogshead, on which he had mounted in desperation, and
"For God's love, is there anybody who can make these wretches understand something? The men gave
them rum, and that did not quiet them. I knocked that big fellow down twice, and that did not soothe
him. And then I talked Choctaw to all of them together; and I'll be hanged if they understood that
as well as they understood the English."
Nolan said he could speak
Por-  tuguese, and one or two fine-looking Kroomen were dragged out, who, as it had been found already,
had worked for the Portuguese on the coast at Fernando Po.
"Tell them they are free," said Vaughan; "and tell them that these rascals are to be hanged as soon
as we can get rope enough."
Nolan "put that into Spanish,"—that is, he explained it in such Portuguese as the Kroomen
could understand, and they in turn to such of the negroes as could understand them. Then there was
such a yell of delight, clinching of fists, leaping and dancing, kissing of Nolan's feet, and a
 made to the hogshead by way of spontaneous worship of Vaughan, as the deus ex machina of the
"Tell them," said Vaughan, well pleased, "that I will take them all to Cape Palmas."
This did not answer so well. Cape Palmas was practically as far from the homes of most of them as
New Orleans or Rio Janeiro was; that is, they would be eternally separated from home there. And
their interpreters, as we could understand, instantly said, "Ah, non Palmas" and began to
propose infinite other expedients in most voluble language. Vaughan was
 rather disappointed at this result of his liberality, and asked Nolan eagerly what they said. The
drops stood on poor Nolan's white forehead, as he hushed the men down, and said:—
"He says, 'Not Palmas.' He says, 'Take us home, take us to our own country, take us to our own
house, take us to our own pickaninnies and our own women.' He says he has an old father and mother
who will die if they do not see him. And this one says he left his people all sick, and paddled down
to Fernando to beg the white doctor to come and help them, and that these devils caught him in the
 in sight of home, and that he has never seen anybody from home since then. And this one says,"
choked out Nolan, "that he has not heard a word from his home in six months, while he has been
locked up in an infernal barracoon."
"AND THIS ONE SAYS," CHOKED OUT NOLAN, "THAT HE HAS
NOT HEARD A WORD FROM HIS HOME IN SIX MONTHS."
Vaughan always said he grew gray himself while Nolan struggled through this interpretation. I, who
did not understand anything of the passion involved in it, saw that the very elements were melting
with fervent heat, and that something was to pay somewhere. Even the negroes themselves stopped
howling, as they saw Nolan's agony, and Vaughan's
 almost equal agony of sympathy. As quick as he could get words, he said:—
"Tell them yes, yes, yes; tell them they shall go to the Mountains of the Moon, if they will. If I
sail the schooner through the Great White Desert, they shall go home!"
And after some fashion Nolan said so. And then they all fell to kissing him again, and wanted to rub
his nose with theirs.
But he could not stand it long; and getting Vaughan to say he might go back, he beckoned me down
into our boat. As we lay
 back in the stern-sheets and the men gave way, he said to me: "Youngster, let that show you what it
is to be without a family, without a home, and without a country. And if you are ever tempted to say
a word or to do a thing that shall put a bar between you and your family, your home, and your
country, pray God in his mercy to take you that instant home to his own heaven. Stick by your
family, boy; forget you have a self, while you do everything for them. Think of your home, boy;
write and send, and talk about it. Let it be nearer and nearer to your thought, the farther you have
 travel from it; and rush back to it, when you are free, as that poor black slave is doing now. And
for your country, boy," and the words rattled in his throat, "and for that flag," and he pointed to
the ship, "never dream a dream but of serving her as she bids you, though the service carry you
through a thousand hells. No matter what happens to you, no matter who flatters you or who abuses
you, never look at another flag, never let a night pass but you pray God to bless that flag.
Remember, boy, that behind all these men you have to do with, behind officers, and government, and
people even, there is the
Coun-  try Herself, your Country, and that you belong to Her as you belong to your own mother. Stand by
Her, boy, as you would stand by your mother, if those devils there had got hold of her to-day!"
I was frightened to death by his calm, hard passion, but I blundered out, that I would, by all that
was holy, and that I had never thought of doing anything else. He hardly seemed to hear me; but he
did, almost in a whisper, say: "O, if anybody had said so to me when I was of your age!"
I think it was this half-confidence of his, which I never abused, for I never told this story till
 which afterward made us great friends. He was very kind to me. Often he sat up, or even got up, at
night, to walk the deck with me, when it was my watch. He explained to me a great deal of my
mathematics, and I owe to him my taste for mathematics. He lent me books, and helped me about my
reading. He never alluded so directly to his story again; but from one and another officer I have
learned, in thirty years, what I am telling. When we parted from him in St. Thomas harbor, at the
end of our cruise, I was more sorry than I can tell. I was very glad to meet him again in 1830; and
 life, when I thought I had some influence in Washington, I moved heaven and earth to have him
discharged. But it was like getting a ghost out of prison. They pretended there was no such man, and
never was such a man. They will say so at the Department now! Perhaps they do not know. It will not
be the first thing in the service of which the Department appears to know nothing!
There is a story that Nolan met Burr once on one of our vessels, when a party of Americans came on
board in the Mediterranean. But this I believe to be a lie; or, rather, it is a myth, ben
 involving a tremendous blowing-up with which he sunk Burr,—asking him how he liked to be
"without a country." But it is clear from Burr's life, that nothing of the sort could have happened;
and I mention this only as an illustration of the stories which get a-going where there is the least
mystery at bottom.
So poor Philip Nolan had his wish fulfilled. I know but one fate more dreadful; it is the fate
reserved for those men who shall have one day to exile themselves from their country because they
have attempted her ruin, and shall have at the same time to see the
 prosperity and honor to which she rises when she has rid herself of them and their iniquities. The
wish of poor Nolan, as we all learned to call him, not because his punishment was too great, but
because his repentance was so clear, was precisely the wish of every Bragg and Beauregard who broke
a soldier's oath two years ago, and of every Maury and Barron who broke a sailor's. I do not know
how often they have repented. I do know that they have done all that in them lay that they might
have no country,—that all the honors, associations, memories, and hopes which belong to
 be broken up into little shreds and distributed to the winds. I know, too, that their punishment, as
they vegetate through what is left of life to them in wretched Boulognes and Leicester Squares,
where they are destined to upbraid each other till they die, will have all the agony of Nolan's,
with the added pang that every one who sees them will see them to despise and to execrate them. They
will have their wish, like him.
For him, poor fellow, he repented of his folly, and then, like a man, submitted to the fate he had
asked for. He never intentionally added to the difficulty or delicacy of the
 charge of those who had him in hold. Accidents would happen; but they never happened from his fault.
Lieutenant Truxton told me, that, when Texas was annexed, there was a careful discussion among the
officers, whether they should get hold of Nolan's handsome set of maps, and cut Texas out of
it,—from the map of the world and the map of Mexico. The United States had been cut out when
the atlas was bought for him. But it was voted, rightly enough, that to do this would be virtually
to reveal to him what had happened, or, as Harry Cole said, to make him think Old Burr had
suc-  ceeded. So it was from no fault of Nolan's that a great botch happened at my own table, when, for a
short time, I was in command of the George Washington corvette, on the South American station. We
were lying in the La Plata, and some of the officers, who had been on shore, and had just joined
again, were entertaining us with accounts of their misadventures in riding the half-wild horses of
Buenos Ayres. Nolan was at table, and was in an unusually bright and talkative mood. Some story of a
tumble reminded him of an adventure of his own, when he was catching wild horses in Texas with his
 adventurous cousin, at a time when he must have been quite a boy. He told the story with a good deal
of spirit,—so much so, that the silence which often follows a good story hung over the table
for an instant, to be broken by Nolan himself. For he asked perfectly unconsciously:—
"Pray, what has become of Texas? After the Mexicans got their independence, I thought that province
of Texas would come forward very fast. It is really one of the finest regions on earth; it is the
Italy of this continent. But I have not seen or heard a word of Texas for near twenty years."
 There were two Texan officers at the table. The reason he had never heard of Texas was that Texas
and her affairs had been painfully cut out of his newspapers since Austin began his settlements; so
that, while he read of Honduras and Tamaulipas, and, till quite lately, of California,—this
virgin province, in which his brother had travelled so far, and, I believe, had died, had ceased to
be to him. Waters and Williams, the two Texas men, looked grimly at each other, and tried not to
laugh. Edward Morris had his attention attracted by the third link in the chain of the captain's
 Watrous was seized with a convulsion of sneezing. Nolan himself saw that something was to pay, he
did not know what. And I, as master of the feast, had to say,—
"Texas is out of the map, Mr. Nolan. Have you seen Captain Back's curious account of Sir Thomas
After that cruise I never saw Nolan again. I wrote to him at least twice a year, for in that voyage
we became even confidentially intimate; but he never wrote to me. The other men tell me that in
those fifteen years he aged very fast, as well he might indeed, but that he was still the
uncom-  plaining, silent sufferer that he ever was, bearing as best he could his self-appointed
punishment,—rather less social, perhaps, with new men whom he did not know, but more anxious,
apparently, than ever to serve and befriend and teach the boys, some of whom fairly seemed to
worship him. And now it seems the dear old fellow is dead. He has found a home at last, and a