Captain Joseph Fry
In the year 1841, a winsome, honest lad who had determined to join the Navy of his country, and who had been thwarted in his purpose by friends at home, made his way alone from Florida to Washington and demanded his right to speak to the President, which was not denied him.
Mr. Tyler was so pleased by the youthful manliness of the little chap, who was only eight years old, that he invited him to dine at the White House on the following day. The young Floridian was the observed of all observers; members of the Cabinet and their wives, members of Congress and officers of the Navy had heard of the little lad’s story, and all united in espousing his patriotic cause.
The President, won by his ardor as well as by his gentlemanly and modest behavior, granted the boy’s request and immediately signed his warrant as a midshipman in the United States Navy.
The subsequent record of Capt. Joseph Fry, the Christian gentleman, the gallant sailor, the humane commander, the chivalrous soldier, is known to readers of American history. Of heroic mould and dignified address, he was
“A combination and a form indeed,
Where every god did seem to set his seal
To give the world assurance of a man.”
When the Civil War came, it found him among the most beloved and honored officers in the service. The trial of his faith was bitter but brief. He could not fight against his home and loved ones, much as he honored the flag which he had so long and faithfully cherished. He was a Southerner, and with many pangs of sincere regret he went with his native State for weal or woe.
His personal bravery during the war was wonderful; he never performed deeds of valor under temporary excitement, but acted with such coolness and daring as to command the admiration of superiors and inferiors alike. He was severely wounded at the battle of White River, and while on sick leave was ordered, at his own request, to command the Confederate blockade runner Eugénie, upon which the writer made a voyage.
On one occasion the Eugénie grounded outside of Fort Fisher while trying to run through the fleet in daylight. The ship was loaded with gunpowder, the Federal fleet was firing upon her, the risk of immediate death and destruction to crew and ship was overwhelming. Fry was ordered by Colonel Lamb to abandon the vessel and save his crew from death by explosion. He accordingly told all who wished to go to do so, but as for himself, he would stand by the ship and try to save the powder, which was greatly needed by the Confederate Government. Several boatloads of his men retreated to the fort; a few remained with Fry, the enemy’s shells flying thick and fast around them. In the face of this great danger, Fry lightened his ship, and upon the swelling tide brought vessel and cargo safely in.
Later on he commanded the steamer Agnes E. Fry, named in honor of his devoted wife. In this ship he made three successful voyages, after which she was unfortunately run ashore by her pilot and lies not far distant from the Virginius. Captain Fry was then placed in active service during the remainder of the war in command of the Confederate gunboat Morgan and was highly complimented by his general, Dabney H. Maury, for conspicuous bravery in action.
After the war his fortunes underwent many changes. Several undertakings met with varying success or failure. At last, he went to New York in July, 1873, where he hoped to secure employment in command of an ocean steamer. There he was introduced to General Quesada, agent of the Cuban Republic, who offered him the command of the steamer Virginius, then lying in the harbor of Kingston, Jamaica. He accepted the offer, and received a month’s pay in advance, $150, two-thirds of which he sent to his needy family, and reserved the remainder for his personal outfit. The Virginius, originally named Virgin, was built in Scotland in 1864 and was specially designed for a blockade runner in the Confederate service. She made several successful trips between Havana and Mobile. Being shut up in the latter port, she was used by the Confederates as a dispatch and transport steamer. For a time after the war she was used by the Federal Government in the United States Revenue Service, but proving unsatisfactory, owing to her great consumption of coal, was sold at public auction by the United States Treasury Department to an American firm. The owners in 1870 took out American papers in legal form and cleared her for Venezuela. From that time she was used in carrying volunteers and supplies to Cuba; and while engaged in this business under the American flag, recognized by American consuls as an American vessel, she was overhauled at sea on the 31st of October, 1873, by the Spanish man-of-war Tornado and declared a prize to the Spanish Government. Fry never dreamed of greater danger; he occupied the same position he had assumed while running the Federal blockade and the same as in the recent cases of the Commodore and the Bermuda. He was a merchantman, carried no guns, made no armed resistance, and flew the American flag. Notwithstanding all this, a drumhead court martial was held on board the Tornado and on the second day afterwards the unfortunate victims were condemned as pirates and sentenced to immediate execution at Santiago de Cuba, where the Spanish warship had arrived. Even then Captain Fry and his crew, who were nearly all Americans, expected a release through the intervention of the United States authorities. Vain hope! The American consul was absent; the vice-consul did what he could in vain; the Home Government was silent; the British consul protested, but without avail, and the butchery of these brave men began. We read from the newspaper accounts of the dreadful scene as the victims were ranged facing a wall. Captain Fry asked for a glass of water, which was given him by the friendly hand of one of his own race. He then walked with firm, unfaltering steps to the place assigned him, and calmly awaited the volley which ended his noble life.
A touching incident occurred on the march to execution. When the brave man passed the American Consulate, he gravely saluted the bare pole which should have borne the flag, once and again so dear to his heart, but which had failed him in his extremity.
Although the firing party was only ten feet away, says the published account, Fry was the only one killed outright. Then ensued a horrible scene. “The Spanish butchers advanced to where the wounded men lay, writhing and moaning in agony, and placing the muzzles of their guns in the mouths of their victims, shattered their heads into fragments. Others were stabbed to death with knives and swords.”
Fifty-three victims had suffered death, ninety-three more were made ready for execution; the bloody work was to be resumed, when an unlooked-for intervention came. The news had reached Jamaica, and it found in the harbor the British man-of-war Niobe under command of Capt. Sir Lambton Lorraine, who, true to his Anglo-Saxon instincts, needed no orders to speed to the rescue. Leaving in such haste that many of his men were left behind, he steamed with forced draft to Santiago. Before the anchor reached the bottom of the harbor the Niobe’s drums had beat to quarters and the well-trained gunners were at their stations.
Commander Lorraine ignored the customary formalities; precious lives were trembling in the balance; moments were vital. Before the Spanish general was made aware of his arrival, Lorraine stood before him and demanded that the execution be stayed. To Burriel’s unsatisfactory response the brave commander returned answer that in the absence of an American man-of-war he would protect the interest of the Americans. Still the Spaniard hesitated; he had tasted human blood, but his thirst was not satisfied. Again the gallant Britisher demanded an unequivocal answer, and, report says, confirmed it by a threat that he would bombard the town, as he had in Honduras for the protection of the Anglo-Saxon. His prompt, decisive action arrested the bloody work, and eventually saved the lives of the remainder of the crew of the Virginius.
On his return to England some months later, Sir Lambton was detained some days in New York. The city authorities, animated by his gallant conduct, tendered him a public reception, which was modestly declined. Virginia City, Nev., desiring to testify its appreciation of his noble humanity, forwarded to him a fourteen-pound brick of solid silver, upon which was inscribed his name and the incident, with the legend “Blood is thicker than water,” signifying also in Western eulogy “You’re a brick.”
A tardy recognition of the rights of American possession was made later by the Spanish Government, and the Virginius was delivered to an American man-of-war. While towing the unfortunate craft off Cape Fear and bound for a Northern port, the Virginius sprang a leak, or, some say, was scuttled, and found her grave in the ocean depths beneath us.