The group of men who commanded the American vessels was a most remarkable one, and their fighting qualities were worthy in every way of John Paul Jones.  First blood was drawn by David Porter, illustrious scion of a family which gave five generations to brilliant service in the navy.  On August 13, 1812, Porter, with the Essex, engaged in a sharp battle with the British ship Alert, which, after an action of eight minutes, surrendered in a sinking condition.  He had seen hard service before that, had been twice impressed by British vessels and twice escaped, had fought French and pirates, and spent some time in a prison in Tripoli.

After his capture of the Alert, he went on a cruise in the Pacific, destroying the English whale fisheries there, capturing booty valued at two and a half million dollars, and taking four hundred prisoners.  So great was the damage he inflicted, that a British squadron was fitted out and sent to the Pacific to capture him, found him in a partially disabled condition in the harbor of Valparaiso, and, disregarding the neutrality of the port, sailed in and attacked him.  The engagement lasted two hours and a half, the Essex finally surrendering when reduced to a helpless wreck.  On the Essex at the time was a midshipman aged twelve years, who got his first taste of fighting there, and whose name was destined to become, after that of Paul Jones, the most famous in American naval history—­David Glasgow Farragut.

Less than a week after Porter’s victory over the Alert, another and much more important one was won by Captain Isaac Hull in the frigate Constitution—­“Old Ironsides”—­the most famous ship-of-war the navy has ever possessed.  Isaac Hull was a nephew of General William Hull, who, on August 16, 1812, surrendered Detroit and his entire army to the British without striking a blow.  Three days later, Isaac Hull, having sailed from Boston without orders, in his anxiety to meet the enemy and for fear the command of the Constitution would be given to some one else—­a breach of discipline for which he would probably have been court-martialled and shot, had the cruise ended disastrously—­fell in with the powerful British frigate Guerriere.  Inscribed across the Guerriere’s mainsail in huge red letters were the words: 

    All who meet me have a care,
    I am England’s Guerriere.

She was a powerful vessel, but neither the vessel nor the menace frightened Hull, and he sailed straight for her, holding his fire until he was within fifty yards, when he let fly a broadside and then another, which sent two of her masts by the board, and the third soon followed, leaving her unmanageable.  Within a very few minutes, under Hull’s raking fire, she was reduced to a “perfect wreck”—­so perfect, in fact, that she had to be blown up and sunk, as there was no chance of getting her back to port.  The Constitution was practically uninjured, and Hull sailed back to Boston, with his ship crowded with British prisoners.  He was welcomed with the wildest enthusiasm, banquets were given in his honor, swords voted him by state legislatures, New York ordered a portrait painted of him, and Congress gave him a gold medal.  The War Department discreetly permitted his disobedience of orders to drop out of sight.