Perry at once rowed back to the Lawrence, and upon her splintered and bloodstained deck, received the surrender of the British officers.  Then, using his cap for a desk, he wrote with a pencil on the back of an old letter the famous message announcing the victory:  “We have met the enemy and they are ours—­two ships, two brigs, two schooners and one sloop.”  More than that was ours, for the victory, and the prompt advance of General Harrison which followed it, compelled the British to evacuate Detroit and Michigan, and to abandon forever the attempt to annex the West to Canada.  Half a century later, when the great Erie canal was opened, the guns of Perry’s fleet, placed at ten-mile intervals along its banks, announced the departure of the first fleet of boats from Buffalo, carrying the news to New York City, a distance of 360 miles, in an hour and twenty minutes.

Perry lived only six years longer, dying while still a young man, in the saddest possible manner.  In June, 1819, he was given command of a squadron designed to protect American trade in South American waters, and while ascending the Orinoco, contracted the yellow fever, and died a few days later.  He was buried at Trinidad, but some years afterwards, a ship-of-war brought him home, and he sleeps at Newport, Rhode Island, near the spot where he was born.

So ends the story of that group of naval commanders, who dealt so surprising and terrific a blow at the tradition of English supremacy on the ocean.

* * * * *

The brother of the victor of Lake Erie, Matthew Calbraith Perry, must also be mentioned here, for his was a unique achievement—­the peaceful conquest of a great Eastern empire.  Born in 1794, and educated in the best traditions of the navy, he was selected to command the expedition which, in 1853, was ordered to visit Japan, that strange nation of the Orient which, up to that time, had kept her ports closed to foreign commerce.  Perry’s conduct of this delicate mission was notable in the extreme, and its result was the signing of a treaty between Japan and the United States which has long been regarded as one of the greatest diplomatic triumphs of the age.

* * * * *

In the spring of 1861, a captain of the United States navy was living at Norfolk, Va., his home, the home of his wife’s family, and the home of his closest friends.  Excitement ran high, for it was as yet an open question whether or not the great state of Virginia would join her sisters farther south and renounce her allegiance to the Union.  It was a time of searching of hearts, and this man of sixty years was brought face to face with the bitterest moment of his life.  He must choose between his country and his state; between his flag and the love and respect of his relatives and friends.

In the end, the flag won.  It was the flag he had taken his boyish oath to honor; on more than one occasion, he had seen the haughtiest colors on the ocean bow with respect before it; he had seen men, writhing in the agony of death, expend their last breath to defend it.  It had wrapped itself about his heart, and meant more to him than home or friends or kindred.  So the flag won.