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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.

One afternoon in October, 1881, the United States steamer “Kearsarge,” Captain G. B. White, lay at anchor in Hampton Roads. The weather had been stormy for a day or two, and the wind had kicked up a heavy sea. There was a strong tide running, and the vessel swung out on a long cable. A seaman by the name of Christoverson, who was boat-tender in one of the cutters swinging at the lower booms, went out and down the Jacob’s ladder. In stepping to the thwart his foot slipped, and those on deck saw him disappear under the gray water.

There was a hoarse cry of “man overboard.” Seaman Robert Sweeny, who saw the accident, running out along the boom, plunged in without delay, just as the man came up the second time. Bernadou, then a cadet-midshipman, heard the cry, and rushing to the gangway, saw the terrible struggle of Sweeny with the drowning man as the tide swept them out towards the sea. Bernadou tossed off his coat, and was overboard in an instant. Christoverson, in his fierce struggle, carried Sweeny down with him, the latter only breaking away to be carried down again.

Bernadou by this time was within reach, and catching the drowning man from behind, managed to relieve Sweeny until a line was thrown to them, and they were finally hauled aboard in an exhausted condition. For this act both Bernadou and the sailor received the recommendations of their captain and the thanks of William H. Hunt, then the secretary of the navy.

ONLY NAVAL OFFICER KILLED IN THE WAR

Worth Bagley’s career at the Naval Academy was a triumph of the heart rather than of the mind. While he loved the service and hoped some day to fill a useful place in it, he found more to attract him in football and athletics than in calculus and least squares. But no man who ever entered was more beloved than he, and no man had better friends in the service and out of it. He was turned back twice, but entered, in 1891, the class of ’95, in which year he was graduated. He was a member of the “Five B’s,” composed of Bennett, Barnes, Bagley, Breckinridge, and Baldwin, men who were close friends while they were at the Academy.

But football was Bagley’s ruling passion. During this time, too, the great series of games between West Point and Annapolis, between the army and navy, over which the entire United Service went mad, were played, and Bagley was on the victorious team of ’93, and was named for the “All-America” team.

Bagley roomed during the four years’ course with his chum Breckinridge, who was washed off another torpedo-boat, the “Cushing,” and drowned, as he was trying to get into Havana a few days before the blowing up of the “Maine.”

“Worthless” Bagley (as his intimates called him) and Breckinridge were never left much to themselves in their quarters, for their room was always crowded during recreation-hours with cadets skylarking or asking advice or assistance. There was another intimate and classmate of Bagley, D. R. Merritt, who was killed in the “Maine” disaster a few days after the drowning of Breckinridge.

ROOSEVELT SAVED BAGLEY FOR THE NAVY

When Bagley came up for graduation at the end of the four-years’ course the doctors thought they discovered an irregular movement of the heart, and recommended that he be dropped. Bagley took his case to Theodore Roosevelt, then assistant secretary of the navy.

Roosevelt, looking at him through his glasses with a quick, critical glance, said, —

“You are Bagley, the football player, are you not?”

Bagley said he was.

“Well, you are to stay in the navy while I am here. The service needs more men just like you.”

Then Bagley went on his two-years’ cruise, and when he came back he was passed through without question.

Captain Cook, Admiral Schley’s chief-of-staff on the “Brooklyn,” Captain Clark, of the “Oregon,” and Commander Davis were room-mates in the famous class of Crowninshield, Taylor, and Evans. The “Brooklyn” and the “Oregon,” commanded by classmates and room-mates, fought almost side by side down the desperate flight to the westward, the “Oregon” farther inland, but both thundering their iron missiles on the “Colon” as she struggled to her doom.

It is an interesting fact that Captain Clark, then holding the title of acting ensign, but really a midshipman, was the first one to communicate with the captain of the ram “Tennessee” when she was captured at Mobile Bay, while it was Captain Cook who received the surrender of the “Cristobal Colon.” The third member of this trio was retired several years ago or he would have had a command in the same action. The affection which these youngsters bore one for the other was very much like that which existed between Captains Evans and Taylor.

CLARK’S HEROISM AT THE BATTLE OF MOBILE BAY

In the battle of Mobile Bay young Clark was on the forecastle of the “Ossipee,” then holding an important position in the line of ships that swung past the torpedoes after the gallant Farragut in the “Hartford.”

The forecastle was bare of any defence, and the position was exposed to all assaults of the fire, first from Fort Morgan and then from Fort Gaines, farther up. When the forts were passed, there followed a fierce fight with the gunboats and the invincible ram “Tennessee.” Again and again the “Hartford,” “Ossipee,” and other vessels of the fleet rammed her in succession, and young Clark saw her terrible ports fly open and send out just by him their awful discharge.

At last, however, she became unmanageable, her shutters were jammed, and the “Ossipee,” under full head of steam, was making for her. But while Clark was straining his eyes through the smoke, a white flag was hoisted in token of surrender. Clark shouted to Johnson, the commander of the ram, to starboard his helm. But the reply came that his wheel-ropes were shot away. It was too late to keep from striking her, but the force of the blow was broken by the manœuvre. This early experience was followed by the bombardment of Fort Morgan, – two important actions before Clark had got into his early twenties. His fearlessness then, as now, needs no mention.

POPULARITY OF CAPTAIN PHILIP AS A CADET

It has been said that Captain Philip’s public acknowledgment of God on the decks of the battle-ship “Texas,” after the fight before Santiago, was the natural expression of a deeply religious nature. But his classmates at the Naval Academy and the men who have sailed with him say that he is not more religious than other men in the navy, – not so religious as many, who always have their Bible on the table in their cabins and read it regularly when at sea or in port.

They believe that he spoke on the impulse of the moment, his heart devoutly thankful that the victory had been achieved at so slight a loss, and willing that all men should witness his profession of faith.

As a boy at the Academy, while he never surreptitiously drank, as others did, he made no pretence of being religious. He smoked whenever he got a chance, in his quarters or in the darknesses back of old Fort Severn, between the watchmen’s rounds. He never, as other cadets did, gave his word not to smoke, and so he felt a perfect freedom to do it if he could keep from being caught. Like Sigsbee, he was a practical joker, and if you should go to any of the members of his class and ask them who was the most popular man in it, they would say, “Jack Philip.”

THE VERSATILITY OF ADMIRAL SAMPSON

In Admiral Sampson, the boy was father to the man. From boyhood his was a life of unneglected opportunities. Born of very humble parents, by the hardest of work and the most sincere endeavors he succeeded in obtaining his appointment to the Naval School. His mind, naturally studious, turned to the beginnings of the new profession with avidity, and so fine was his mind even then that, without trying himself unduly, he easily distanced his entire class and took first honors for the course.

His classmates say that he was studious, but they do not say that he applied himself so closely to the work that he shut himself off from the diversions or recreations of the rest-hours. On the contrary, he was foremost in most of the sports of the day, and was, in his own way, one of the best athletes in his class.

He was then, as he is now, an “Admirable Crichton,” but his versatility did not diminish for him the serious aspect of any of the things he attempted. Some of his classmates called him cold, as his contemporaries out in the service do now, but when they wanted advice on any subject which seemed to require a reasoning power entirely beyond their own, they said, “Ask Sampson.” He was not only high in his class councils, but dearly beloved, as he is to-day, by every man in it and every man who knew him. If people thought him cold then it was because they did not understand him. If they think him cold to-day it is because he does not care to be understood by the men with whom he has no interest or sympathy. If arrogance begins to be a virtue, then repression born of modesty is a crime.

To those men he cares for – now as in his youth – he has always a warm handshake and an open heart. His eye is calm, sympathetic, penetrating, stern, as the humor dictates, anything you please, – sometimes cold, but always hypnotic. If he wants the friendship of man or woman he is irresistible. To-day he is the authority on naval ordnance, an expert on explosives, a capital seaman, a famous tennis-player, – the best-equipped man in the service for any work – or play – that can be put before him.

BLUE, WHO DISCOVERED CERVERA’S FLEET

Victor Blue, who in his uniform made the fearless expedition ashore at Santiago, and actually saw for the first time the Spanish fleet within the harbor, is the kind of a man who does not have very much to say for himself, which is often a sign that a person is to be found ready when wanted. He was a member of the class of ’87, in which his work was fair, but not remarkable in any way. He lived quietly, receiving his quota of good and bad marks, but having no special distinction, even in his offences against the oracles of Stribling Row.

He did not care much for “fems” (girls, in the vernacular), but towards his first class-year began to “take notice.” He played a guard on the “Hustlers,” the scrub football team which struggles with the “Academy” eleven on practice-days, but never made the “Team.” He had plenty of grit, but was too light for the centre and not active enough for the ends. Blue is a fair specimen of the type of men who without ostentation have made our new navy what it is. Many men envy him, but no man begrudges him his numbers recently awarded for “extraordinary heroism.”

YOUNG DEWEY AS A FIGHTER

George Dewey entered the class of ’58 at the Naval Academy at the age of seventeen. He was not a large boy, but fairly up to middle height, and strong and active in all athletic sports. It was not long after his entrance that he found an opportunity to show the fighting spirit that was in him. It was not altogether of his own seeking, but when he was weighed in the balance, even then he was not found wanting.

The line between the Northern boys and the Southerners was clearly marked, and one day one of the Southerners called the young Vermonter a “dough-face.”

Young Dewey awaited a favorable opportunity, and struck his opponent so fair a blow that he knocked him down. There was a rough-and-tumble fight then and there, and Dewey’s adversary came out second best.

Later on another one of the Southerners insulted the young admiral, and there was another battle. But full satisfaction could not be obtained in this prosaic fashion, so the Southerner finally challenged young Dewey. The offer was promptly accepted, seconds were chosen, and the time and place were definitely settled upon. But some of Dewey’s classmates, seriously alarmed at the aspect of affairs, and knowing that neither one of the principals was of a temper to falter, hastily informed the academic authorities, and the whole affair was nipped in the bud but a few hours before the hour set.

Dewey was graduated in 1858, and stood fifth in his class. Of the sixty-five who had started in as candidates, but fourteen received their diplomas at the end of the four years’ course.

THE UNRECOGNIZED HEROES OF THE WAR

Much has been said and written of the heroes of action and movement. The country from one end to the other has rung with their praises. But what of the unknown heroes, unhonored and unsung? What of the men who, because of their superior abilities in other lines, were doomed to physical inaction? who performed their secret missions and labors skilfully, faithfully, uncomplainingly, while their classmates were being given numbers over their heads, and the chance of a lifetime for great deeds was being quietly passed by?

THE REAL BRAINS OF THE WAR

Captain A. S. Crowninshield, the Chief of the Bureau of Navigation, bore the brunt of the brain-work for the men and ships at the front.

His bureau has to do with the ordering of all ships and all men, and Crowninshield, when he accepted the office, knew that the odds were against him. He knew that by his own orders he would put forward above him men who were many years his juniors in the service. He never winced, but went on perfecting the target-scores of the men behind the guns. When war was declared, he felt that, gun for gun, our navy could whip anything afloat. But he did not get out of the office. He could have had any command in Sampson’s fleet. But he preferred to stay and carry out the work he had begun, in spite of the fact that each week, as younger men went over him, he saw the chances of hoisting the pennant of a fleet-commander grow fainter and fainter.

If you were to ask Secretary Long who did the real brain-work of the war, he would unhesitatingly answer, “Captain Crowninshield.” Ask the younger officers in command of gun-divisions who is responsible for the straight shooting of the gun-captains, and they will say, “Captain Crowninshield.” Ask any captain of the fleet of victorious battle-ships and cruisers of Santiago or Cavite who contributed most to the victory of Santiago and Manila, and they will say, “Captain Crowninshield.”