John Barry: An American Hero in the Age of Sail Part 1

JOHN BARRY.

AN AMERICAN HERO in the AGE of SAIL.

TIM McGRATH.

FOREWORD.

THE STATUE STANDS TALL AND RESOLUTE, with a defiant expression on his face. His left hand holds a spygla.s.s above a sheathed sword. His right arm points southward over Philadelphia: the same direction that the Delaware River takes toward the sea. To some who know the lay of old Philadelphia-and the location of St. Mary's cemetery-his gesture seems to say, "I'm buried over there." He has been guarding the south side of Independence Hall for a hundred years.

He paid no attention to the rain falling on September 13, 2003, as a hundred or so people made their way from his gravesite at St. Mary's churchyard at Fourth and Locust, working their way toward him under a colorful collection of umbrellas. They had just attended a ceremonial Ma.s.s and a simple, martial service at his resting place, commemorating the two hundredth anniversary of his death. They were led by an honor guard comprised of sailors from today's United States Navy and re-enactors dressed as Revolutionary War soldiers, marching in cadence as bagpipes played. They reached the statue and the pipes stopped playing (the rain kept falling); remarks were made by one priest, one admiral, and one mayor. The national anthem was sung, a benediction given, and the spectators left the statue to gather for lunch at the nearby Curtis Building.

After the meal, the vice consul of Ireland made a brief speech, and a plaque was presented by members of the crew from the latest U.S. destroyer that carries the same name as the statue. Descendants, veterans, and members of the various Irish and civic organizations that had sponsored the event toured an exhibit of artifacts, weapons, and paintings from the early days of the United States. Eventually everyone drifted out into the rain, and back to the twenty-first century. Outside, it continued to rain on the statue's hat, his outstretched arm, his spygla.s.s, his buckled shoes, and the pedestal that bears his name: "Barry."

A century earlier, when the statue was unveiled, thousands attended, and the event was front-page headlines in the newspapers of the day.

Philadelphia has two statues and a nearby bridge named after John Barry. There are other statues, in Washington, D.C., and in Ireland's County Wexford, where he was born. There are countless Commodore Barry Chapters of the Friendly Sons of St. Patrick and the Ancient Order of Hibernians. But as time pa.s.ses, John Barry is being forgotten.

Barry is still called "Father of the American Navy" in some circles, although John Paul Jones and John Adams are two others that can lay claim to that t.i.tle. But where Adams has eternal fame from being second President of the United States, and Jones still "has not yet begun to fight" in some high school history books, few can recall Barry's deeds. Two hundred years ago, it was a different story.

The fastest known twenty-four hours logged at sea in the eighteenth century? The Black Prince, captained by John Barry. The first and last successful battles fought at sea for the Continental Navy? Captain Barry. The fighting sailor who served with the Continental Army at Princeton? Barry. The veteran who seized the moment (and a couple of state a.s.semblymen) to guarantee a quorum for Pennsylvania's ratification of the Const.i.tution? None other. The merchant captain who helped establish trade with China and the man President Washington put at the top of the list to head up the United States Navy? The very same.

Why don't we know more about this man?

For one thing, he was not pompous. Take, for example, his desperate pa.s.sage down the Delaware past occupied Philadelphia in 1778. It was a freezing winter night when he led forty threadbare and poorly armed sailors silently past British warships and helped conduct a legal rustling party with Anthony Wayne. The cattle they rounded up fed the starving soldiers at Valley Forge. John Paul Jones, always his own best press agent, would have written a poem describing his heroic exploits, full of bravado. Barry wrote, "I pa.s.sed Philadelphia in two small boats." Other doc.u.ments, personal and public, show his affection, anger, humor, and purpose. But they pale in comparison to the writings of his peers, many of whom wrote volumes more and accomplished much, much less. No wonder the historians at the Washington Navy Yard affectionately call him "Silent John."

His early time in Ireland left no paper trail. Irish and American historians once debated about where and when he was born. Was it in Ballysampson? Or Roostontown? Or Rosslare? Was it in 1739? Or 1745? The records are, as Celestine Rafferty (the Barry expert in Wexford) says, "A tad sketchy."

His youth is practically undoc.u.mented. For his first six years in Philadelphia, we don't know where he lived or whom he worked for. He married Mary Cleary, but her name is all we know about her. Tax records of 1767 list his household with their names and a "servant." Was this servant indentured or a slave? We don't know. During the British occupation of Philadelphia he was approached by a British sympathizer and offered a commission in the King's Navy along with 15,000 guineas. No doc.u.ments from the Clinton or Howe papers mention who the go-between was, and Barry never told. Silent John. But most of those who knew him-George Washington, Robert Morris, even John Paul Jones-tendered him their respect and admiration.

Visit that statue on a bright sunny day, as the tourists leave Independence Hall and walk by. The cameras will come out, families will pose, and a stranger will offer to take a picture of all of them. Invariably one sightseer will look at the name and ask, "Who was Barry?"

Here are his times. This is his story.

CHAPTER ONE.

OUT OF IRELAND.

THE LAST THING AN ACTING COMMANDER needs is flagrant disobedience to orders. Lieutenant Stephen Gregory was well aware of that fact as he stood on the quarterdeck of the Continental frigate Confederacy; his crew intently watched him struggle to maintain both his poise and authority.

Although the 1779 calendar read October-usually a brisk month for Pennsylvania-this had been a pleasant, agreeably warm morning, with southerly breezes wafting up the Delaware River. For Gregory, it had been pleasant and agreeable enough, until this defiant brig sailed within hailing distance. Every other pa.s.sing ship obeyed Gregory's commands to turn into the wind and be boarded, but this brig's captain showed no intention of doing so.

On the surface, the Confederacy lacked nothing. The New England vessel was considered the most beautiful ship built in America, even grander than her well-regarded "sister" frigate, the Alliance. Her lines were long and graceful, measuring an imposing 241 feet from bowsprit to taffrail, with a 37-foot beam.1 Two ornate head frames, each adorned with a carved red fox, were joined at the bow by a handsome figurehead of a bearded warrior, his right hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword. Exquisite woodwork and filigree decorated the cabin windows. Sweeps were pierced between her gun ports; when becalmed, her crew could row her out of any doldrums or dangers. She carried thirty-six guns. Inside, the officers' berths were palatial by contemporary standards, with an adjoining great room that featured an eight-foot ceiling.2 Built for diplomacy as well as battle, the Confederacy was the ideal combination of seventeenth-century luxury in a modern eighteenth-century warship. She lacked only one necessity: manpower.

Since arriving from Connecticut, the new frigate was moored in the Delaware River just twenty miles below Philadelphia, the capital of the young United States, where Captain Seth Harding had gone for last-minute instructions about his mission, a diplomatic errand to France.3 Before departing, he gave Gregory strict orders to increase the ship's crew using the time-honored, Royal Navy method: the press gang.

Gregory carried out his a.s.signment with gusto, manning a longboat with the toughest thugs among his crew and arming them with boarding axes, cutla.s.ses, and pistols-to intimidate, or worse.4 Led by another junior officer, they boarded every merchantman or privateer that sailed by. Without fail, they rowed back with several protesting "recruits" whose names or marks now padded the ship's muster rolls. The frigate was christened Confederacy to symbolize the voluntary union of the colonies in a common cause. Now the impressment of fellow Americans was required to get her to sea: Confederacy by coercion.

All had gone well until this arrogant brig came upriver. Judging from her size, Gregory estimated her crew at about fifty-his men should be able to press at least a half dozen from this ship. Taking up his speaking trumpet, he ordered the brig's "main topsail hove to the mast" to slow her down for boarding. Her captain, in a strong voice with a hint of an Irish brogue, called back across the water that he could not obey "without getting his Vessel on Sh.o.r.e." Gregory could understand that. He did not want to see the brig run aground, he just wanted her men. He then commanded "that the Brig should come to anchor."5 The brig's captain neither replied nor complied. Instead, he maintained his course, "beating up with the Tide" in silent but unconcealed defiance. Seething at this show of disrespect, Gregory immediately ordered one of the Confederacy's 12-pound guns run out. As the gunners rushed to their tasks, the longboat was lowered, manned with two officers and Gregory's hand-picked ruffians. Their oars sliced through the water as the cannon roared, the twelve-pound ball screaming overhead before it splashed into the river just in front of the brig.6 Soon the longboat b.u.mped up against the brig's hull. Peering through his spygla.s.s, Gregory watched his two officers clamber quickly up the side, jump aboard, and confront the captain-a tall, imposing figure looming over them from the brig's quarterdeck. Before Gregory could wonder why his men were not ascending to a.s.sist the officers he saw the reason: the gangway was blocked by some of the brig's sailors, brandishing "muskets, Pistols and Boarding pikes" and shouting threats to the Confederacy's bullies below. In an instant, his two officers were climbing down to the longboat without a man-jack from the brig.7 The press gang was still rowing back to the Confederacy when the incensed lieutenant ordered a second shot fired across the brig's bow, this one splashing a bit closer. There was no need to mask his anger now. Gregory meant business.

But so did the brig's captain. Gregory saw him shouting and gesturing orders to his crew. To the lieutenant's amazement, the brig's four starboard gun ports opened. His opponent was clearing his decks for action. Was he mad? The brig's guns were smaller in size as well as number-if it came to a fight, the Confederacy would blow her out of the water. A third warning shot boomed from the frigate, this one coming perilously close to the brig.8 Now the brig's captain took his speaking trumpet in hand, gruffly hailing the Confederacy and calling for the name of her commanding officer. Trying to sound equally threatening, Gregory gave his name. A second later, the brig's captain replied: "Lieutenant Gregory, I advise you to desist firing. This is the Brig Delaware belonging to Philadelphia & my name is John Barry."9 One sailor later wrote, "Nothing further was said or done by Lt. Gregory" for he "had been once under the command of Capt'n Barry and could not but know he was not to be trifled with."10 Recovering his dignity as best as he could, the chastised lieutenant ordered the gun hauled in and his men back to their regular duties. The Delaware sailed on. For the rest of the day, Gregory vented his bruised ego on every ship that pa.s.sed, pressing sailors from each of them.

My name is John Barry. One sentence against three warning shots.

By 1779, Barry had more than earned such extraordinary respect. His reputation was based not just on his consummate skills as a mariner, although these were well known by friend and foe. Neither was it his size, even if at over six feet, four inches, he towered over most of his contemporaries.11 Nor was it his combative nature, a trait that gave his men heart in the direst of circ.u.mstances. He had learned to master fear, but it was not courage alone that made the mere mention of his name give others pause. Last, such esteem could not be attributed merely to his deeply rooted but unsatisfied ambition. It was all of the above.

At the time of Barry's birth, no Irishman could conceive of reaching such heights. For a Catholic in eighteenth-century Ireland, mere survival was success enough.

By 1745, Catholic Ireland had been under Protestant Ireland's thumb for over fifty years. Catholics' hope for freedom, soaring when James II landed in Ireland in 1690 to reclaim his throne from William and Mary of Orange, was dashed after the bitter defeats at the Boyne and at Aughurim. James's exit strategy got him safely back to France, but left his bloodied forces behind in the besieged city of Limerick. After their heroic warrior-chief Patrick Sarsfield negotiated honorable terms, he departed for France, taking most of the Irish army with him into exile. Officially called the Irish Brigades, their skills as mercenaries in the employ of England's enemies soon won them a new name and legend: the Wild Geese.12 Their departure meant the end of any organized resistance to English invaders and their Irish Protestant supporters who, in their "Ascendancy," used the new Penal Laws to reduce their Catholic neighbors to the status of slaves in everything but name.

The laws were officially called Acts for the Better Securing of the Government Against Papists.13 Catholics were forbidden to own weapons. No Catholic worship or religious education was tolerated. To enforce these measures, Catholic clergy were ordered out of Ireland. Those caught returning faced being hanged, drawn, and quartered. Catholics could attain no profession or public office. Owning land was prohibited. The Gaelic language was banned. The right to vote was denied. Catholics could not inherit from any Protestant estate. Only one-third of a Catholic farmer's annual harvest could be kept. If it had been possible to pa.s.s a law barring the sun from shining on Irish Catholics, the Protestant Parliament would have gladly done so. This sentiment was carved into the Bandon city gates: "Enter here, Turk, Jew or Atheist, Any man except a Papist."14 The subjugation of Ireland was as successful as tyranny allows, which means that it failed somewhere, sometime. Despite the dangerous consequences, outlawed priests and teachers were sheltered, as they stole by night from cottage to village, celebrating the banned Ma.s.s in "farmhouse churches" and teaching Latin in "hedge schools." Over the decades, those outside the reach of the Penal Laws vigorously attacked them. Edmund Burke decried them in his "Tracts," and Montesquieu wrote, "They were conceived by demons, written in blood, and registered in h.e.l.l."15 By the mid-eighteenth century, no one under age sixty could remember an Ireland not under these conditions. Certainly James Barry could not, having been born years after Sarsfield's self-banishment. As a tenant farmer, Barry did not have enough hours in the day to pontificate over a long-lost cause. There was work to be done.16 For generations, the Barry family lived on the southeast corner of Ireland in County Wexford. For farming, Wexford was idyllic. One surveyor sarcastically remarked that while "Ireland has been said to be found of one immense rock on a bed of granite," Wexford, surrounded on three sides by the sea, had good soil, "being loamy as the depositions subsided towards the sea." Within ten miles of the coast, the ground could be replowed in wintertime, yielding an extra harvest.17 However, a tenant farmer like Barry, moving from one estate to another, was master of nothing. His situation was as demeaning as that of sharecroppers in the post-Civil War American South. He put bread and potatoes on the table, but little else.

Years earlier, James met and married Ellen Kelly.18 In those times, weddings were one of the few chances for a community celebration, as long as it was performed in as secluded a place as possible. A Protestant observer of the nuptials of this period marveled how the "ceremony was solemnized...much as in the same manner" as the English ritual. Afterwards, "Relatives and friends bring a profusion of viands of all kinds, and feasting and dancing continue all night, the bride sits veiled at the head of the table, unless called out to dance, when the chair is filled by one of the brides-maids. At every marriage an apple is cut into small pieces, and thrown among the crowd."19 The couple eked out their existence moving from one squire's estate to another, surviving the grim famine of 1740-41.20 By the spring of 1745, they were living in a one room, thatched-roof cottage near Roostontown. Ellen and her sister Margaret were both in the latter days of pregnancy. On April 12-Good Friday-Ellen gave birth to a son. There was no doctor or midwife present; she was a.s.sisted by one or two women from the adjoining farms.21 The proud parents named their son John. He was probably not their firstborn, but likely their first son. Margaret soon gave birth to a daughter.22 The storms over Wexford that spring were accompanied with word of political ones. In Scotland, Bonnie Prince Charlie led an uprising against the British, whose armies were in Europe fighting against the French.23 In June, a ship docked in Wexford harbor, bringing grand news. French forces had met the combined armies of England, Holland, and Germany at Fontenoy in the Low Countries. The tide of the battle was turned by the Irish Brigades, who thoroughly routed the Coldstream Guards, winning the day (and the Low Countries) for France. It was the great hour of the Wild Geese.24 Repercussions from their victory were felt throughout Ireland. Protestant rulers feared that the Irish Brigades might return home with one purpose in mind-another war. This, coupled with the rebellion in Scotland, resulted in a suspension of some of the draconian Penal Laws, in hopes of stemming any Catholic support for the Scottish Cause.25 The outlawed hedge schools and farmhouse churches were no longer needed.

The town of Wexford blossomed. It had been nearly a century since Cromwell, not wanting "to restrain off the soldiers from their right of pillage," watched them ma.s.sacre 2000 Wexford men, women, and children. 26 By 1745 Wexford was the most thriving port in all of Ireland; one British official cited its "very considerable importance in trade and shipping."27 Wexford offered commerce and jobs. The harbor, sitting inside a "letter C" configuration of land, opened on its east to Loch Garman and from there to St. George's Channel.

Wexford merchants expanded their trade from England to France, Spain, and Portugal. Soon they were sending ships to the New World, bearing linen and sailcloth to the West Indies, Mexico, and the Spanish Main.28 Irish Catholics began migrating to the Caribbean, where some eventually ran their own plantations on the islands of Jamaica and Montserrat.29 Despite the British yoke, Ireland in 1745 was exporting prodigious amounts of linen along with wool, ale, and beer. But its chief export was still young Irishmen (their unmarried sisters were sent off to convents or indentured servitude).30 At the time of John's birth, there were three options for his future: remain home, and confront hardscrabble poverty; join one of the Irish Brigades far flung across Europe, and face death by battle or disease; or go to sea, and live a life fraught with hardships, risking mortality on the world's oceans in service to the British Empire. For many boys, the Wild Geese had their allure: it was estimated that between Limerick and Fontenoy as many as 250,000 Irishmen fought for France alone.31 When the time came for a choice to be made, the Barrys had one blessing: geography. Wexford provided access to the sea. That had already been a way out for one relative, and a way up for another.

One family member was already in America. Jane Barry may have been the newborn's cousin or aunt; some think her an older sister from a previous marriage. She married John Wilc.o.x, who had connections in the colony of North Carolina. John and Jane settled there too, determined to emulate another Wexford family, the Nixons, and established a shipping business, with an eye on moving north to the busiest American port, Philadelphia.32 The Penal Laws had not crossed the Atlantic.

By far, the most successful of the Barry clan was James's brother, Nicholas. Sent to sea as a child, he was now a ship's captain, sailing the trade routes to European ports. Granted, there was a "canvas ceiling" that he could never cut through regarding ownership interest in any of his goods, but he certainly might have acquired enough money to build or purchase his own ship-one of the few things the Ascendancy forgot to ban. One Crown surveyor in Wexford told of a captain "building a ship by his own [hand], rigging the vessel by his own manufacture . . . freighted with the produce of the neighbouring lands and [sailing the] ocean for every port of Europe"-an apt description of industrious, ambitious Nicholas Barry.33 For James, the next few years saw little change except in new arrivals. Soon his brood numbered at least five children-John, Patrick, Eleanor, Margaret, and Thomas.34 Booming business on the docks and relaxation of the Penal Laws did nothing to change James's lot. According to local lore, he faced eviction from one squire's estate and found another tenant farm to sweat over near the village of Rosslare, on the southern side of Wexford Harbor.35 And it is probably here that young John's path was set. Now living even closer to the coast, the youngster could spend some time in Nicholas's company whenever he was ash.o.r.e.36 The captain must have looked absolutely heroic to his nephew, with his commanding presence and tales of life at sea.

John attended one of the charter schools while in Rosslare. Recently sanctioned by the government, they provided basic education to Catholic children aged six to ten. The price of instruction was conversion to the Church of Ireland, which many Catholic families subverted by pulling their children out of school as soon as those lessons began in earnest.37 For John, school was a welcome break from life on the farm. In later years, letters "from an old schoolfellow" would send him into idyllic reminiscence.38 One friend, William Kearney, came from a family in the shipping business, who rented one of the village's handsomer homes.39 The boys roamed the Rosslare waterfront, watching the ships sail to and from what were exotic destinations to the youngsters. The relative affluence of William's family was not lost on John, for whom new clothes or shoes was a rarity.

So many mouths to feed at home wore heavily on James, whose few acres and meager harvest could never supply enough. Young John's help on the farm could not equal what was needed to keep him clothed and fed. It was Nicholas who supplied the solution-a berth for his nine-year-old nephew as cabin boy on a Wexford merchant ship, probably his own.40 A later acquaintance of John's wrote how "at a very early age he manifested a strong inclination to follow the sea."41 If the forthcoming voyage was an adventure in his eyes, it belied the worries of leaving home-poor as home was-and parting from family. At least a sailor's life included visits ash.o.r.e, while offering escape from land plowed but never owned, air breathed but never as a free man.

The day came for the ship's departure. We do not know if any of John's family were at the dock to see him off, or if they bade farewell at the farm. With cargo stored and crew aboard, the boatswain ("bos'n") piped for all hands. The capstan and halyards were manned. On the timed response of a sea-chantey, spars were raised and the capstan driven until sails were set and anchor was weighed. Soon the ship headed out to St. George's Channel.

The world young John left behind must have seemed a life of leisure compared to his first weeks at sea. Nothing could have prepared him for life in the "wooden world." He was useless at first, as he earned his sea legs the way landsmen do-at the expense of his stomach. His first efforts at keeping his feet on the rocking ship resulted in a severe bout of seasickness, every movement sending his stomach into volcanic upheaval and increasing his dehydrated lightheadedness. One contemporary described his own first sailing days as a boy: "Soon after we [sailed], I became so seasick I could not go off the deck, and I should not have struggled if they hove me over-board!"42 Once he pa.s.sed this ordeal, John began his unending tasks. A cabin boy on a merchant ship was also expected to serve as a seaman at the lowest level. Serving the captain's meals and being his ondeck errand boy were just a fraction of John's duties. His survival-and that of his shipmates-would depend on his skills. He needed, very quickly, to learn the ropes.

Ropes were divided into standing and running rigging. Standing rigging, tarred black and stiff, supported the masts and were secured with deadeyes (cut and pierced wood, usually elm or ash). Stays secured the masts and bowsprits fore and aft; shrouds secured them to port (left) and to starboard (right). Tarred rope fastened across the shrouds, called ratlines, allowed the shrouds to work as a rope ladder up the masts. John learned to worm (run small cords between the strands to smooth the rope), parcel (bind tarred canvas around the standing rigging), and serve (the final protection for the rigging-spun yarn banged into the rope with a mallet). Soon he understood the old adage: "Worm and parcel with the lay but always serve the other way.43 Running rigging consisted of ropes that ran through block and tackle, adjusting the sails and spars (called yards) to maximize use of the wind. Halyards raised and lowered the yards; lifts steadied the yardarms, raising or lowering each corner. Braces rotated and set the yards in position. Young John quickly learned the ingenuity of block and tackle: combinations of sh.e.l.l, shiv, and pin that allow the great weight placed on running rigging to be pulled quickly and efficiently with muscle-saving ease. Once pa.s.sed through the blocks, running rigging was secured with a belaying pin, which resembled a small, thin-handled baseball bat, inserted through the pinrail and secured with a figure-eight knot for easy release.44 Sails were made of the coa.r.s.est Irish linen. The ship John sailed aboard was probably a fore and aft rigged schooner or large sloop that often carried a square sail at the top of the mast. In learning how to reef and furl sail, John quickly overcame any fear of heights. On the ratlines, he learned a mortal principle of physics: the higher one ascended, the stronger the sway of the boat and wind, until he could feel sheer force pressing him dangerously downward.45 Once aloft, he learned to move along the foot-ropes, those all too slender lines that ran under the yards. Approached from the windward side so as to be blown in against the sails and not away from them, John joined fellow crewmembers a.s.signed to gather sail. Using gaskets, they secured the folds of canvas to the spar from the middle out to the ends of the yards: daunting enough tasks on a smooth sea, but positively death-defying during strong winds and storms. And he learned the cardinal rule of self-preservation: never let go of one rope until another has been firmly grasped.46 On deck, ch.o.r.es for experienced hands consisted of mending sail and splicing cracked spars, while novices split those too severely cracked to be repaired. Swabbing the deck was a task for the entire crew. The deck was scrubbed with a holystone, humorously referred to as a "prayer-book" or "bible" depending on its size, and then mopped with "swabs"-mops made of unraveled rope.47 Life below deck held no creature comforts. It was dank and dark, lit by an occasional lantern, with a foul array of smells that intensified as the voyage lengthened. Bilge water, livestock, pitch, and unwashed bodies combined to create a unique, ghastly odor. Add the fact that the head-a hole in the deck at the bow, the designated place to relieve oneself-was not always used, and it became clear to any landsman that "going below" was barely any relief from the trials above. The crew's berths were toward the bow in the forecastle ("fo'c'sle"), alongside the cook's galley. The captain's cabin was aft, where the ship's movements were minimized-especially when compared to the heaving that was commonplace at the bow. The hold's cargo was securely lashed to prevent moving as the ship rolled. Ballast, consisting of heavy stone, sand, or gravel, was placed in the hold for balance when no cargo was aboard.

John was used to a meager board at home, but he must have found the ship's mess repulsive. Salt beef and biscuits were everyday fare: beef that would frequently spoil halfway through the voyage, and biscuits that were alive with weevils and worms. Occasionally pork, beans, cheese, potatoes, turnips, and rice found their way into the menu. Rancid b.u.t.ter and a half pint of vinegar were allotted on a weekly basis.48 Grog-a mixture of water, lime juice and rum-was ladled out twice a day, a pint per man (boys like John received a halfpint).49 Being part of the crew had its interpersonal challenges as well. The fo'c'sle was as cramped as it was foul, and the same routine day after day with the same men did not bring out the best in them. It was a rare captain who could keep his men from fighting. Yet, at the same time, the constant labor served a purpose. The drudgery kept the men busy, while the dangerous aspects of work forced them to rely on each other. They further depended on their comrades while on watch. The crew was divided in half, alternating on the day's seven watches; five consisted of four-hour stints, and two "dogwatches" were of two hours each, guaranteeing that John would serve different watches on successive days.50 Time was marked with an hourgla.s.s or a ship's bell, eight bells per four-hour watch. Off watch, the men slept within inches of each other in hammocks. The roll of the ship kept them swinging and snoring in rhythm. Sailors' superst.i.tions were explained to John whenever he inadvertently transgressed: never hand anything to someone through the ladder rungs; jabbing a pocketknife into a mast could bring a fresh wind; whistling at the wrong time, such as when the ship had headway, would surely cause a storm.51 Finally, he learned the inescapable fact for a sailor: he was almost always wet and, in wearing wool and canvas, had little hope of completely drying out.

As his maiden voyage progressed, the cabin boy also noticed the pecking order of life at sea. He had seen the esteem given Uncle Nicholas ash.o.r.e. Now he watched the captain take full command of ship and crew, making the final decision on the ship's course, and living in what seemed like blissful elegance in his cabin. He was G.o.d on board. For John, at the bottom of the maritime ladder, having his own cabin was not a dream so much as a destination. It was a matter of harnessing his desire to learn with his growing ambition.

John's voyages took him to the ports of Wexford's European trading partners. Soon he could expertly hand, reef, splice, and steer.52 As his trade kept him from finishing his education, the deck and the crow's nest became his schooldesk. In his mastery of navigation, the sun and the stars became his blackboard. Visits home were as welcome for the portion of John's earnings put to use for the growing Barry family as for his presence. It was the beginning of a lifetime of charity to his land-bound relations.53 His successful adaptation to a mariner's life convinced James to ship John's younger brother Patrick off to sea as well.

By the time John had spent a half-dozen years "before the mast," he was a teenager already on his way to clearing six feet in height, big-boned but lean, with a full head of dark hair pulled back and drawn into sealskin. His dark, thick eyebrows arched across piercing gray-brown eyes. A mole appeared between his right eyebrow and long nose.54 He also possessed the cla.s.sic Irish head: large, but with eyes, nose, and mouth cramped in the center of the face. The strong jaw line ended in a rounded chin. His skin, once fair as a toddler, had tanned and coa.r.s.ened from his years at sea, exposed to sun and wind. His large hands were calloused from endlessly handling rope and canvas. His long sea legs had a sailor's grace; balancing the pitch and roll of the deck had become second nature to him.

He was also honing his powers of observation. The mark of a good sea captain lay in his ability to see everything at once. By now Barry performed his tasks, mundane or hazardous, with efficiency. He was well on his way to following in Nicholas's footsteps.

It was at Philadelphia in the colony of Pennsylvania where John Barry began his ascendancy. His coming to Philadelphia has been chronicled as that of the "poor boy made good," a Celtic Horatio Alger story pa.s.sed down from one generation of Irish-Americans to the next. Actually, he was probably sent there. Irish immigrants had been coming to Philadelphia since 1719. James Logan, Philadelphia's "Secretary of Properties," called them "bold and indigent strangers." Earlier, Logan saw to it that a ship of "100 papists" bypa.s.sed his city and sailed upriver to Burlington, New Jersey. "It looks," he complained, "as if Ireland is to send all its inhabitants. .h.i.ther."55 By 1760, there was an established Irish presence in the city, including John's relative Jane Barry Wilc.o.x, whose husband was one of a small but growing list of Irish-born merchants in Philadelphia.56 This was where a Wexford boy with drive and ability could best succeed. So it was to Philadelphia that John Barry came, on a voyage that took two to three months' time. He was fifteen years old.57 The Atlantic crossing had its squalls and storms, but the sun was probably up as the ship (most likely another schooner) entered the Delaware Bay-the gateway to Philadelphia. Off Cape May, the captain stopped and picked up a pilot, whose livelihood was a seemingly endless series of round trips to Philadelphia and back, applying his knowledge of the river's currents, rocks, and shallows to keep his charges from running aground. Depending on conditions, pa.s.sage upriver could take as long as three days. The bay narrowed where the ship reached the river's mouth. While young Barry kept to his a.s.signed tasks, he took notice of the distant flat and tree-covered sh.o.r.elines. To starboard-the colony of New Jersey-tiny fishing villages were soon seen, their inhabitants only recently free from the depredations of pirates who once plagued this waterway.58 As the ship tacked upriver, traffic increased. Shallops-skiffs propelled by oars or sails-headed north, bearing grain from Maryland and hugging the Delaware colony's sh.o.r.eline as they pa.s.sed. Schooners sailed toward the Capes, their holds full of timber, iron, grain, cattle, and salted fish, bound for the West Indies. Others returning from those destinations accompanied John's ship northward, bearing mola.s.ses, sugar, and rum. Finally, there were the merchantmen: large, three-masted vessels carrying ma.s.sive shipments of iron, timber, and furniture to England.59 The river became serpentine as it narrowed. Flatboats and small craft were coming out of the creeks, loaded with fish and game for the markets in Philadelphia.60 The pilot may have pointed out Reedy and Pea Patch Islands as he pa.s.sed them to port: small, peaceful spits of land. If the pa.s.sage upriver was uneventful weather-wise, the ship was well into its second day when, to port, the mills of Delaware came into view followed by the first significant towns of Pennsylvania: Marcus Hook and Chester, nautical way stations for pa.s.sing ships.

As John's vessel approached the mouth of the Schuylkill River, he could make out Philadelphia as a tangle of masts and spars along the wharves, and beyond, an evenly distributed density of redbrick buildings under the afternoon sun. The spire of Christ Church rose over them, a testament to the presence of the Church of England. This was easily the largest city John had seen, never having been to London. Soon all of its sights, sounds, and smells greeted him as the ship docked.

The city John would call home for the rest of his life held the largest population in the American colonies, and was the second largest English-speaking city in the world. By 1760, Pennsylvania's population had reached about 200,000; in Philadelphia the population neared 30,000. It was already written that "Philadelphia is not only the busiest port on the American continent, it is probably busier than any port in England except for London and Liverpool."61 All of this awaited John's discovery, but for now there was the matter of finding the Wilc.o.x home. We do not know if their hospitality extended past one night. Perhaps, like other bachelor sailors, he found lodging at one of the meager boardinghouses along the waterfront.62 In the morning, while venturing back to the waterfront to find a berth on an outgoing ship, young Barry got his bearings of Philadelphia. The evenly s.p.a.ced streets ran from Front west to Eighth and from Cedar north to Vine, where the township of Northern Liberties began, stretching several miles along the Delaware up to the village of Frankford. The houses on each block stood like redbrick battle squares. Here lived citizens of wealth and property: professionals, businessmen, and gentlemen of leisure. Their servants and slaves were quartered in the small backyards, along with any horses or other livestock (chickens and pigs were common). Along the alleys that split the streets directly behind these homes were shacks and shanties that housed the working cla.s.s. Only a few feet separated their living quarters from those of Philadelphia's well-off. Artisans-silversmiths, furniture makers, and coopers among them-actually lived in both parts of the block, their place of residence based more on financial success than cla.s.s status. Their work ethic was legendary, having long abandoned the old city workweek that included a second successive day off, known as "St. Monday."63 Young Barry found the appearances of Philadelphians as diverse as the people themselves. Quaker men still favored their simply cut suits of black or gray cloth, topped with the unadorned, broad-brimmed hats that had defied fashion trends for eighty years. Other Philadelphians wore knee britches and broad coats, their oversized cuffs kept in place with starch and large bra.s.s b.u.t.tons. Buckled shoes and a tricornered hat completed the outfit. Leather vests and ap.r.o.ns identified the artisan, buckskin and c.o.o.nskin the woodsman selling his furs. The most colorful apparel was worn by the "Macaronis," young rich men in tight, colorful clothes with a knot of hair fastened at the nape, strutting through town carrying decorative five-foot walking sticks. Women wore the colorful clothing of the day. Among their accessories they carried a "pocket"-a purse drawn shut by leather or ribbon, tied around the waist or neck-as women's clothing had no actual pockets.64 The city's many taverns, coffeehouses, and inns catered to one certain cla.s.s or another. The largest was the London Coffeehouse on Front and High streets, the gathering place of choice for Philadelphia's merchants. Coffeehouses served a special purpose; their common rooms and upstairs parlors were eighteenth-century conference centers for deal making and political discussions.65 Standing in the street, John heard the men inside discussing the war with France, the latest ship arrivals, and gossip on every subject. Their voices created a steady hum that competed with the auctioneer on the front porch, busily selling everything from unloaded cargo to slaves. By the time of John's arrival, efforts to abolish slavery in Pennsylvania were well under way. Still, the "Droves"-long lines of slaves, chained two by two, were paraded through the streets, and Philadelphia's most successful merchants, Willing and Morris, advertised the sale of "170 Negroes from Barbados."66 Shops were plentiful along High Street, called "Market" for its array of stores and stands. Smithies were busy, making everything from nails to anchors. Others tradesmen offered tea kettles, coffee pots, and ovens. Bookbinders thrived. Pottery, gla.s.sware, and leather goods were sold. The two top newspapers, the Pennsylvania Packet and Benjamin Franklin's Pennsylvania Gazette, were in demand throughout the colonies and in Europe. By 1760, Philadelphia had more newspapers than London.67 Walking one block north of Market, Barry saw the Arch Street Ferry, the most direct route for crossing the river to New Jersey at Camden. Ownership of the enterprise had given Samuel Austin wealth, property, and his own pew at Christ Church, where his family joined the Merediths, Hopkinsons, and Franklins at Sunday services.68 Further uptown was the seat of government. The state house dominated Chestnut Street between Fifth and Sixth Streets, where some farms still existed.69 The last building of size and importance was Pennsylvania Hospital, co-founded by Franklin and ensconced at the unofficial end of town on Eighth Street between Walnut and Pine, a bucolic area of farmland and (sometimes) clean country air. Prior to its construction, the care for the sick and insane was left to the poorhouses, where they coexisted with debtors. Here, too, lived the wives and families of Philadelphia's sailors, whenever their money ran out.70 The docks bustled with activity unlike anything John had seen. The riverfront was packed with sailors, laborers, peddlers, and the occasional inspection officials. Their voices rose in cacophony over the endless clanking of the windla.s.ses that raised the cargo out of ships' holds, to be carted off to the merchant warehouses. Permeating everything was the foul smell of a tannery behind Carpenters' Hall, its waste seeping into Dock Creek and thence into the Delaware, while its odor drifted across the city, even reaching ships downriver if a northern breeze prevailed.71 North and south of the docks lay the shipyards, each one just long enough and wide enough to hold the skeleton of any craft from shallop and sloop to brigantine and schooner.72 The larger merchantmen were built downriver in Southwark, where John Wharton owned the largest shipyard in Philadelphia. Rope-makers, sail-makers, and chandlers never lacked for work in this city.

This was Barry's new home. Years after his death, two longtime acquaintances wrote a magazine article about his life. In their narration of his first days in Philadelphia, they did not describe his impressive physique. Instead, they told of his brains and spirit; how he was "possessed of a strong and active mind" with "indefatigable industry." For such a willing lad, a berth on an outgoing vessel was never in doubt, and "he was not long without employment."73 The West Indies were the cornerstone of Philadelphia's merchant trade. The city was "one-stop shopping" for practically everything the islands needed, and West Indies' coffee, rum, mola.s.ses, sugar, ginger, pimento, and pepper were sold in Philadelphia and reshipped to England and the other twelve colonies. Profit margins were wondrous; during the French and Indian War, Philadelphia merchants saw a 10 percent higher volume on outbound cargo to the Caribbean.74 Over the next six years, this lucrative trade gave John the chance to demonstrate "his nautical skill, the steadiness of his habits, and the integrity of his character."75 By the end of his teens, he had risen to a mate's status. Merchants and captains came to the same conclusion: young Barry could be trusted.

Earlier biographers told as fact the legend that he served as a mate on Charles Carroll's voyage from London to Maryland in 1764, but no doc.u.ment substantiates this. A letter written that same year from a Ba.s.seterre businessman sent "by this opportunity of Mr. Barry going to Dominique" regarding payment arrangements and the request "Please send my Sword by Mr. Barry" verified his activities in a more realistic light.76 James Fenimore Cooper, in his "Sketches of Naval Men," written in 1839, told the following anecdote: A riot occurred among some stevedores, and a ship owner of respectability was threatened with injury. Barry interfered, and manifested so much in intrepidity and personal prowess, as at once to procure for him a reputation in the then peaceable town of Philadelphia . . . Barry had grappled one of the stoutest of the stevedores in the presence of the owner, who was a "Friend," [crying] "Give it to him, Johnny, now thou hast him."77 By 1766, he possessed leadership skills and a detailed knowledge of the West Indies trade. Merchants, always judging talent, were rarely willing to risk ship, crew, and cargo to an untried mate. Established firms retained the more experienced captains, frequently offering them some equity in the vessel they commanded-an eighteenth-century version of "golden handcuffs." Although there were five hundred merchants in Philadelphia between 1756 and 1765, just fifty-two of them, in thirty-seven firms, were the foundation of Philadelphia trade.78 It was usually a merchant outside this circle, successful enough to own at least one ship, who gave someone like John a chance at command.

For Barry, that man was an elderly merchant named Edward Denny. His had been no meteoric rise; his name was not spoken with the hushed, revered tones that accompanied mention of Meredith, Willing, Drinker, or Morris. True, he worked on a smaller scale than these ill.u.s.trious men, but he shared one thing in common with them. He traded in slaves.79 Quakers had long abandoned this traffic, leaving it to Anglican merchants, who happily picked up both the slack and the profit. Where a vacuum exists, an entrepreneur will seize the moment, and Denny did just that. For twelve years he published notices like the following: "A LIKELY Barbadian fellow, about 23 years of age, he has had the Smallpox, and is fit for any business. Likewise three Negroe girls[.] Enquire of Edward Denny, at Captain Arthur'[s] in Walnut St."80 By 1766, Denny's services as middleman in the slave trade provided him enough money to purchase his own schooner, the Pitt.81 With his own ship, he became a true merchant of respectable goods. Schooners cost roughly 500 cash, a high figure for a merchant to have available. Denny's success in the slave trade allowed him to escape it.82 However, it did not leave him enough funds to employ a seasoned captain. He had to take a chance on a first mate whose references would attest to skills as a sailor, navigator, businessman, and leader. Denny's peers and maritime contacts brought him and Barry together. After meeting the twenty-one-year-old Irishman, Denny felt comfortable placing his ship in the youth's hands. There was no question in Barry's mind if he wanted to a.s.sume such responsibility. Denny's offer was quickly accepted. On September 29, 1766, the new shipowner and shipmaster walked the cobbled streets together to the Custom House, where they registered the Pitt, a "Square Stern'd Vessel of the Burthen of sixty Tons or thereabouts." They also gave her a new name: the Barbadoes.83 She was one of the larger schooners registered that year.84 The size of Barry's first command can be guessed from plans of a ship of similar tonnage: about fifty-five feet in length, seventeen feet in breadth, with an eight-foot depth of hold. The captain's cabin was about five and a half feet in height, and with the deck beams lowering the ceiling by another foot at some points, the young shipmaster could stand erect only above deck. A small cubbyhole served as the mate's quarters. The galley and fo'c'sle were about ten feet combined, with a brick oven toward the front that further cramped living quarters of a crew of five or six. Above deck, she carried a fifty-foot mainmast and a smaller foremast.85 A trim craft, all in all, well-suited for its purpose.

The crew's scant number was not unusual for Philadelphia merchants, notorious for employing "skeleton crews" for every voyage. To them, the peril of becoming further shorthanded from storm, accident, or disease was not sufficient risk to hire more hands. Safety in the number of sailors shrunk profits.

Barry's personal life was also changing, thanks to an Irish girl named Mary Cleary. Like John, she was twenty-one years old. No record exists of where, when, or how they met. Any courtship was constricted by Barry's career choice-away for months, home for a few weeks at best; but at least it gave Mary an inkling of marriage to a seafarer. Still, a captain's income, coupled with Barry's good looks and charm, certainly made him a great "catch" to Mary, who may have been a house servant fresh from indenture or the daughter of a poor family. There are no Clearys in the Philadelphia annals of the time, and Mary left no letters or other information for historians.86 Barry a.s.sumed his first command just as mercantile America won a temporary victory over the mother country. Merchants were already coping with the Navigation Laws and the Sugar Act by mastering smuggling as a business practice (in Boston, John Hanc.o.c.k was so successful at it that he earned the dubious nickname "King of Smugglers").87 While smuggling was the option most used to circ.u.mvent previous British laws designed to restrain private profit while increasing government revenue, the Stamp Act-Parliament's latest measure to cover postwar colonial expenses-was opposed outright by the merchants and their a.s.sociates. Their unified opposition forced its repeal in Parliament.88 There was still ample British influence over Barry's new venture. Under the law, the Barbadoes' cargo was limited to goods produced in Pennsylvania and New Jersey. For days, stevedores labored up and down the schooner's gangplank under the novice captain's watchful eye, until every item on his c.o.c.ket was stowed in the hold: thousands of barrel staves, headings, and shingles; bundles of hoops; dozens of chains, and bars of iron. Barry and Denny attested to their being "firmly bound unto our Sovereign Lord George III, by the Grace of G.o.d etc." and that, in compliance with the Navigation Laws, all goods were guaranteed delivery to Barbados and nowhere else.89 On October 20, 1766, with his small crew and a pilot aboard, Barry ordered the yards hoisted, the anchor weighed, and the sails unfurled. Denny was among the onlookers seeing Barry off, watching his investment stand down the Delaware. For Mary it would be months before her young lover returned-unless some tragedy took him away forever. John Barry had begun his career as a ship's captain.90 The new master discharged his pilot at Cape Henlopen and set a course east southeast toward Bermuda. From there Barry sailed south by east, a route he knew well. If meteorological conditions were good, the trip could be made in three weeks. Barbados is the easternmost of the Windward Islands, which comprise the lower half of the Lesser Antilles. Like a bent longbow, the islands curve gracefully, starting north at Puerto Rico and finishing at Grenada. Only Barbados juts out of place.

Its capital, Bridgetown, lies southwest on the island, facing Carlisle Bay. The established route that ships took was to round Barbados to windward and sail into the harbor.91 Barry arrived in Bridgetown in November, docking at the Stepping Stones Wharf.92 After meeting with customs officials, Denny's agent, and unloading the cargo, there was no rush to return home. Denny had arranged to keep the Barbadoes south and out of the winter storms, with instructions that Barry make two short hauls to the Carolinas and back to Bridgetown.93 The long layover allowed Barry and his crew to help save Bridgetown from infernal disaster. On the night of December 27, fire broke out in one of the waterfront stores. Winds spread the flames to the warehouses and soon threatened to engulf the entire town, already a victim of a devastating conflagration months earlier. Soon the winds sent the fire back toward Stepping Stones Wharf, licking at the Barbadoes and the other docked ships. Along with the townsfolk and other mariners, Barry and his sailors tirelessly worked the bucket brigades. By morning they had contained the damage to approximately forty buildings.94 Staying south to avoid the winter weather as planned, Barry made his round trips to the Carolinas. After his second ended, he had the hold filled with rum, sugar, and mola.s.ses, returning to Philadelphia in June 1767.95 During this pa.s.sage homeward the Pennsylvania Gazette published its first news report from Barry. It was customary for captains to inform newspapers of the ships they sighted or "spoke," giving their readers (especially owners and family members) any updates regarding those at sea: Captain Barry, from Barbadoes, informs, that a brig, Captain Duncan of this Port arrived there from Maryland, on the 10th of last month, and sailed again on the 12th for Antigua. On the sixth instant, in Lat 29, Long. 68, he spoke a Brig from Antigua for Virginia, 7 Days out, all well, but could not learn the Master's Name; and on the seventh in Lat 32:30 Long. 71, he spoke a Sloop, Captain Williams 15 days from Barbados, but last from St. Eustatia bound to New London.96 Barry's safe return with a hold full of profitable goods met with Denny's satisfaction, and he was back to sea in August. The young skipper sailed again to Barbados with a cargo similar to that of his first voyage. This junket, a true round trip, was one that fully tested his skills and nerve. On October 15, he began a forty-eight-hour sail through one of the more horrific storms that attacked the Atlantic coast. The Pennsylvania Gazette reported how "Captain Barry's Vessel was thrown on her Beam Ends for 24 hours, shifted her Cargoe, and he lost his Mainsail and Topsail."97 "Thrown on her Beam Ends" meant that the Barbadoes was sailing almost sideways, her sails reefed or in tatters, and perilously close to capsizing. The storm tossed the schooner about like a fragile toy, threatening the ship not only with gale force winds and high seas but with motion itself. Working under terrifying conditions day and night, the hardy men of the Barbadoes proved their seamanship.

This issue of the Gazette was filled with reports of a host of ships, bound from Europe as well as the Caribbean, a.s.sailed by what must have been a hurricane of monstrous proportions. To have sailed his schooner successfully through such a force of nature was a real accomplishment for Barry. Keeping a ship safe in a storm tested a captain's ability to handle life-and-death issues in rapid succession. By this time, Barry was familiar with how his schooner handled strong wind and dangerous seas. He also knew the measure of each man aboard. Doubtless his sailors had gotten to know him as well. With a crew this small, each person's capabilities were constantly tested.

Barry brought the Barbadoes back to Philadelphia on October 26, and wasted no time with his nuptials: on October 31, John and Mary were married in a simple ceremony. The newlyweds settled in the South Ward, which was affordable and close to the riverfront-although within reach of the tannery's stink.98 Their adjustment to married life lasted just a month, for Barry sailed again on November 28. Mary's first Christmas as a captain's wife was spent without her bridegroom. Word did not reach Philadelphia of John's safe arrival until January 23, 1768.99 One month later, the Gazette ran another report from Barry about the aftermath of another severe storm. Mary-if she were literate-could read about the hazards of her husband's profession: Captain Barry, also from this Place for Barbados, in his Pa.s.sage, Lat. 29, spoke a Sloop, Captain Winters, from Maryland for Halifax, who had been blown off the Coast, and was then standing for the Grenades, 7 Weeks out; that a Sloop from Maryland for Boston, and a Schooner from St. Eustatia for Connecticut, being blown off, were arrived at Barbados, the Captain of the latter died 9 Days before she got in; that Captain Forbes, in a Brig from New London arrived there in a shattered Condition, having . . . in a Gale of Wind, shipped a Sea, which carried away his Awning, and 40 Horses, also his Mainsail, Boom, Outer, Rails, Stanchions, Binnacle, Companion, Tiller, and every Thing off his Deck with one of his Men, who was drowned; that another Brig from the same Place, also arrived there, having lost 17 Horses, her Main, Topmast, and two Men, in the same Gale.100 Welcome, Mrs. Barry, to news from the sea.

Under the same schedule as the previous fall, Barry returned in May.101 He made no fewer than four voyages to Barbados in 1768 alone.102 While Mary adapted to her lot as a captain's wife, Barry's successes earned him recognition by his peers. In 1769 he was elected to the Society for the Relief of Poor, Aged and Infirmed Masters of Ships, and Their Widows and Children, better known as the Sea Captains Club. Membership in this organization was a sign that young Barry had arrived. Its roster of captains and owners was a veritable Who's Who of the Philadelphia maritime, and many of them would play a part in Barry's future adventures.103 The club's dinners at the City Tavern gave Barry an opportunity to put his talent for observation to use in a different world: the gentleman's dining room. While some members came from the same rough-and-tumble world as he, there were others like Charles Biddle, raised in a more genteel environment yet equally at home on a merchantman's deck and in a salon. Barry watched Biddle and the other gentlemen with a quiet intensity, scrutinizing their posture and language right down to which fork they used for what course. He saw admittance in the Sea Captains Club not so much an honor as a steppingstone-a chance to some day enter Philadelphia's upper cla.s.s.

Barry's voyages on the Barbadoes were undertaken while another political shoving match took place between the colonies and England. William Pitt, America's champion in Parliament, was mentally and physically ill. In a naked power play, his mantle was seized by Charles Townshend, whose agenda, pa.s.sed by Parliament and bearing his name, included blank search warrants ("Writs of a.s.sistance"), new duties on goods, and laws imposed on the colonies intended to increase British influence and profits. Among other odious practices under the Townshend Acts, the new position of "port collector" was handed to cronies of the royal governors, who weathered the animosity and disdain of merchant and captain alike.104 Merchants began attacking the issue of Crown taxes with a different weapon: their rights as British citizens. It was the start of their own personal tug of war, pitting their civic hearts against their financial souls. These same political and economic issues were discussed by the Sea Captains Club over pipes and bowls of punch at the London Coffeehouse. The new laws and duties dictated from on high across the Atlantic had a direct bearing on their livelihood, and they sided with their employers. The merchants won another economic victory when Parliament abolished all duties-except those on tea.105 Barry finished an eighth voyage commanding the Barbadoes in May 1769, and was back to sea before the month was over. Mary must have taken comfort that the summer voyages were always demonstrably shorter: no sooner did she read on August 17 that Barry was in Barbados than she saw his ship come in a few days later. As usual, the reunion was all too short, after a flurry of refitting and resupplying the schooner, Barry departed in early September on his longer winter mission. The Gazette reported that on his southern pa.s.sage, the schooner ran aground near Barbados and "it is hoped will also be got off with little Damage." By the end of the month, Mary, Denny, and other readers learned that "all [was] well."106 The Barrys, married two years, spent their third Christmas apart.

After several more trips in 1770, Barry made his last voyage in the Barbadoes that September. Whether Denny was ill or just looking to retire is not known. Over the previous year, Custom House tonnage reports listed the well-known merchant Reese Meredith as cosigner in Denny's stead.107 The log for this voyage is the oldest surviving doc.u.ment in Barry's hand. The Barbadoes departed Philadelphia for Antigua on October 7-at the height of the hurricane season-with a "Pleasant Breeze and Clear Weather attended with some squalls. / People employed on Sundry."108 There was "Fresh Breezes and Clear Weather with all sails sett" for the next two weeks.

Then the weather took a violent turn: "Strong Gales and Cloudy W[eather]. At 9 AM Close Reeft four top Sail at 10 AM Duble Reeft foresail M.S. [mainsail] and Took the Bonnet of[f] the Jib." The gale threatened to overwhelm the schooner. Barry, anxious to keep his course and use the wind as far as risk allowed, shortened and trimmed all but his mainsail. The next day, the Barbadoes "Pitched her Bowsprit in and Carreyed away the flying Jib Boom and washed away Some of the Jib." Without the lead sails working, Barry was forced to steer the schooner like a crab over the water. Repairs could not be made until the gale subsided two days later, when he entered in the log, "I find my self in the Gulfstream."109 The tempests returned: "Dark Rainey" storms dogged the Barbadoes, forcing Barry to sail through "a large Sea [and] hard Gales." Barry tenaciously held his course as close to south-southeast as possible, while green seawater washed over the bulwarks and poured down the hatchway, keeping his sailors hard at the pumps when not fighting the storm on deck or aloft. On October 30, Barry finally entered the words "MOD[erate] B[reezes] and Clear . . . with all sails sett." Cloudy days with no observations followed, but by now the master of the Barbadoes was an expert at dead reckoning: accounting for the ship's position when conditions prevented astronomical observations.110 By November 11, the Barbadoes was safely in Carlisle Bay.

When he returned to Philadelphia Barry learned of Denny's retirement, putting the young captain out of work; the deck of the ship he considered his own had been sold right out from under his feet. Success did not satisfy him-it merely stoked his ambition further. Only twenty-five and already an accomplished sailor and captain, Barry had a new goal: ship owner.

CHAPTER TWO.

STORMS.

BARRY'S ACHIEVEMENTS WERE QUITE A TOPIC among the mariners and merchants at the London Coffeehouse and City Tavern. As he was without employ upon his return to Philadelphia, Barry's services as captain were "recommended . . . to some of the most respectable merchants."1 Each voyage of the Barbadoes netted owner Edward Denny a 10 to 15 percent profit.2 Barry's was the latest success story along the waterfront.

Philadelphia's merchants and captains faced new risks. The economic downturn after the end of the French and Indian War, followed by the Stamp Act and the Townshend Acts, compounded the ever-present risks of fickle markets and the loss of ships at sea. Established firms, some in their second or third generation, weathered these challenges better than fledgling newcomers could. Quaker mercantile dynasties competed against firms with Anglican names like Willing, c.o.xe, and Morgan. Some of their suppliers and employees looked at the merchants' wealth and position with envy. Others, like Barry, saw their riches as an objective worth striving for. He was among the mariners, vendors, and artisans who, seeing that their talents and efforts did not produce similar financial rewards, concluded that becoming a merchant was their best chance at getting rich.3 In the early winter of 1770, Barry returned to Philadelphia with a plan, if not a ship. Already managing his earnings in a manner reflective of his penurious upbringing-dividing it between his expenses at home and his family in Wexford-he and Mary saved whatever remained. (Barry's prolonged absences gave her a freer hand on the purse-strings.)4 While lacking sufficient funds to purchase his own ship, there was enough to contribute to a joint venture, and he had partners in mind: John Dugan, a shopkeepe