Although the brief, enchanted twilight was over all the earth and sea, the graceful outlines of this lovely frigate were clearly defined against the opaline sky. She was stoutly sparred, but in such exquisite proportions that from her rail up she had the delicate beauty of a yacht. But one look at her lofty hull, and the menacing armament she carried showed that she could take care of herself in a fight, as well as run away when she had enough of it. Every rope and every spar was “ship-shape and Bristol fashion.” Her bright work shone like gold, and the rows of glistening hammocks in the nettings were as white as snow. Everything about her was painted an immaculate white, except the hull, which was a polished black. A gorgeous figure-head ornamented her keen bows, and across her stern, in great gold letters, was her name—United States. Such, indeed, was her official name, but from the day she had first kissed the water she had been nicknamed “Old Wagoner,” because of the steadiness with which she traveled. Other vessels might be delayed by vexing calms, but “Old Wagoner” was pretty sure to strike a favoring breeze that seemed specially reserved for her. And when old Boreas was in a rage, it was in vain that he poured out all the fury of his tempests upon her. She could go through a roaring gale like a stormy petrel, and come out of it without losing a sail or a spar. A little way off from “Old Wagoner” lay a trim and handsome little sloop-of-war carrying twenty guns—the Delaware—a fit companion for the great frigate. On both ships were indications of speedy departure, and all the orderly bustle that accompanies making sail on a ship of war. The boats were all hoisted in except the first cutter, and that was being pulled rapidly through the fast-darkening water. In it was a very young lieutenant, who was afterward to distinguish himself as Commodore Stewart, and two young midshipmen, just joined, and each of the three was destined to add something to the reputation that “Old Wagoner” gained in after-years, of having been a nursery of naval heroes. Both of these young midshipmen were about eighteen. One of them—Decatur—looked older, from his height and strength, as well as from his easy and confident address. The other one—Somers—seemed younger, because of a singularly quiet and diffident manner. The lieutenant, in the stern-sheets, engaged in steering the cutter through the mist upon the water without colliding with any of the fishing smacks with which the bay was dotted, yet found time to ask some questions of the young midshipmen, with whom he had long been well acquainted. “I think you two have always been together, have you not?” he asked, keeping meanwhile a bright lookout. “Yes,” answered Decatur, showing his white teeth in a smile. “We have been together ever since we were born, it seems to me. We both remember you when we were at school in Philadelphia, although you were so much older than we.”