It was a cruel disappointment to both Decatur and Somers, who had expected to be almost as much together as if on the same ship. When they had been thus dodging each other for months, Decatur found at Messina, where the Essex touched, the following letter from Somers:
“My dear Decatur: Here we are, going aloft, with a fair wind, while I am perfectly sure that the sail reported off the starboard quarter is one of the squadron—perhaps the Essex! As you know, Captain McNeill is apparently the most anxious man imaginable to report to his commanding officer; but if Commodore Dale wins in this chase, he will be a seaman equal to Paul Jones himself. For Captain McNeill is one of the very ablest seamen in the world, and, much as his eccentricities annoy us, his management of the ship is so superb that we can’t but admire the old fellow. But I tell you privately that he has no notion of taking orders from anybody, and the commodore will never lay eyes on him during the whole cruise. Nevertheless, he is doing good service, giving convoy, and patrolling the African coast so that the Barbary corsairs are beginning to be afraid to show their noses when the Boston is about.”
Here a break occurred, and the letter was continued on the next page:
“Just as I had written the last word, another sail was reported off the starboard quarter, and all of us are convinced that it is your squadron. I even think I recognize the rig of the Essex, among the four ships now visible. But old McNeill, sending his favorite lookout—an old sailor, Jack Bell, the captain of the maintop—aloft, we know very well that you will soon be hull down, and we ripping it as fast as we can leg it, on the opposite tack. Jack Bell, you must know, understands the captain’s peculiarity, and never sees anything the captain doesn’t wish to see. So he has just come down with the report that, of the four ships, not one is square enough in her rig to be a war ship, and that he thinks they are French transports! You can’t imagine with what a straight face he says this, and how infuriated we are. The captain then turns and says to us: ‘Gentlemen, this is most unfortunate. I was in hopes this was Commodore Dale’s squadron, but it is evidently not.’ And now we are bearing away due north, with every stitch of canvas set that will draw! I said that all of us are infuriated. That is not quite correct, for two or three odd fish among us have become infected with the captain’s mania, and declare that, for the credit of the thing, they don’t wish to be caught, for it is really a chase and a pursuit.