Famous Privateersmen and Adventurers of the Sea
by Charles H. L. Johnston · English · Gutenberg #26960 · 535,585 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Famous Privateersmen and Adventurers of the Sea
Author: Charles H. L. Johnston
Release date: October 19, 2008 [eBook #26960]
Most recently updated: January 4, 2021
Language: English
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Famous Privateersmen
AND ADVENTURERS OF THE SEA
Their rovings, cruises, escapades, and
fierce battling upon the ocean
for patriotism and for
treasure
By
CHARLES H. L. JOHNSTON
Author of "Famous Cavalry Leaders," "Famous
Indian Chiefs," "Famous Scouts," etc.
Illustrated
[Decoration]
BOSTON
THE PAGE COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
FAMOUS LEADERS SERIES
BY
CHARLES H. L. JOHNSTON
Each one volume, large 12mo, illustrated, $1.50
[Decoration]
FAMOUS CAVALRY LEADERS
FAMOUS INDIAN CHIEFS
FAMOUS SCOUTS
FAMOUS PRIVATEERSMEN
FAMOUS FRONTIERSMEN
[Decoration]
THE PAGE COMPANY
53 Beacon Street, Boston, Mass.
[Illustration: From "The Army and Navy of the United States."
"AGAIN THE CANNON MADE THE SPLINTERS FLY."
(_See page 273._)]
_Copyright, 1911,_
BY L. C. PAGE & COMPANY
(INCORPORATED)
_All rights reserved_
First Impression, November, 1911
Second Impression, November, 1914
THE COLONIAL PRESS
C. H. SIMONDS CO., BOSTON, U. S. A.
I DEDICATE THIS BOOK TO THE HAPPY MEMORY OF
George Alfred Henty
THE MOST STIMULATING AUTHOR OF BOOKS FOR BOYS
THAT THE PAST HALF CENTURY HAS PRODUCED,
AND A WRITER WHO HAS KEPT ALIVE THE
SPIRIT OF MANLY SPORT AND ADVENTURE
WHICH HAS MADE THE ANGLO-SAXON
PEOPLE A RACE OF WORLD CONQUERORS.
MAY THEY NEVER
RETROGRADE!
_Thanks are due the Librarian of Congress, and particularly to Mr.
Roberts of the Department of Prints, for numerous courtesies extended
to the author during the compilation of this volume._
PREFACE
MY DEAR BOYS:--The sea stretches away from the land,--a vast sheet of
unknown possibilities. Now gray, now blue, now slate colored, whipped
into a thousand windrows by the storm, churned into a seething mass of
frothing spume and careening bubbles, it pleases, lulls, then
terrorizes and dismays. Perpetually intervening as a barrier between
peoples and their countries, the wild, sobbing ocean rises, falls and
roars in agony. It is a stoppage to progress and contact between races
of men and warring nations.
In the breasts of all souls slumbers the fire of adventure. To
penetrate the unknown, to there find excitement, battle, treasure, so
that one's future life can be one of ease and indolence--for this men
have sacrificed the more stable occupations on land in order to push
recklessly across the death-dealing billows. They have battled with
the elements; they have suffered dread diseases; they have been
tormented with thirst; with a torrid sun and with strange weather;
they have sorrowed and they have sinned in order to gain fame,
fortune, and renown. On the wide sweep of the ocean, even as on the
rolling plateau of the once uninhabited prairie, many a harrowing
tragedy has been enacted. These dramas have often had no
chronicler,--the battle was fought out in the silence of the watery
waste, and there has been no tongue to tell of the solitary conflict
and the unseen strife.
Of sea fighters there have been many: the pirate, the fillibusterer,
the man-of-warsman, and the privateer. The first was primarily a
ruffian and, secondarily, a brute, although now and again there were
pirates who shone by contrast only. The fillibusterer was also engaged
in lawless fighting on the sea and to this service were attracted the
more daring and adventurous souls who swarmed about the shipping ports
in search of employment and pelf. The man-of-warsman was the
legitimate defender of his country's interests and fought in the open,
without fear of death or imprisonment from his own people. The
privateersman--a combination of all three--was the harpy of the
rolling ocean, a vulture preying upon the merchant marine of the enemy
to his country, attacking only those weaker than himself, scudding off
at the advent of men-of-warsmen, and hovering where the guileless
merchantman passed by. The privateersman was a gentleman adventurer, a
protected pirate, a social highwayman of the waters. He throve, grew
lusty, and prospered,--a robber legitimized by the laws of his own
people.
So these hardy men went out upon the water, sailed forth beneath the
white spread of new-made canvas, and, midst the creaking of spars, the
slapping of ropes, the scream of the hawser, the groan of the
windlass, and the ruck and roar of wave-beaten wood, carved out their
destinies. They fought. They bled. They conquered and were defeated.
In the hot struggle and the desperate attack they played their parts
even as the old Vikings of Norway and the sea rovers of the
Mediterranean.
Hark to the stories of those wild sea robbers! Listen to the tales of
the adventurous pillagers of the rolling ocean! And--as your blood is
red and you, yourself, are fond of adventure--ponder upon these
histories with satisfaction, for these stalwart seamen
"Fought and sailed and took a prize
Even as it was their right,
Drank a glass and kissed a maid
Between the volleys of a fight.
_Don't_ begrudge their lives of danger,
_You_ are better off by far,
But, if war again comes,--stranger,
Hitch _your_ wagon to their star."
CHARLES H. L. JOHNSTON.
The bugle calls to quarters,
The roar of guns is clear,
Now--ram your charges home, Lads!
And cheer, Boys! Cheer!
CONTENTS
PAGE
PREFACE vii
CARLO ZENO: HERO OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC 1
SIR FRANCIS DRAKE: ROVER AND SEA RANGER 23
SIR WALTER RALEIGH: PERSECUTOR OF THE SPANIARDS 53
JEAN BART: THE SCOURGE OF THE DUTCH 83
DU GUAY-TROUIN: THE GREAT FRENCH "BLUE" 113
EDWARD ENGLAND: TERROR OF THE SOUTH SEAS 137
WOODES ROGERS: THE BRISTOL MARINER 153
FORTUNATUS WRIGHT: THE MOST HATED PRIVATEERSMAN
OF THE MEDITERRANEAN SEA 173
GEORGE WALKER: WINNER OF THE GAMEST SEA FIGHT
OF THE ENGLISH CHANNEL 199
JOHN PAUL JONES: THE FOUNDER OF THE AMERICAN
NAVY 239
CAPTAIN SILAS TALBOT: STAUNCH PRIVATEERSMAN OF
NEW ENGLAND 283
CAPTAIN "JOSH" BARNEY: THE IRREPRESSIBLE YANKEE 299
ROBERT SURCOUF: THE "SEA HOUND" FROM ST. MALO 319
LAFITTE: PRIVATEER, PIRATE, AND TERROR OF THE
GULF OF MEXICO 341
RAPHAEL SEMMES: DESPOILER OF AMERICAN COMMERCE 373
EL CAPITAN 393
RETROSPECT 397
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
"AGAIN THE CANNON MADE THE SPLINTERS FLY"
(_See page 273_) _Frontispiece_
ZENO'S FLEET 18
SIR FRANCIS DRAKE 28
DRAKE'S GREATEST VICTORY ON THE SPANISH MAIN 44
YOUNG RALEIGH AND A COMPANION LISTENING TO TALES OF
THE SPANISH MAIN 55
SIR WALTER RALEIGH 60
JEAN BART 86
"JEAN BART LED HIS BOARDERS OVER THE SIDE OF THE
DUTCH VESSEL" 108
COMBAT BETWEEN DU GUAY-TROUIN AND VAN WASSENAER 135
"'LEFT US ENGAGED WITH BARBAROUS AND INHUMAN ENEMIES'" 146
"THE BOARDERS WERE REPULSED WITH GREAT SLAUGHTER" 193
ACTION BETWEEN THE "GLORIOSO" AND THE "KING GEORGE"
AND "PRINCE FREDERICK" UNDER GEORGE WALKER 231
AMERICAN PRIVATEER TAKING POSSESSION OF A PRIZE 239
"BEGAN TO HULL THE 'DRAKE' BELOW THE WATER-LINE" 261
"THEY SWARMED INTO THE FORECASTLE AMIDST FIERCE
CHEERS" 277
"TALBOT, HIMSELF, AT THE HEAD OF HIS ENTIRE CREW,
CAME LEAPING ACROSS THE SIDE" 289
AMERICAN PRIVATEER CAPTURING TWO ENGLISH SHIPS 298
"SURCOUF SCANNED HER CAREFULLY THROUGH HIS GLASS" 336
RAPHAEL SEMMES 376
"THE MEN WERE SHOUTING WILDLY, AS EACH PROJECTILE
TOOK EFFECT" 386
CARLO ZENO
HERO OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC
(1344-1418)
"Paradise is under the shadow of swords."--MAHOMET.
CARLO ZENO
HERO OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC
(1344-1418)
Zeno, noble Zeno, with your curious canine name,
You shall never lack for plaudits in the golden hall of fame,
For you fought as well with galleys as you did with burly men,
And your deeds of daring seamanship are writ by many a pen.
From sodden, gray Chioggia the singing Gondoliers,
Repeat in silvery cadence the story of your years,
The valor of your comrades and the courage of your foe,
When Venice strove with Genoa, full many a year ago.
The torches fluttered from the walls of a burial vault in ancient
Venice. Two shrouded figures leaned over the body of a dead warrior,
and, as they gazed upon the wax-like features, their eyes were filled
with tears.
"See," said the taller fellow. "He has indeed led the stalwart life.
Here are five and thirty wounds upon the body of our most renowned
compatriot. He was a true hero."
"You speak correctly, O Knight," answered the other. "Carlo Zeno was
the real warrior without fear and without reproach. He has fared
badly at the hands of the Republic. But then,--is this not life? Those
most worthy seem never to receive their just compensation during their
living hours. It is only when they are dead that a tardy public gives
them some recognition of the great deeds which they have done, the
battles which they have fought, and the honor which they have brought
to their native land. Alas! poor Zeno! He--the true patriot--has had
but scant and petty praise."
So saying the two noble Venetians covered the prostrate form of the
dead warrior--for they had lifted the brown robe which enshrouded
him--and, with slow faltering steps, they left the gloomy chamber of
death.
Who was this Venetian soldier, who, covered with the marks of battle,
lay in his last sleep? Who--this hero of war's alarms? This patriotic
leader of the rough-and-ready rovers of the sea?
It was Carlo Zeno,--a man of the best blood of Venice,--who,
commanding fighting men and fighting ships, had battled strenuously
and well for his native country.
The son of Pietro Zeno and Agnese Dandolo, this famous Venetian had
been well bred to the shock of battle, for his father was for some
time Governor of Padua, and had won a great struggle against the
Turks, when the careening galleys of the Venetian Squadron grappled
blindly with the aggressive men of the Ottoman Empire. There were ten
children in the family and little Carlo was named after the Emperor
Charles IV, who sent a retainer to the baptism of the future seaman,
saying, "I wish the child well. He has a brave and noble father and I
trust that his future will be auspicious."
Little Carlo was destined for the Church, and, with a Latin eulogium
in his pocket (which his Venetian school-master had written out for
him) was sent to the court of the Pope at Avignon. The sweet-faced boy
was but seven years of age. He knelt before the prelate and his
retainers, reciting the piece of prose with such precision, grace, and
charm, that all were moved by his beauty, his memory, his spirit, and
his liveliness of person.
"You are indeed a noble youth," cried the Pope. "You shall come into
my household. There you shall receive an education and shall be a
canon of the cathedral of Patras, with a rich benefice."
But little Carlo did not remain. Although dressed like a mimic priest
and taught with great care, the hot blood of youth welled in his veins
and made him long for a life more active and more dangerous. So he
looked about for adventure so thoroughly that he was soon able to have
his first narrow escape, and a part in one of those many brawls which
were to come to him during his career of war and adventure.
Sent by his relations to the University of Padua, he was returning to
Venice from the country, one day, when a man leaped upon him as he
walked down a narrow road.
"Who are you?" cried Carlo fearfully.
But the fellow did not answer. Instead,--he struck him suddenly with
a stout cudgel--knocked him senseless on the turf, took all the
valuables which he had, and ran silently away into the gloom.
Little Carlo came to his senses after many hours, and, staggering
forward with weakened steps, reached Mestre, where kind friends
dressed his wounds.
"I shall catch this assailant," cried he, when he had revived. "He
shall rue the day that he ever touched the person of Carlo Zeno." And
forthwith he secured a number of bloodhounds with which to track the
cowardly ruffian of the highway.
Luck was with the future commander of the galleons and fighting men. He
ran the scurvy assailant to earth, like a fox. He captured him, bound
him and handed him over to the justice of Padua,--where--for the
heinousness of the offense--the man was executed. So ended the first
conflict in which the renowned Carlo Zeno was engaged,--successfully--as
did most of his later battles.
Not long afterwards young Zeno returned to his studies at the
University, but here--as a lover of excitement--he fell into bad
company. Alas! he took to gambling, and frittered away all of his
ready money, so that he had to sell his books in order to play. The
profit from these was soon gone. He was bankrupt at the early age of
seventeen.
Ashamed to go home, the future sea rover disappeared from Padua and
joined a fighting band of mercenaries (paid soldiers) who were in the
employ of a wealthy Italian Prince. He was not heard of for full five
years. Thus, his relatives gave him up for dead, and, when--one
day--he suddenly stalked into the house of his parents, his brothers
and sisters set up a great shout of wonder and amazement. "Hurrah!"
cried they, "the dead has returned to his own. This is no ghost, for
he speaks our own native tongue. Carlo Zeno, you shall be given the
best that we have, for we believed that you had gone to another
world."
Pleased and overwhelmed with affection, young Carlo stayed for a time
with his family, and then--thinking that, as he had been trained for
the priesthood, he had best take charge of his canonry of Patras--he
went to Greece.
"Hah! my fine fellow," said the Governor, when he first saw him, "I
hear that you are fond of fighting. It is well. The Turks are very
troublesome, just now, and they need some stout Venetian blood to hold
them in check. You must assist us."
"I'll do my best," cried Zeno with spirit, and, he had not been there
a week before the Ottomans swooped down upon the city, bent upon its
demolition. The young Venetian sallied forth--with numerous fighting
men--to meet them, and, in the first clash of arms, received such a
gaping wound that he was given up for dead. In fact, when carried to
the city, he was considered to be without life, was stretched upon a
long settee, was clothed in a white sheet, and prepared for interment.
But in the early morning he suddenly opened his eyes, gazed
wonderingly at the white shroud which covered him, and cried, with no
ill humor,
"Not yet, my friends. Carlo Zeno will disappoint all your fondest
hopes. Once more I am of the world."
And, so saying, he scrambled to his feet, much to the dismay of the
sorrowing Venetians, who had been carefully spreading a number of
flowers upon the prostrate form of the supposedly dead warrior.
But so weak was the youthful hero that he had to be taken to Venice in
order to recover. When strong again he resumed his studies for the
ministry and was sent to Patras, a city that was soon threatened by an
army of twelve thousand Cypriotes and Frenchmen.
"Here, Zeno," cried the Bishop of Patras to the virile young
stripling. "We have seven hundred riders in our city. With this mere
handful, you must defend us against our enemies. The odds are fifteen
to one against you. But you must struggle valiantly to save our
beautiful capital."
"Aye! Sire!" cried the youthful student of church history. "I shall do
my best to free your capital from these invaders. May the God of Hosts
be with us! My men salute you."
So saying the valiant youth led his small and ill drilled company
against the besiegers, and, so greatly did he harass his adversaries,
that they abandoned the enterprise, at the end of six months; made
peace; and retired.
"Hail to Zeno!" cried many of the soldiers. "He is a leader well worth
our respect. Without him the great city would have surely fallen. Yea!
Hail to young Zeno."
These words of praise reached the ears of a certain Greek Knight
named Simon, and so roused his envy, that he audaciously accused Carlo
of treachery, which was soon told to the hot-headed young warrior. He
acted as one would well expect of him.
"I challenge you to single combat," cried he. "The duel shall be
fought in Naples under the eye of Queen Johanna."
In vain Carlo's friends besought him to forgive the loose-tongued
Simon--his patron, the Bishop, exhausted his eloquence in the endeavor
to reconcile the two. The hot blood of youth would out. It was fight
and no compromise. But before the trial, the bold and unyielding
soldier threw up his position with the Church and married a rich and
noble lady of Clarenta, whose fortune well supplanted the large income
which he had forfeited by his resignation.
Now honor called for deeds. Almost immediately he was obliged to leave
for Naples in order to meet the detractor of his valor, and, to his
surprise, the Queen spoke lightly of the quarrel. "It is a question of
law," said she. "An inquiry shall be had. There must be no bloodshed."
An inquiry was therefore in order, and it was a thorough one. "Simon
is in the wrong," said the fellow acting as clerk for those sitting
upon the case. "He must pay all the expenses to which Zeno has been
put, and there shall be no duel."
"My honor has been cleared," cried Zeno. "I must return to Greece."
There--strange as it might seem--he was at once named Governor of a
province, though not yet twenty-three. Events were going well with
him. But his wife died, he was cheated of his dowry by her relations,
and so he turned once more to Venice,--saddened, older and nearly
penniless. The wheel of fortune had turned badly for this leader of
fighting men and future general of white-winged galleons of the sea.
But now there was a really good fight--such a fight as all true
sailors love--a fight which tested the grit and courage of Zeno to the
full. It was the first of those heroic deeds of arms which shed
undying lustre on his name, and marked him as a seaman of the first
rank,--a captain of true courage, resources and ambition.
The Genoese (or inhabitants of Genoa) and the Venetians, were
continually at war in these days, and when--in patriotic zeal--Carlo
Zeno seized the island of Tenedos, the Venetian Senate, fearing lest
the Genoese would seek to recover the lost possession, sent a fleet of
fifteen ships to guard it, under one Pietro Mocenigo. There were also
two other vessels, one commanded by Carlo Zeno himself. The mass of
galleys floated on to Constantinople, for the Greeks had allied
themselves with the Genoese, had seized a Venetian man-of-war, which
had been captured, and had then retired. Three lumbering hulks were
left to protect the fair isle of Tenedos,--under Zeno, the war-like
Venetian.
"Aha," said a Genoese seaman. "There are but three galleys left to
save our isle of Tenedos. We shall soon take it with our superior
force. Forward, O sailors! We'll have revenge for the attack of the
wild men from Venice."
"On! on!" cried the Genoese seamen, and without further ado,
twenty-two galleys careened forward, their white sails bellying in the
wind, their hawsers groaning, spars creaking, and sailors chattering
like magpies on a May morning.
Carlo Zeno had only three hundred regular soldiers and a few archers,
but he occupied the suburbs of the town and waited for the attackers
to land. This they did in goodly numbers, for the sea was calm and
motionless, although it was the month of November.
"Men!" cried the intrepid Zeno, "you are few. The enemy are as
numerous as blades of grass. Do your duty! Fight like Trojans, and, if
you win, your grateful countrymen will treat you as heroes should be
respected. Never say die, and let every arrow find an opening in the
armor of the enemy."
The Genoese came on with shouts of expectancy, but they were met with
a far warmer reception than they had anticipated. The air was filled
with flying arrows, as, crouching low behind quickly constructed
redoubts, the followers of the stout-souled Zeno busily stretched
their bowstrings, and shot their feathered barbs into the mass of
crowding seamen. Savage shouts and hoarse cries of anguish, rose from
both attackers and attacked, while the voice of Zeno, shrilled high
above the battle's din, crying: "Shoot carefully, my men, do not let
them defeat us, for the eyes of Venice are upon you." So they
struggled and bled, until the shadows began to fall, when--realizing
that they were unable to take the courageous Venetians--the Genoese
withdrew to their ships.
There was laughter and song around the camp fires of Zeno's little
band, that night, but their leader spoke critically of the morrow.
"Sleep well, my men," said he, "for I know that our foes are well
angered at the beating we have given them. Next morn we shall again be
at war. Let us keep our courage and have as a battle cry, 'Venice! No
retreat and no quarter!'"
When morning dawned the Genoese were seen to land engines of war, with
the apparent intention of laying siege to the town. Their preparations
showed that they meant to attack upon the side farthest from the
castle, so Carlo Zeno--the quick-witted--placed a number of his men in
ambush, among a collection of half-ruined and empty houses which stood
in that quarter. "Stay here, my men," said he, "and when the enemy has
advanced, charge them with fury. We must win to-day, or we will be
disgraced."
Meanwhile the rest of the Venetians had retreated inland, and,
crouching low behind a screen of brush, waited patiently for the
Genoese to come up. "Be cautious," cried Zeno, "and when the enemy is
within striking distance, charge with all the fury which you possess."
"Aye! Aye! Good master," cried the stubborn soldiers. "We mark well
what you tell us."
Not long afterwards the attacking party came in view, and, without
suspecting what lay in front, advanced with quick gait towards the
supposedly defenseless town. But suddenly, with a wild yell, the
followers of Zeno leaped from behind the screening bushes, and dashed
towards them. At the same instant, the soldiers who had been placed in
hiding, attacked suddenly from the rear. Arrows poured into the ranks
of the Genoese, and they fell like wheat before the scythe of the
reaper. Hoarse shouts, groans, and cries of victory and death, welled
above the battle's din.
In the midst of this affair Carlo Zeno gave a cry of pain. An arrow
(poisoned 'tis said) had entered his leg and struck him to the ground.
But, nothing daunted, he rose to cry shrilly to his men, "On! On!
Drive them to the ocean." And, so well did his soldiers follow these
commands, that the Genoese fled in confusion and disorder to their
ships. The day was won.
As was natural, Zeno paid no attention to his wound, and, when the
enemy hurried to shore the next day for another attack, they were
greeted with such a terrific discharge of artillery that they gave up
their idea of capturing the island and sailed away amidst cries of
derision from the delighted Venetians.
"Hurrah!" cried they. "Hurrah for Zeno!" But so exhausted was the
intrepid leader by reason of his wound that he fell into a spasm as if
about to die. His iron constitution pulled him through, however, and
soon he and the faithful band returned to Venice, covered with glory,
and full satisfied with their hard won victory.
The daring Zeno was well deserving of praise, for he had beaten a
fleet and an army by sheer genius, with three ships and a handful of
men. To Venice had been preserved the valuable island which guards the
entrance to the Dardanelles, and to her it was to remain for years,
although the Genoese tried many times and oft to wrest it from her
grasp.
Now came another struggle--the war of Chioggia--a struggle in which
Carlo Zeno played a great and noble part,--a part, in fact, that has
made his name a byword among the grateful Venetians: a part in which
he displayed a leadership quite equal to that of a Drake, or a
Hawkins, and led his fighting galleons with all the courage of a lion.
Hark, then, to the story of this unfortunate affair! Hark! and let
your sympathy be stirred for Carlo Zeno, the indefatigable navigator
of the clumsy shipping of the Italian peninsula!
For years the Republics of Genoa and Venice remained at peace, but,
for years the merchants of the two countries had endeavored to outwit
each other in trade; and, thus, when the Genoese seized several
Venetian ships with rich cargoes, in 1350, and refused to give them
up, war broke out between the rival Republics. In two engagements at
sea, the Venetians were defeated; but in a third they were victorious,
and forever sullied the banner of St. Mark, which flew from their
Admiral's mast-head, by causing nearly five thousand prisoners of war
to be drowned. Fired by a desire for immediate revenge upon their foe,
the Genoese hurried a mighty fleet to sea, and ravaged the Italian
coast up to the very doors of Venice itself. Several other
engagements followed, in most of which the Venetians were defeated;
and then there were twenty years of peace before another conflict.
Finally war broke out afresh. Angry and vindictive, the Genoese bore
down upon the Venetian coast in numerous lumbering galleys,
determined--this time--to reach Venice itself, and to sack this rich
and populous city. With little difficulty they captured Chioggia, a
seaport, a populous city and the key to the lagoons which led to the
heart of the capital. They advanced to the very outskirts of Venice,
and their cries of joyous vindictiveness sounded strangely near to the
now terrified inhabitants, who, rallying around their old generals and
city fathers, were determined to fight to the last ditch.
As winter came, the victoriously aggressive Genoese retreated to
Chioggia, withdrawing their fleet into the safe harbor to await the
spring; leaving only two or three galleys to cruise before the
entrance, in case the now angered Venetians should attack. But they
were to be rudely awakened from their fancied seclusion.
"Lead us on, O Pisani," the Venetians had cried in the broad market
space of their beloved city. "We must and will drive these invaders
into their own country. Never have we received before such insults.
On! On! to Chioggia."
So, silent and vengeful, the Venetian fleet stole out to sea on the
evening of December twenty-first. There were thirty-four galleys,
sixty smaller armed vessels, and hundreds of flat-bottomed boats.
Pisani was in the rear, towing two heavy, old hulks, laden with
stones, to sink in the entrance of the harbor and bottle up the fleet,
even as the Americans were to sink the _Merrimac_ in the Harbor of
Santiago, many years afterwards.
The Genoese were unready. The cruisers, on duty as sentinels, were not
where they should have been, and so the gallant Pisani scuttled the
hulks across the harbor entrance and caught the bold marauders like
rats in a trap. The fleet of the enemy was paralyzed, particularly as
another river's mouth, some two miles southward, was also blockaded.
Smiles of satisfaction shone upon the faces of the outraged Venetians.
Carlo Zeno was hurrying up with a strong fleet manned by veteran
seamen, but the now victorious followers of Pisani wished to return to
Venice.
"It is the Christmas season," cried many. "We have fought like lions.
We have shut up our enemy. We have averted the extreme danger. Let us
return to our wives and our children!"
"You cannot go," said Pisani, sternly. "You are the entire male
population of Venice. Without you the great expedition will come to
naught, and all of our toil will have been thrown away. Only be calm.
Carlo Zeno will soon be here, and we can then take Chioggia!"
Alas! Like Columbus, he saw himself upon the verge of losing the
result of all his labor for lack of confidence in him upon the part of
his men. He could not keep them by force, so wearily and anxiously he
scanned the horizon for signs of an approaching sail.
The days went slowly by for the lion-hearted Pisani. Carlo Zeno did
not come. Day after day the valiant leader fearfully looked for the
white-winged canvas of a Venetian galleon, but none came to view. On
the thirtieth day of December his men were very mutinous.
"We will seize the ships and return to-morrow to Venice," cried
several. "We have had enough of war. Our wives and daughters cry to us
to return."
Pisani was desperate.
"If Carlo Zeno does not come in forty-eight hours, the fleet may
return to Lido," said he. "Meanwhile, keep your guns shooting at the
enemy. We must make these Genoese feel that we shall soon attack in
force."
But Pisani's heart was leaden. Where, yes, where was Zeno? New Year's
Day came, and, by his promise, he must let the Venetians go. What did
this mean for him? It meant the fall of Venice, the end of the
Republic, the destruction of the population with all that they
possessed. He--their idol, their leader for ten days--could no longer
lead, for the Venetians could not bear a little cold and hardship for
his sake. Sad--yes, sad, indeed--was the face of the stout seaman as
he gave one last despairing glance at the horizon.
Ha! What was that? A thin, white mark against the distant blue! It
grew larger and clearer. It was the sail of a galley. Another, and
another, and another hove in sight,--eighteen in all, and driving
along swiftly before a heavy wind. But, were they hostile, or
friendly? That was the question. Was it Zeno, or were these more
galleons of the Genoese? Then, joy shone in the keen eyes of Pisani,
for the banner of St. Mark fluttered from the peak of the foremost
ship, and floated fair upon the morning breeze. Hurrah! It was Carlo
Zeno, the lion-hearted.
God speed brave Zeno! He had been twice wounded in fights along the
coast, en route, but nothing could diminish his energy, or dampen his
ardor. He had laid waste the Genoese coast; he had intercepted convoys
of grain; he had harassed the enemy's commerce in the East, and he had
captured a huge vessel of theirs with five hundred thousand pieces of
gold. Marvellous Zeno! Brave, courageous Venetian sea-dog, you are
just in the nick of time!
"Thanks be to Heaven that you have come," cried Pisani, tears welling
to his eyes. "Now we will go in and take Chioggia. It means the end of
the war for us. Again, I say, thanks be to Heaven."
With renewed hope and confidence the Venetians now pushed the siege.
Seeing that their fleet could never escape, the Genoese started to dig
a canal to the open sea, by which the boats could be brought off
during the night. The work was begun, but Carlo Zeno discovered it in
time. Volunteers were called for, a force was soon landed, and, under
the leadership of Zeno, marched to intercept the diggers of this, the
only means of escape.
"The Venetians are going towards 'Little Chioggia,'" cried many of the
Genoese. "We must hasten there to stop them."
[Illustration: From an old print.
ZENO'S FLEET.]
But Zeno had only made a feint in this direction. Throwing his main
force in the rear of the Genoese, he soon began to cut them up badly.
They were seized with a panic. They fled towards the bridge of
Chioggia, trampling upon each other as they ran, pursued and slashed
to ribbons by Zeno's men. The bridge broke beneath the weight of the
fugitives and hundreds were drowned in the canal, while thousands
perished near the head of this fateful causeway. It was a great and
signal victory for Zeno; the intrepid sea-dog and campaigner on land.
This was a death blow. That night some of the garrison hastened to
desert, and, as the siege progressed, the drinking water began to
fail, the food gave out, and starvation stared the holders of Chioggia
in the face. On the twenty-fourth of June the city surrendered; and
four thousand one hundred and seventy Genoese, with two hundred
Paduans--ghastly and emaciated--more like moving corpses than living
beings--marched out to lay down their arms. Seventeen galleys, also,
were handed over to the Venetians: the war-worn relics of the once
powerful fleet which had menaced Venice itself.
As a feat of generalship, Pisani's blockade of the Genoese fleet is
rivalled by Sampson's blockade of Cervera's squadron at Santiago in
1898, and the military operation by which Carlo Zeno tempted the
garrison of Brondolo into the trap which he had set for them, and
drove them, like a flock of sheep into Chioggia, by sunset, is surely
a splendid feat of arms. All honor to this intrepid sea-dog of old
Venice!
How fickle is Dame Fortune! Jealous of the reputation of this noble
Venetian, the patricians, whose advice, during the war, he had
consistently declined to follow; refused to make him a Doge of the
City. It was thought that the election of the bravest captain of the
day might be dangerous to the Republic. Instead of doing him honor,
they imprisoned him; and was he not the noblest patriot of them all?
When over seventy years of age,--the greatest and truest
Venetian--loaned a small sum of money to the Prince Carrara, once a
power in Venetian politics. He had saved his country from destruction.
He had served her with the most perfect integrity. Yet, he reaped the
reward which fell to the share of nearly every distinguished Venetian;
he was feared by the government; hated by the nobles whom he had
out-stripped in honor, and was condemned to prison by men who were not
worthy to loose the latchet of his shoes. Although he had often paid
the mercenary soldiers to fight for Venice, in the War of Chioggia,
from his own pocket, he was sent to jail for loaning money to an
unfortunate political refugee.
When called before the Council of Ten on the night of the twentieth of
January, 1406, the warrant for his examination authorized the use of
torture. But even the Ten hesitated at this.
"He is a brave man," said one. "Pray allow him to go untouched."
The prisoner admitted that he had loaned the money. His explanation
was both honorable and clear. But the Ten were obdurate that night.
"He shall go to the Pozzi prison for a year," said they. "Besides
this, he shall suffer the perpetual loss of all offices which he has
held."
Like a brave man, Carlo Zeno accepted the sentence without a murmur,
and his sturdy frame did not suffer from the confinement. For twelve
years longer he lived in perfect health; made a pilgrimage to
Jerusalem; commanded the troops of the Republic once again; defeated
the Cypriotes, and died peacefully,--a warrior with a name of
undiminished lustre, most foully tarnished by his own compatriots. His
is a reputation of undying glory, that of his judges is that of
eternal shame. All honor to Carlo Zeno, the valorous Venetian, who
could fight a ship as well as a squadron of foot soldiers on land!
_Salve, Venetia!_
"Dip the banner of St. Mark,
Dip--and let the lions roar.
Zeno's soul has gone above,
Bow--a warrior's life is o'er."
HARKEE, BOYS!
Harkee, Boys! I'll tell you of the torrid, Spanish Main,
Where the tarpons leap and tumble in the silvery ocean plain,
Where the wheeling condors circle; where the long-nosed ant-bears sniff
At the food the Jackie "caches" in the Aztec warrior's cliff.
_Oh! Hurray for the deck of a galleon stout,_
_Hurray for the life on the sea,_
_Hurray! for the cutlass; the dirk; an' th' pike;_
_Wild rovers we will be._
Harkee, Boys! I'll tell you of the men of Morgan's band,
Of Drake and England--rascals--in the palm-tree, tropic land.
I'll tell you of bold Hawkins, how he sailed around the Horn.
And the Manatees went _chuck! chuck! chuck!_ in the sun-baked,
lazy morn.
_Oh! Hurray for the deck of a galleon stout,_
_Hurray for the life on the sea,_
_Hurray! for the cutlass; the dirk; an' th' pike;_
_Wild rovers we will be._
Harkee, Boys! You're English, and you come of roving blood,
Now, when you're three years older, you must don a sea-man's hood,
You must turn your good ship westward,--you must plough towards
the land
Where the mule-train bells go _tink! tink! tink!_ and the bending
cocoas stand.
_Oh! You will be off on a galleon stout,_
_Oh! You will be men of the sea,_
_Hurray! for the cutlass; the dirk; an' th' pike;_
_Wild rovers you will be._
SIR FRANCIS DRAKE
ROVER AND SEA RANGER
(1540-1596)
"The man who frets at worldly strife
Grows sallow, sour, and thin;
Give us the lad whose happy life
Is one perpetual grin:
He, Midas-like, turns all to gold,--
He smiles, when others sigh,
Enjoys alike the hot and cold,
And laughs through wet and dry."
--DRAKE.
SIR FRANCIS DRAKE
ROVER AND SEA RANGER
(1540-1596)
Sing a song of stout dubloons,
Of gold and jingling brass,
A song of Spanish galleons,
Foul-bottomed as they pass.
Of roaring blades and stumbling mules,
Of casks of malmsey wine,
Of red, rip-roaring ruffians,
In a thin, meandering line.
_They're with Drake, Drake, Drake,_
_He can make the sword hilt's shake,_
_He's a rattling, battling Captain of the Main._
_You can see the Spaniards shiver,_
_As he nears their shelt'ring river,_
_While his eyelids never quiver_
_At the slain._
So,--
Here's to Drake, Drake, Drake,
Come--make the welkin shake,
And raise your frothing glasses up on high.
If you love a man and devil,
Who can treat you on the level,
Then, clink your goblet's bevel,
To Captain Drake.
"Take care, boy, you will fall overboard. Take care and do not play
with your brother near the edge of our good ship, for the water here
is deep, and I know that you can swim but ill."
The man who spoke was a rough, grizzled sea-dog, clad in an old
jersey and tarpaulins. He stood upon the deck of an aged, dismantled
warship, which--anchored in the shallow water near Chatham,
England,--swung to and fro in the eddying currents. Around him, upon
the unwashed deck, scampered a swarm of little children, twelve in
all, and all of them his own.
"Very good, Father," spoke the curly-haired youngster. "I'll mind what
you tell me. You're wrong, though, when you say that I cannot swim,
for I can, even to yonder shore. Do you want to see me do it?"
"Nay, nay," chuckled the stout seaman. "You're a boy of courage,
Francis. That I can well see. But do not try the water. It is cold and
you will have a cramp and go under. Stick to the quarter-deck." And
laughing softly to himself, he went below, where a strong smell of
cooking showed that there was something upon the galley stove to feed
his hungry crew of youthful Englishmen.
It was surely a strange house to bring up a troop of merry children
in. The sound of wind and waves was familiar to them at night and they
grew to be strong and fearless. But is not this the proper way to rear
a sea-dog?
These little ducklings, descended from a Drake, must have early set
their hearts upon adventure and a seafaring life. In fact, one of
them, young Francis, was to be one of the best known seamen of the
centuries and knighted for his services to the Crown. Reared in a
ship, he, by nature, loved the sea as only a child of the ocean could
have done. The brine ran in his blood.
Being the son of a poor man, he was apprenticed to a master of a small
vessel which used to coast along the shore and carry merchandise to
France and the Netherlands. He learned his business well. So well,
indeed, that at the death of the master of the vessel it was
bequeathed "to Francis Drake, because he was diligent and painstaking
and pleased the old man, his master, by his industry." But the
gallant, young sea-dog grew weary of the tiny barque.
"It only creeps along the shore," he said. "I want to get out upon the
ocean and see the world. I will therefore enlist with my stout
kinsmen, the Hawkins brothers, rich merchants both, who build and sail
their own ships."
This he did, and thus began the roving life of Francis Drake:
dare-devil and scourge of the West Indian waters.
About fifty years before this lusty mariner had been born, America was
discovered by Christopher Columbus--an Italian sailor in the service
of Spain--and this powerful country had seized a great part of the new
found land. There was no love lost between the Spaniards and the men
from the cold, northern British Isles and thus Francis Drake spent his
entire career battling with the black-haired, rapacious, and
avaricious adventurers who flew the banner of King Philip of Arragon.
Sometimes he was defeated, more often he was successful. Hark, then,
to the tale of his many desperate encounters upon the wide waters of
the surging Atlantic.
Drake had said, "I'm going to sea with the Hawkins and view the
world," and, as John Hawkins was just about to sail for the West
Indies in six ships, the youthful and eager mariner was given an
opportunity to command a vessel called the _Judith_. The fleet at
first had good success. Slaves were captured upon the African coast
and were sold in the West Indies, though with difficulty, because the
Spaniards had been forbidden by their king to trade with the English.
Laden with treasure and spices, the ships were about to start for
home, when fearful storms beset them. Their beams were badly
shattered.
"We must seek a haven," cried Hawkins. "Ready about and steer for Vera
Cruz, the port of the City of Mexico! There we can buy food and repair
our fleet!"
"'Tis well," cried his men, and, aiming for the sheltering harbor,
they soon ploughed into the smooth water of the bay. But there was
consternation among the Spaniards of the town.
"We have treasure here," they whispered to each other. "See, those
English dogs have come to rob us! We must fight, brothers, and fight
hard to keep the cruel Islanders away." And they oiled their pistols
and sharpened their cutlasses upon their grindstones.
[Illustration: SIR FRANCIS DRAKE.]
But luck was with the inhabitants of Vera Cruz. Next morning thirteen
careening galleys swept into the quiet waters of the bay and joy
shone in the black eyes of the Spaniards.
"It is a Mexican fleet," cried they. "It returns with a new Viceroy or
Governor, from good King Philip of Spain." And they laughed
derisively.
But in the breasts of Drake and Hawkins there was doubt and suspicion.
"They are sure to attack us," said Hawkins, moving among his men. "Let
every fellow be upon his guard."
The Spanish were full of bowings and scrapings. They protested their
deep friendship for the English and wished to be moored alongside.
"We are very glad to see you, English brothers," said one. "We welcome
you to the traffic and trade of the far East." So they peacefully
dropped anchor near the suspicious men of England, still smiling,
singing, and cheerfully waving a welcome to the none-too-happy
sailors.
"Avast," cried Francis Drake, "and sleep on your arms, my Hearties,
for to-morrow there'll be trouble, or else my blood's not British." He
was but a young man, yet he had guessed correctly.
As the first glimmer of day shone in the dim horizon, a shot awoke the
stillness of the morn. Another and another followed in rapid
succession. Then _boom!_ a cannon roared, and a great iron ball buried
itself in the decking of the _Jesus_; the flagship of gallant Hawkins.
"We're attacked," cried Drake. "Man the decks! Up sails and steer to
sea! Fight as you never fought before! Strike and strike hard for
dear old England!"
But his warning almost came too late, for two Spanish galleons ranged
alongside and swung grappling irons into his rigging in order to close
with the moving vessel. The Englishmen struck at them with oars and
hand-spikes, knocking the tentacles of the on-coming octopus aside,
and, with sails flying and shots rattling, the _Judith_ bore towards
the open sea.
The fight was now furious. Two of the English ships were sunk and the
_Jesus_, Hawkins' own boat, was so badly damaged that she lay
apparently helpless in the trough of the surging ocean.
"Back, my Hearties," cried Drake, "and we'll see what we can do to
save our gallant captain."
So back they sailed, and, firing their little cannon with rapidity,
soon held off the Spanish ship which threatened Hawkins himself with
capture. Some of the English sailors jumped into their boats and rowed
away, some gave in to the Spaniards, and some fought relentlessly.
Thus raged the battle until the evening.
As night fell, Drake ordered the _Judith_ to put to sea, Hawkins
followed, and wandering about in these unknown parts, with little
water and a scarcity of food, hunger forced the weary sailors to eat
hides, cats, dogs, mice, rats, parrots and monkeys.
"It was the troublesome voyage," wrote Hawkins, and such, indeed, it
had proved to be. Some of the sailors asked to be placed on land
rather than risk shipwreck and starvation in the overcrowded boat.
Some of them reached England after years of suffering and weary
journeying to and fro. Some were captured by the Spaniards and were
put to death as heretics. A few were sent to the galleys as slaves.
Others, more fortunate, were rowed ashore to serve in monasteries,
where the monks made kind and gentle masters.
And what of the youthful and danger-loving Drake? Five days before the
wind-swept _Jesus_ struggled into Plymouth harbor with Hawkins and a
famine-driven crew, Drake and his own adventurous Englishmen steered
the little _Judith_ to the rocky headland which hides this sheltering
refuge from the fury of the sea.
"I am indeed right glad to reach Merrie England again," said he, "for
we have had a rough and dangerous voyage. The Spaniards are
treacherous dogs. They betrayed us, and henceforth I, for one, shall
show them no quarter."
So saying he journeyed to London to see the good Queen Elizabeth.
"It is impossible for me to wage war upon Philip of Spain," said the
valiant Mistress of England's destinies, when she heard his story of
loss of kinsmen, friends and goods of great value. "I have a poor
country. The navy of my fathers has been ruined. I have no proper army
with which to avenge the treachery of Spain, and I have trouble with
both France and Scotland. If you would have revenge, take matters into
your own hands."
"Philip is the mightiest monarch in the world to-day," answered the
well-bronzed mariner, bowing low. "I am only a humble seafarer
without either ships or money, but, most gracious Majesty, I am going
to help myself in my quarrel with the King of Spain. From henceforth
there will be war to the death between myself and the men of the
south."
The good Queen smiled, for she truly loved a valiant man.
"May God be with you," said she.
It was not long before the danger-loving mariner was again headed for
the West Indies and the Spanish Main, with a crew of seventy-three men
and boys.
"We believe in our leader," said one. "He will take us on to fortune
and to fame." And this was the sentiment of all, for who does not love
a voyage after gold and treasure?
Ploughing relentlessly across the deep, the two ships which carried
these roving blades, reached the palm-clad West Indies in twenty-five
days. All were cheerful and gay, for before them was danger,
excitement, battle, and Spanish gold. "Lead on, Captain Drake," cried
one of the men. "We wish to land at Plymouth with our pockets stuffed
with Spanish dubloons."
"I'll take you to the seaport of Nombre de Dios," said the bluff sea
ranger. "There is gold and silver in this spot, and by the hogshead.
Furthermore," he added chuckling, "most of it will be in the hold of
our stout ships, the _Pascha_ and the _Swan_, before another moon."
So the sailors were drilled in attack and sword play, while arms were
distributed, which, up to now, had been kept "very fair and safe in
good casks." All were in a cheerful mood, for the excitement of
battle had begun to stir the hot blood in their veins.
Late in the afternoon, the pinnaces (which had been carried on deck)
were launched, and climbing aboard, the men of Merrie England set sail
for the Spanish town. They lay under the shore, out of sight, until
dark. Then they rowed with muffled oars to the shadows of the
precipitous cliffs which here jutted into the rolling ocean, and
quietly awaited the dawn.
At three in the morning, while the silvery light of a half moon was
just reddened with the first flush of dawn, the eager buccaneers
landed upon the sandy beach. "Hark!" cried a youth, "We are already
discovered."
As he spoke, the noise of bells, drums, and shouting, came to the
startled ears of the invaders.
"Twelve men will remain behind to guard the pinnaces," cried Drake.
"The rest must follow me and fight even to the last ditch. Forward!"
Splitting into two bands, the Englishmen rushed through the narrow
streets with a wild cheer ringing in the silent air. Drake's
brother--with a certain John Oxenham and sixteen others--hurried
around behind the King's treasure-house, and entered the eastern side
of the market-place; while Drake, himself, marched up the main street
with bugles blowing, drums rolling, and balls of lighted tow blazing
from the end of long pikes carried by his stout retainers. The
townsfolk were terrified with the din and blaze of fire. "An army is
upon us," cried many. "We must flee for our lives."
In spite of this, a goodly number rallied at the market-place, where
there was a sharp fight. But nothing could withstand the onset of the
men from the fog-swept island, and soon the Spaniards fled, leaving
two behind who had been captured and held.
"You must show us the Governor's house," cried Drake. "All the
treasure is there."
The two captives obeyed unwillingly, and great was the disappointment
of the English when they found only bars of silver in the spacious
mansion.
"On! To the King's treasure-house!" again shouted the bold mariner.
"There, at least, must be gold and jewels."
In fact the English were furious with disappointment, for, as they
reached the Governor's mansion (strongly built of lime and stone for
the safe keeping of treasure) the eager pillagers rushed through the
wide-open doorway. A candle stood lighted upon the top of the stairs.
Before the threshold a horse stood champing his bit, as if recently
saddled for the Governor, himself, while, by the flickering gleam of
the taper, a huge glittering mass of silver bars was seen piled from
floor to ceiling. That was all,--no caskets of gold or precious stones
were to be seen.
"Stand to your weapons, men!" cried Drake. "The town is full of
people. Move carefully to the King's treasure-house which is near the
waterside. There are more gold and jewels in that spot than all our
pinnaces can carry."
As the soldiers hurried where he led, a negro called Diego, rushed
panting from the direction of the shore.
"Marse Drake! Marse Drake!" he wailed. "De boats am surrounded by de
Spanish. Dey will sholy be captured if you do not hurry back. Fo' de
Lohd's sake, Massa, come down to de sho'."
"My brother and John Oxenham will hasten to the shore," cried Drake.
"Meanwhile, my Hearties, come batter down the doorway to this noble
mansion. You are at the mouth of the greatest treasure-chest in the
world."
As the valiant captain spoke these words, he stepped forward to deal a
blow, himself, at the stout door which shut him from the glittering
riches. But suddenly he reeled and almost fell. Blood flowed in great
quantities upon the sand, from a wound in his leg which he had
received in the furious struggle within the market-place.
"Come, Captain," cried one of his retainers, seizing him in his arms.
"You must hasten to our pinnaces. What brooks this treasure to us when
we lose you, for, if you live we can secure gold and silver enough at
any time, but if you die we can find no more."
"I fear me that I am grievously hurt," sadly spake the Captain. "Give
me but a drink and then I think that I can reach our boats."
A soldier stooped and bound his scarf about the wounded leg of the now
weakened leader, and, bearing him aloft, the little band of
adventurers turned toward the ocean side. They soon embarked, with
many wounded besides the Captain, though none were slain save one
trumpeter.
Although the surgeons were kept busy in providing remedies and salves
for the hurts of the soldiers, their main care was for the bold
Francis Drake,--leader of this desperate expedition in quest of
treasure.
"If we lose you," cried a sailor, "we can scarce get home again. But
while we enjoy your presence and have you in command of us, we can
recover enough of wealth."
"Before we left the harbor we took, with little trouble, a ship of
wine for the greater comfort of our company," writes one of the stout
soldiers in this brave affair. "And though they shot at us from the
town we carried our prize to the Isle of Victuals. Here we cured our
wounded men and refreshed ourselves in the goodly gardens which we
found there abounding with great store of dainty roots and fruit.
There were also great plenty of poultry and other fowls, no less
strange and delicate."
Although unsuccessful--as you see--the brave mariners were not
daunted, and, after the wounded had recovered, a new expedition was
determined upon, with the purpose of capturing one of the trains of
mules which carried gold from Vera Cruz to Panama. Drake had been
joined by numerous Maroons--negroes who had escaped from the Spaniards
and had turned bandits--and these were quite willing and ready to aid
him in the pursuit of treasure. But before the English marauders moved
towards the interior, they attempted to attack Cartagena, the capital
of the Spanish Main.
Sailing into the harbor in front of this prosperous town, one evening,
they found that the townsfolk had been well warned of their coming;
they rang their bells and fired their cannon, while all of the
soldiers ranged themselves before the ramparts.
"Egad," cried Drake, with strange cheerfulness, in spite of his
disappointment. "They're far too ready to receive us. We've got to
withdraw."
So they prowled around the mouth of the harbor, captured two ships,
outward bound, and roared with laughter as they read a letter, written
to warn all nearby citizens of "that terrible marauder, pirate, and
butcher, Captain Drake."
"The Spaniards carry no treasure by land during the rainy months,"
said one of the natives. "You must wait for five full moons, if you
wish to catch a mule train."
"All right," said Captain Drake. "We'll fortify a place of
refuge--explore--and await the propitious moment when we can hope for
success."
Thus they tarried patiently until they heard from the Maroons (who
ranged the country up and down) that a large fleet had arrived from
Spain at Nombre de Dios. This was glad news. Drake smiled as he heard
it, and prepared immediately to make a land journey to Panama with
forty-eight followers, carrying provisions, arms, and many pairs of
shoes, because they were to cross several rivers of stone and gravel.
The way lay between great palm trees and through cool and pleasant
woods where the sturdy Englishmen were much encouraged when they heard
that there stood a great tree, not far from where they were, from
which one could see both the North Sea (Atlantic) from which they were
journeying, and the South Sea (Pacific) towards which they were going.
Finally--upon the fourth day--they came to a very steep hill, lying
east and west like a ridge, and, at this point, Pedro--chief of the
Maroons--took Drake by the hand, saying,
"Follow me, O Captain, and I will show you two seas at once, for you
are in the very centre of this country. Behold you stand in the heart
of this fertile land."
Looking before him, the lion-hearted adventurer saw a high tree in
which had been cut many steps, so that one could climb to the top.
Here was a convenient bower large enough for ten or twelve men to seat
themselves. Then--without further ado--he and the chief Maroon
clambered into the spreading branches and gazed across the nodding
palm tops into the dim distance. It was a fair day, and, as the
Maroons had felled certain trees so that the prospect might be more
clear, upon the delighted vision of the Englishman burst the vista of
the blue Atlantic and shimmering Pacific.
"I pray Almighty God in all his goodness," cried out the adventurous
Drake in loud tones of appreciation, "that I may have life and leave
to sail but once an English ship in this mighty ocean of the West!"
Then he called up the rest of the voyagers, and told them of his
prayer and purpose.
"I will follow you by God's grace!" cried John Oxenham, "unless you do
not wish my company."
Drake smiled good-humoredly, and, with a wave of his arm in the
direction of the glistening waters, descended to the ground.
"On, my hearties!" cried he, "and we'll soon bag a mule train with its
panniers filled with gold."
The men started forward, singing an old English ballad. As they walked
through the high pampas grass, they began to get glimpses of Panama
and the low-lying ships in the harbor. They kept silence and at length
hid themselves in a grove near the high road from Panama to Nombre de
Dios, while a negro was sent into the city as a spy.
In the afternoon the faithful henchman returned.
"A certain great man intends to go to Spain by the first ship," he
said. "He is travelling towards Nombre de Dios this very night with
his daughter and his family. He has fourteen mules, eight of which are
laden with gold and one with jewelry. Two other trains of fifty mules
each--burdened with food and little silver--will also come up this
night."
The English smiled, and, without more ado, marched to within two miles
of Vera Cruz, where half of them lay down upon one side of the road,
and half upon the other. They were screened by the tall grass; so
well, indeed, that no eye could see them, and in an hour's time, to
their eager ears came the sound of mule trains passing to and fro near
Vera Cruz, where trade was lively because of the presence of the
Spanish fleet. All was propitious for a successful attack.
But misfortune seemed always to follow the bold and adventurous
Drake. As mischance would have it, one of his men called Robert Pike,
who had "drunk too much brandy without water," was lying close to the
roadway by the side of a grinning Maroon, and, when a well-mounted
cavalier from Vera Cruz rode by--with his page running at his
stirrup--he rose up to peer at him, even though his companion pulled
him down in the endeavor to hide his burly form.
"Sacre Nom de Dieu," cried the traveller. "It is a white man! An
Englishman!" and, putting spurs to his horse, he rode away at a
furious gallop in order to warn others of the highwayman's position.
The ground was hard and the night was still. As Captain Drake heard
the gentleman's trot change into a gallop, he uttered a round British
oath.
"Discovered," he muttered, "but by whose fault I know not. We'll await
the other trains and mayhap we'll have some booty yet."
The gentleman, in fact, warned the Treasurer, who, fearing that
Captain Drake had wandered to this hidden thicket, turned his train of
mules aside and let the others--who were behind him--pass on. Thus, by
recklessness of one of the company, a rich booty was lost, but--as an
Englishman has well said, "We thought that God would not let it be
taken, for likely it was well gotten by that Treasurer."
There was no use repining, for soon a tinkling of bells and tread of
hoofs came to the eager ears of the adventurers, and, through the long
pampas grass ambled the other two mule trains--their drivers snapping
the whips with little thought of the lurking danger. In a moment they
were between the English and hidden Maroons, who--with a wild
cheer--dashed upon them, surrounded them, and easily held them in
their power. Two horse loads of silver was the prize for all this
trouble and hard travel.
"I never grieve over things past," cried Drake. "We must now march
home by the shortest route. It is certainly provoking that we lost the
mule train of gold, particularly as we were betrayed by one of our own
men. Come, soldiers, turn about and retreat to our good ships."
Half satisfied but cheerful, the soldiers and Maroons turned towards
the coast, and, as they neared Vera Cruz, the infantrymen of the town
swarmed outside to attack the hated men of Merrie England, with cries
of, "Surrender! Surrender!"
Drake looked at them scornfully, replying,
"An Englishman never surrenders!"
At this a volley rang out and one of the intrepid adventurers was "so
powdered with hail-shot that he could not recover his life, although
he continued all that day with Drake's men." But stout Francis blew
his whistle--the signal for attack--and, with a wild cry, the Maroons
and English rushed for the black-haired and sallow-skinned defenders
of the town. "Yo Peho! Yo Peho!" wailed the half-crazed natives as
they leaped high in the air, and encouraged by the presence of the
English, they broke through the thickets at the town's end and forced
the enemy to fly, while the now terrified Spanish scurried pell mell
down the coast. Several of Drake's followers were wounded, and one
Maroon was run through with a pike, but his courage was so great that
he revenged his own death ere he died, by slaying a Spaniard who
opposed him.
At sunrise the land pirates continued their journey, carrying some
plunder from Vera Cruz. Some of the men fainted with weakness, but two
Maroons would carry them along until they could again walk, and
thus--struggling, cursing and singing--the party of weary and
disappointed marauders neared the place where they had left their
ship. A messenger was sent forward with a golden toothpick to those
left behind upon the vessel and a request that the ship be brought
into the narrow channel of a certain river. It was done, and when at
last the weary plunderers reached the shore, they gave a mighty cheer
as they saw the white, bellying sails of their staunch, English
vessel. Their journey for pelf and jewels had been a failure.
This did not discourage the lion-hearted Drake, who declared, with a
smile, "We'll yet catch a mule train, boys, and one in which the
panniers are filled with sufficient gold to sink our good ship. Keep
your hearts bright and I'll gain you enough of treasure to house you
in peace and comfort in your old age. Remember--'Fortune favors the
brave!'" He had spoken with truth.
Not long afterwards a French captain appeared, whose men were only too
eager for a little journey ashore after golden mule trains and battle.
So a party was made up of twenty Frenchmen, fifteen Englishmen, and
some Maroons, who sailed with a frigate and two pinnaces, towards a
river called Rio Francisco--to the west of Nombre de Dios. They
landed, struck inland, and were soon near the high road from Panama to
Nombre de Dios, where mule trains passed daily--some with food and
merchandise--a few with golden ingots and bars of silver.
In silence they marched along and spent the night about a mile from
the road, where they could plainly hear the carpenters working on
their ships--which they did at night because of the fierce, torrid sun
during the day. Next morning--the first of April, but not an April
Fool's day by any means--they heard such a number of bells that the
Maroons began to chuckle and say, "You will have much gold. Yo Peho!
Yo Peho! This time we will all be rich!"
Suddenly three mule trains came to view, one of fifty long-eared
beasts of burden; two of seventy each, with every animal carrying
three hundred pounds weight of silver, amounting to nearly thirty
tons. The sight seemed almost too good to be true. With a wild shout
the ambuscaders leaped from their hiding places to rush frantically
upon the startled drivers. In a few moments the train was in
possession of Drake and his French and half-negro associates, who
chuckled and grunted like peccaries.
The leading mules were taken by the heads and all the rest lay down,
as they always do when stopped. The fifteen soldiers who guarded each
train were routed, but not before they had wounded the French captain
most severely and had slain one of the Maroons. Silver bars and gold
ingots were there aplenty. They were seized and carried off, while,
what was not transported, was buried in the earthen burrows made by
the great land crabs under fallen trees, and in the sand and gravel of
a shallow river.
"And now for home," cried a valorous sea farer, after a party had
returned with a portion of the buried treasure, which was divided
equally between the French and the English. Much of that left in the
sand crab holes had been discovered by the Spaniards--but not all.
Thirteen bars of silver and a few quoits of gold had rewarded the
search of the expectant voyageurs.
"Yes," cried all. "Sails aloft for Merrie England!" So, spreading
canvas, the bold adventurers were soon headed for the foggy and misty
isle from which they had come. On Sunday, August ninth, 1573--just
about sermon time--they dropped anchor in the peaceful harbor of
Plymouth.
"And the news of the Captain's return brought unto his people, did so
speedily pass over all the church, and fill the minds of the
congregation with delight and desire to see him, that very few, or
none, remained with the preacher. All hastened to see the evidence of
God's love and blessing towards the gracious Queen and country, by the
fruit of the gallant mariner's labor and success."
"To God alone," spake an humble citizen of Plymouth, "be the Glory."
[Illustration: DRAKE'S GREATEST VICTORY ON THE SPANISH MAIN.
(The surrender of Don Anton to Sir Francis Drake, March 1, 1579.)]
And all echoed these pious sentiments, in spite of the fact that
Drake was a robber, a pirate, and a buccaneer. But was he not their
own countryman?
* * * * *
The scene now changes. It is a gray day at Plymouth and anxious faces
peer into the street from the windows of the low, tiled houses. A
crowd has collected upon the jutting cliffs and all gaze with eager
eyes towards the ocean. Men speak in hushed and subdued voices, for
there is trouble in the air.
Among the knots of keen-eyed English there is one small party which
seems to be as joyous as a lot of school-boys. Five men are playing at
bowls, and one of them is stout, and well knit, and swarthy visaged
with long exposure to the elements. He is laughing uproariously, when
a lean fellow comes running from the very edge of those beetling
cliffs which jut far out into the gray, green Atlantic.
"Hark'ee, Captain Drake!" he cries. "Ships are in the offing, and many
of them too! It must be the fleet of Philip of Spain come to ravage
our beauteous country!"
"Ah, indeed," answers the staunch-figured captain, without looking up.
"Then let me have one last shot, I pray thee, before I go to meet
them."
And so saying, he calmly tosses another ball upon the greensward,
knocks aside the wooden pins, then smiling, turns and strides towards
the waterside.
Thus Drake--the lion-hearted--goes out to battle with the great Armada
of Philip of Spain, with a smile upon his lips, and full confidence in
his ability to defeat the Spaniards at home as well as on the Spanish
Main. Let us see how he fared?
Smarting with keen anger at Drake and his successful attacks upon his
western possessions, Philip--the powerful monarch of Spain--determined
to gather a great fleet together and to invade England with a mighty
army.
"That rascally pirate has beaten me at Cadiz, at Cartagena, and at
Lisbon," the irate king had roared, with no show of composure. "Now I
will sail against him and crush this buccaneer, so that he and his
kind can never rise again."
A mighty fleet of heavy ships--the Armada--was not ready to sail until
July, 1588, and the months before this had been well spent by the
English in preparation for defense, for they knew of the full
intention of their southern enemy. Shipwrights worked day and night.
The clamoring dockyards hummed with excitement, while Good Queen Bess
and her Ministers of State wrote defiant letters to the missives from
the Spanish crown. The cold blood of the English--always quite
lukewarm in their misty, moisty isle--had begun to boil with vigor.
The Britons would fight valiantly.
As the lumbering galleons neared the English coast, a heavy mist which
hid them, blew away, and the men of England saw the glimmering water
fairly black with the wooden vultures of old Spain. The Spaniards had
come ready to fight in the way in which they had won many a brilliant
victory; with a horde of towering hulks, of double-deckers and
store-ships manned by slaves and yellow-skinned retainers, who
despised big guns and loved a close encounter with hand thrusts and
push of pike. Like a huge, wooden octopus this arrogant fleet of
Arragon moved its tentacles around the saucy, new-made pinnaces of the
tight little isle.
"The boats of the English were very nimble and of good steerage,"
writes a Spaniard, "so that the English did with them as they desired.
And our ships being very heavy compared with the lightness of those of
the enemy, it was impossible to come to hand-stroke with them."
This tells the whole story. With a light wind astern--the war ships of
the English bore down easily upon the heavy-bottomed Spanish galleons
and fired their guns at the hulls of the enemy.
"Don't waste your balls upon the rigging," cried Drake through a
trumpet. "Sight low and sink 'em if you can. But keep away from the
grappling hooks so's not to let 'em get hold of you. If they once
do--you're lost!"
Now was the sound of splitting of boards, as the solid shot pumped
great holes in the sides of the high rocking galleons. Dense clouds of
vapor hung over the struggling combatants--partly from a sea fog which
the July sun had not thoroughly burned away, and partly from the
spitting mouths of the cannon. Fire burst from the decks, the roar of
the guns was intermingled with the shrill wails of the slaves, the
guttural cries of the seamen, the screams of the wounded and the
derisive howls of those maddened by battle. The decks were crimson
with blood; sails split and tore as the chain-shot hummed through the
rigging, and the sharp twang of the arquebusques was mingled with the
crash of long-barrelled muskets.
No men can fight like those who are defending their own homes. At
Gettysburg, the Army of the Potomac--twice beaten in an attack upon
the South in the enemy's country--struggled as it had never done
before,--and won. It had nowhere battled as when the foe was pushing
it back upon its own soil and cities.
So here--no fighters ever bled as did the English when the greedy
hands of Spain were clutching at their shores. The light ships hung
near the Spaniards at a distance and did not board until spars were
down and the great rakish hulls were part helpless. Then--with a wild
cheer--the little galleons--often two at a time--would grapple with
the enemy and board--cutlasses swinging, pistols spitting, and
hand-spikes hewing a way through the struggling, yellow-faced ruffians
of Philip of Arragon.
While the awful battle raged, fire ships were prepared on shore and
sent down upon the Spanish fleet, burning fiercely and painting the
skyline with red. Some of the large vessels had anchored, and, as
these terrors approached, they slipped their cables in order to
escape. Confusion beset the ranks of the boastful foe and cheered on
the British bull-dogs to renewed exertions.
At six in the evening a mighty cry welled from the British boats.
"They fly! They fly!" sounded above the ruck and roar of battle.
Yes--it was the truth. Beaten and dismayed, the Spanish fleet bore
away to the North, while the English--in spite of the fact that their
powder was wet, and nearly all spent--"gave them chase as if they
lacked nothing, until they had cleared their own coast and some part
of Scotland of them." The Armada--split, part helpless--drifted away
from Plymouth, and wild cheers of joy came from the deck of the vessel
which carried bold Sir Francis Drake. The great battle had been won.
So crippled were many of the Spanish hulks that they were wrecked in
stormy weather, off the coast of Scotland and Ireland. Not half of
those who put to sea ever reached Spain again. Many sailors were
drowned, or perished miserably by the hands of the natives of the
coast, and some who escaped were put to death by the Queen's orders.
Fever and sickness broke out in the English ships and the followers of
bold Drake died by hundreds, "sickening one day and perishing the
next."
The English vessels, themselves, were in a bad way--they had to be
disinfected and the men put ashore--where the report of the many
wrecks and the massacre of Spanish soldiers, eased the anxiety of the
once terrified inhabitants of the tight little isle, and made it
certain that the Armada would never return. Drake and his bold seamen
had saved the people of Merrie England. Again hats off to this pirate
of the Spanish Main!
Safely settled in Buckland Abbey, knighted, honored, respected--the
hero of the defense of England--one would think that Drake would have
remained peacefully at home to die "with his boots on." But not so.
The spirit of adventure called to him with irresistible force, and
again he set out for the Spanish Main. He had sailed around the world
before his grapple with the Armada; he had harassed the Spaniard in an
expedition to Lisbon; he was the idol of the English. He had done
enough--you say. Yes, he had done enough--but--like all men who love
the game of life he wished to have just one more expedition in search
of gold and adventure, for--by nature he was a gambler, and he was
throwing the dice with Fate.
So a goodly crew sailed with him again, hoping for another raid upon
mule trains and cities of treasure. But alas! There was to be a
different story from the others. All the towns and hamlets of the
Spanish Main had been warned to "be careful and look well to
themselves, for that Drake and Hawkins were making ready in England to
come upon them." And when the English arrived they found stout defense
and valiant men, nor was a sail seen "worth giving chase unto."
Hawkins died, many grew ill of fever, and finally Drake, himself,
succumbed to the malarial atmosphere of Panama. He was to remain where
gold and adventure had first lured him.
On January the twenty-eighth, 1596, the great captain yielded up his
spirit "like a Christian, quietly in his cabin." And a league from the
shore of Porto Rico, the mighty rover of the seas was placed in a
weighted hammock and tossed into the sobbing ocean. The spume frothed
above the eddying current, sucked downward by the emaciated form of
the famous mariner, and a solitary gull shrieked cruelly above the
bubbles, below which--upon beads of coral and clean sand--rested the
body of Sir Francis Drake, rover, rogue, and rattling sea ranger. It
was his last journey.
"Weep for this soul, who, in fathoms of azure,
Lies where the wild tarpon breaks through the foam,
Where the sea otter mews to its brood in the ripples,
As the pelican wings near the palm-forest gloom.
Ghosts of the buccaneers flit through the branches,
Dusky and dim in the shadows of eve,
While shrill screams the parrot,--the lord of Potanches,
'Drake, Captain Drake, you've had your last leave.'"
SEA IRONY
One day I saw a ship upon the sands
Careened upon beam ends, her tilted deck
Swept clear of rubbish of her long-past wreck;
Her colors struck, but not by human hands;
Her masts the driftwood of what distant strands!
Her frowning ports, where, at the Admiral's beck,
Grim-visaged cannon held the foe in check,
Gaped for the frolic of the minnow bands.
The seaweed banners in her fo'ks'le waved,
A turtle basked upon her capstan head;
Her cabin's pomp the clownish sculpin braved,
And, on her prow, where the lost figure-head
Once turned the brine, a name forgot was graved,
It was "The Irresistible" I read.
--HEATON.
SIR WALTER RALEIGH
PERSECUTOR OF THE SPANIARDS
(1552-1618)
"All great men have lived by hope."--JAMES FREEMAN
CLARKE.
[Illustration: YOUNG RALEIGH AND A COMPANION LISTENING TO TALES OF
THE SPANISH MAIN.]
SIR WALTER RALEIGH
PERSECUTOR OF THE SPANIARDS
(1552-1618)
"When the sobbing sea is squally,
Then,--look out for Walter Raleigh!
He's the fellow whom Queen Bess is said to love.
He's a reckless, handsome sailor,
With a 'Vandyke' like a tailor,
He can coo fond words of loving like a dove.
Faith! I like this gallant rover,
Who has ploughed the wild seas over,
Who has passed the grim and wild equator's ring.
And I cheer, whene'er I view him,
For--my Boy--off Spain I knew him
When he trimmed the Spanish cruisers, like a King."
--_Chant of the Plymouth Dock-Hand._
Boys! You have all heard about the _Square Deal_. Well--Here is the
story of a man who didn't get one.
Walter Raleigh was a brave man; he was an able seafarer; his younger
manhood was spent in the midst of the most brilliant Royal Court which
England has known. He proved his courage and military prowess in more
than one bitterly contested battle-field and naval conflict. His love
of his own land and his hatred of his enemies was ardent.
He was also a fellow of wit, and, as an author, took rank with the
great literary lights of the Elizabethan Age. He was an adventurer,
and, in middle life, as well as in old age, braved the great deep and
perils of savage lands in the magnificent attempt to make discoveries
and to settle English colonies in the New World. Chivalrous in actions
and feeling; of handsome person; graceful manners and courtly address;
it is no wonder that he had a host of enemies: those fellows who
couldn't do anything worth while themselves, and wanted to "pull the
other fellow down." There are plenty of them around, to-day, doing the
same thing in the same, old way.
As an Englishman he loved England to such an extent, that--upon the
return from one of his numerous voyages--he dropped upon one knee and
kissed the sand.
"My men," said he to his followers, "I love this land as nothing else
on earth!"
The hostility of his rivals subjected him to harsh ill treatment. It
did not dampen his love for England.
The silly caprices of Queen Elizabeth, who--like most women--was
swayed, not by her reason, but by her sentiments, made him suffer
imprisonment. Yet, it did not dampen his love for England.
The terrible and bitter dislike of King James--who succeeded the
Virgin Queen--finally led to his trial for treason; his execution; and
his death.
Yet, it did not dampen his love for England.
If England can produce men of such a mold, nowadays, she will continue
to be a mighty world power.
Do you think that _you_ could be as patriotic as Sir Walter Raleigh?
Particularly if _you_ were treated as _he_ was treated? Think it over!
* * * * *
One day, the ancient palace of Greenwich, which stood on the banks of
the Thames--a few miles below London--presented a lively and brilliant
scene. Courtiers, arrayed in gorgeous colors and glittering ornaments,
walked about, chattering gaily,--like a flock of sparrows. Fine, young
cavaliers were there, attired in rich velvets, sparkling with gems,
armed with gold-hilted swords. Grave statesmen wandered around,--with
beards as white as their ruffles. Stately dames, with heavy and gaily
trimmed trains, peered at the beautiful belles, and said:
"My, isn't she a fright!" or
"Goodness, what _dreadful_ manners the Duchess so-and-so has!"
Just as they do to-day. Times do not change.
Trumpets blared a fan-fa-rade and lines of soldiers gave forth
inspiriting sounds, with many musical instruments. There was a stir
and flutter in the crowd; and some one called out:
"She's coming! Hats off to the Queen!"
So all the men took off their hats,--for they were courtiers, and it
was their business to do so, whenever Her Royal Highness came around.
Many of them didn't like to do it but if they hadn't done so, some spy
would have cried out "Treason!" And they would have been hustled off
to the Tower. You _just bet_ they took off their hats!
Descending the broad flight of steps, with proud and majestic mien,
the tall and slender figure of Elizabeth--the maiden Queen of
England--was seen approaching.
She was then in the mature ripeness of middle age, but she still
preserved not a few remnants of the beauty of her youth. Her form was
straight and well proportioned. Her large, blue eyes were yet bright
and expressive; her complexion was still wonderfully fair and smooth.
Her well arranged hair was luxuriant and was of a light red. A large,
fan-like collar of richest lace rose from her slender neck, above her
head behind; and her tresses were combed high from her forehead.
Jewels blazed from her dress. Her attire was far more splendid than
that of any of the ladies of her court.
As it happened, a heavy shower had just passed over, and little
puddles of water stood all around upon the gravelled paths. Bursting
through the fast-vanishing clouds, the sun cast its rays upon the
trees still dripping with glittering drops; and upon the smiling
Queen, who--surrounded by a gay group of courtiers--set forth upon a
promenade through the park. She chatted affably with all. They tried
to make themselves as agreeable as possible, for he who was most
agreeable received the best plums from the Royal Tree. Politics
haven't changed any since that day.
The Queen walked on, playing with a beautiful, white greyhound, and,
pretty soon she came to a muddy spot in the path.
"Zounds!" said she (or it may have been something stronger, for
historians say that she could "swear valiantly"). "Zounds! Now I will
spoil my pretty shoes!"
"And also your pretty feet," interjected a courtier. He received a
smile for this compliment and the Queen mentally made a note of
it,--for future use in the distribution of Court Favors.
She hesitated, looked around aimlessly, and stood still.
At this instant a young noble--six feet tall and elegantly
attired--stepped forward; and, throwing aside his richly embroidered
cloak, spread it over the muddy pool.
"Prithee, pass onward!" said he, bowing low.
Elizabeth was delighted.
"Good Walter Raleigh," said she, smiling. "You are truly a gallant
knight!" And she tripped gaily across the embroidered mantlet. "I will
reward you right well for this!"
But the courtiers, the Ladies, and the Statesmen glanced with
undisguised envy at the young gallant who had so readily pleased their
Mistress; and they scowled at him as Elizabeth kept him at her side
during the rest of her promenade. "The Beggar's outdone us all!" said
one. "Down with him!"
But they could not down Sir Walter just then. After awhile they had
"their innings."
Rough, vain, whimsical Queen Bess was fond of handsome, and especially
of witty and eloquent young men. She grew more attached to Sir Walter
Raleigh every day. He rapidly rose in power and influence, and, as a
poet, became well known. His verses were read in the luxurious halls
of the palace with exclamations of delight, while the tales of his
military exploits were eagerly repeated from mouth to mouth; for
Raleigh had fought valiantly in France and had helped to suppress an
insurrection in Ireland.
And still the jealous courtiers murmured among themselves.
Raleigh was appointed "Warden of the Stanneries," or mines, in
Cornwall and Devonshire, from which he derived, each year, a large
income. He was made Captain of the Queen's Guard. He was created Lord
Lieutenant of Cornwall and Vice-Admiral of Devon. He received vast
estates in Ireland and many privileges and licenses, so that he was
fast becoming a rich man. He was splendid and extravagant in his
dress. He grew arrogant. He had, in fact, "too much Ego in his
Cosmos."
So, the jealous courtiers continued to murmur among themselves.
Elizabeth was fickle as well as sentimental. Her fancy passed lightly
from one gallant to another. For some time Leicester (who had once
been her sole favorite, and who desired to regain his position) had
been growing jealous of Raleigh's ascendency; and he had been
delighted to see that Queen Bess had taken a violent fancy to the
impetuous Earl of Essex. A quarrel took place between Raleigh and the
Ruler of England. He was affronted before the whole court and retired
to his chambers, overwhelmed with grief.
[Illustration: SIR WALTER RALEIGH.]
And all the jealous courtiers punched each other beneath the ribs,
and laughed "Ha! Ha! Ha! What did we tell you?"
It took the "Ego" out of Raleigh's "Cosmos."
But the gallant courtier had a half-brother--Sir Humphrey Gilbert--who
had just returned from a voyage around the world in the good ship
_Golden Hind_.
"Let's fit out a small fleet," said he to Raleigh, "and establish an
English colony in Newfoundland."
"I'm with you," cried Sir Walter. "We'll found another England in far
distant America! On with it!"
Thus, an expedition of five ships sailed from Plymouth, in the early
summer of 1583. Sir Humphrey boarded the _Squirrel_, and bade his
kinsman an affectionate adieu.
"You must remain behind," said he, "and regain our position at court!"
"That I will endeavor to do," answered Raleigh. "Good luck and God
speed."
The expedition was a failure from the start. Scarcely had the shallops
gone to sea, than one of them--the _Raleigh_--deserted its companions
and put back. The rest reached Newfoundland, but the men were lawless
and insubordinate.
"This is the Deuce of a cold place for a colony," they said. "Home to
Merrie England!"
Gilbert was forced to yield to their angry demands, and re-embarked.
"Don't sail in that rattle-trap of a _Squirrel_," said his officers to
him. "She'll founder!"
But Sir Humphrey had that obstinacy which characterized General
Braddock.
"No: I will not forsake the little company, going homeward," said he.
"I'll stick to my ship."
He stuck--and--when they hailed him one stormy night, he said:
"Be of good cheer, my friends: we are as near to Heaven by sea as by
land!"
That night the _Squirrel_ was sailing a little in advance of the other
ships, and, as those on board the _Golden Hind_ watched the frail
barque, they saw her lurch, heave, and then sink from view. Thus the
soul of brave Raleigh's kinsman found a watery grave. He had paid for
his obstinacy with his life.
Raleigh was overwhelmed with grief when he learned of the death of his
heroic half-brother.
"I'll yet found my Colony," said he. "And I'll go myself."
This pleased the jealous courtiers more than ever, for they would now
have him out of the way for all time.
With his ample wealth, the indefatigable adventurer found no
difficulty in fitting out an expedition, and, in the year after the
death of Sir Humphrey Gilbert, he sent forth two vessels to explore
the coast of the Carolinas.
"I'm going to stay at home and face my enemies!" said the gay blade.
"Again good luck and God Speed!"
They had a fortunate voyage, and, when they returned, the Captains
told of the beautiful harbors, fine rivers, magnificent forests and
abundance of game. The Queen was delighted, and at once named the
fair country for herself, with characteristic egotism. That men might
know that this fruitful land was explored in the time of the Virgin
Queen, it was called "Virginia." Raleigh was wild with delight.
And the jealous courtiers looked dejected and sad.
A fleet of seven vessels--with one hundred colonists--was now sent to
Virginia, under the command of one Grenville, who was eager to become
suddenly rich: a disease as common now as in those venturous days. No
sooner had the people landed, than they began to treat the savages
with such harshness and rapacity--that they had to gain their own
food, as the natives would have nothing to do with them. Dissensions
tore the little community into shreds. So they were only too glad to
return with the gallant old sea-dog, Sir Francis Drake, when he
happened that way, with a large amount of booty which he had just
taken from the Spaniards in the southern seas.
Another expedition was sent over by Raleigh; and yet another. They
were failures. But there was one, single thing which was not a
failure. This was the discovery of a herb called "Yppowoc," or
tobacco, the leaves of which--when dried--were smoked by the natives
in long pipes.
Curious Sir Walter had a jeweller in London make him a silver pipe,
after the fashion of those used by the native Virginians. In this he
began to smoke the tobacco, and soon grew to like it very much; so
much, indeed, that he was scarcely ever without this comforter, when
enjoying the quiet of his home.
One day he was sitting cosily by his fire with his Long Nine in his
mouth, and the smoke was curling gracefully over his head. Just as he
was puffing out a particularly thick cloud, one of his servants
happened to enter the room with a tankard of ale, for the luncheon
table.
"Ye Gods!" cried he. "My Master's on fire!"
_Swash!!_
Over Sir Walter's head went the ale, and the frightened lackey dashed
down the steps.
"H-e-l-p! H-e-l-p!" cried he. "My Master is burning up! H-e-l-p!"
But Sir Walter did not burn up this time. Instead he near split his
gallant sides with laughing.
Now, Boys, don't smile! 'Tis said that good old Queen Bess tried,
herself, to smoke a Long Nine. But--hush--"she became so dizzy and ill
from the effects that she never ventured upon the experiment again!"
(Keep this quiet! Very quiet! Will you!)
On one occasion she was watching Sir Walter blowing circles of smoke
over his head, and said to him--
"Zounds! (or something stronger) Sir Walter! You are a witty man; but
I will wager that you cannot tell me the weight of the smoke which
comes from your pipe!"
"I can, indeed," was the confident reply of the gallant courtier.
"Watch me closely!"
At once he took as much tobacco as would fill his pipe and exactly
weighed it. Having then smoked it up, he--in like manner--weighed the
ashes.
"Now, Your Majesty," said he, smiling. "The difference between these
two weights is the weight of the smoke."
And again Queen Bess remarked "Zounds!" (or Eftsoons!). At any rate,
she paid the wager, for--with all her frailties--she was a Good Loser.
Raleigh, in fact, shortly became reinstated in Royal favor, and, when
he aided Drake and Hawkins--soon afterwards--in dispersing the
Invincible Armada, he was again in the good graces of his sovereign.
There was, however, a pretty, young Maid-of-Honor at court, called
Elizabeth Throgmorton, and no sooner had the bright eyes of Sir Walter
fallen upon her, than he fell in love. In paying court to this amiable
lady he was compelled to use great caution and secrecy, for jealous
Queen Bess watched him narrowly, and with suspicion. In spite of her
preference for Essex, Elizabeth was quite unwilling that Raleigh--her
less favored lover--should transfer his affections to another. So, in
making love to Elizabeth Throgmorton, the gay courtier was compelled
to use the utmost care.
But Murder (or Love) will out!
It chanced one day, that the Queen discovered what was going on
between her Maid-of-Honor and the cavalier. Her rage knew no bounds.
She berated Raleigh before her ladies, and forbade him to come to
court. She fiercely commanded the Maid-of-Honor to remain a prisoner
in her room, and, on no account to see Raleigh again. So the venturous
Knight turned his attention once more to wild roving upon the sea.
Now the jealous courtiers fairly chuckled with glee. "Ha! Ha! Ha!"
laughed they. "Ho! Ho! Ho! He! He! He!"
But Sir Walter engaged very actively in fitting out some squadrons to
attack the Spanish ships.
"Egad! I hate a Spaniard!" he said. "They are my country's special
enemies and I intend to do them all the harm that I can!"
The Queen was glad enough to separate him from his lady love and not
only consented to his project, but promised to aid him in it. Ere long
fifteen vessels were anchored in the Thames--all ready to sail--but,
before he set out, the gallant commander made up his mind that he
would marry his beloved Maid-of-Honor. It was not difficult to find a
clergyman who would splice him tighter than he ever spliced a rope
aboard ship. The deed was done. He set sail. All was going
propitiously.
"I'll attack the Spanish ships in the harbor of Seville," said
Raleigh. "Then--off to the Spanish Main and sack the town of Panama."
He laughed,--but what was that?
Rapidly approaching from the coast of England came a swift pinnace. It
gained upon the squadron in spite of the fact that all sail was
hoisted, and, at last came near enough to give Raleigh a signal to
"Heave to." In a few moments her commander climbed aboard.
"The Queen has changed her mind about your expedition," said he. "She
has sent me--Sir Martin Frobisher--to tell you to come home."
Raleigh said things which made the air as blue as the sea, but he put
back--for he could not disobey the Royal command. He was soon at
court.
The Queen was furious with anger.
"You have disobeyed my commands," said she. "I find you have secretly
married my Maid-of-Honor. To the Tower with you! To the dungeons of
the Tower!"
And all the jealous courtiers were so happy that they danced a can-can
in the ante chamber.
What do you think of this? Thrown into prison because he loved a Maid
and married her! Nowadays "all the World loves a Lover." In those
times all the world _might_ have "loved a Lover" except Queen
Bess,--and a number of courtiers hanging around within easy call:
_They_ kicked a Lover. And then they all got together and said:
"Fine! Fine! Now we've got him where he ought to be. Ha! Ha! Ha! Ho!
Ho! Ho!"
But women relent; that is one of their chief characteristics. Queen
Bess softened, grew lukewarm, finally became molten.
"Sir Walter Raleigh can go free," said she.
The gallant courtier returned to his country estate, where--with his
wife and children he enjoyed the luxuries and comforts of country
life. And the jealous courtiers began to look strangely sober.
Still the sea called. The sea sang its old song, and, fired with the
spirit of adventure, Sir Walter decided upon another expedition: this
time to the coast of Guiana, in South America, where, it was said,
"billets of gold lay about in heaps, as if they were logs of wood
marked out to burn." With a large fleet at his command he soon started
upon this expedition for plunder and for fame. This time no Sir Martin
Frobisher sailed after him to bring him back to a dungeon in the Tower
and he was able to reach his destination.
The expedition was a howling success. Whenever and wherever Sir Walter
could inflict injury on the Spaniards, whom he so bitterly detested,
he did so with eagerness. A Spanish ship was soon seen, chased,
and--after a brief, hot fight--surrendered and was boarded.
"Egad!" cried Raleigh. "Here's luck, for the cargo's of fire arms.
I'll stow them away in my own vessel and let the captive go!"
Proceeding on his voyage, he not long afterwards encountered and
captured another prize; a Flemish ship sailing homeward with a cargo
of fine wine. Twenty hogsheads were transferred to the hold of
Raleigh's ship and the captured craft was allowed to sail on,--empty.
Things continued to go well. The Island of Trinidad (off Venezuela)
was reached at last. The natives were friendly and told of vast
deposits of gold far up the river Orinoco. "But would Raleigh not
please besiege the Spanish town of St. Joseph?" said they, "and rescue
some of their chiefs whom the Spaniards held prisoners--in chains."
"I always strike a Spaniard when I can," said Raleigh. "On, men, we'll
sack this proud city!"
St. Joseph speedily fell into his hands. The chiefs were released.
They were so gratified, that they paddled him far up the river, where
they found glittering gold, which they tore out of rocks with their
daggers. The Englishmen were delighted, and, collecting a mass of
nuggets to show to those at home, they put back to the ships, set
sail, and were soon in England again.
The people were astonished at this exploit, but the jealous courtiers
did all they could to deprive Raleigh of the renown which was justly
his due.
"What this fellow has told is a lie," whispered they into the ears of
good Queen Bess. "There is no such place as Guiana. Raleigh has been
down upon the coast of Spain and hidden himself. He has not crossed
the Atlantic at all."
Which proves that no one can ever do anything adventurous without
stirring up the hammers of the Envious: the Little Men. Is it not so
to-day? Look around! You can hear the carping critic at any time that
you may wish! _Do_ something _big_, sometime. Then put your ear to the
ground and listen!
But the sea called for the fifth time. A vast English fleet was hurled
against the Spanish at Cadiz,--a great English fleet, accompanied by
an army. England was bound to get even with the Spaniards for daring
to launch the supposedly invincible Armada against them--and Sir
Walter eagerly sailed for the coast of Spain.
The harbor of Cadiz was seen to be fairly jammed full of stately
galleons and men-of-war. Arranged in compact rows, close to shore,
just below the towering and frowning castle of Cadiz; they were
protected, on either side, by fortresses, whence heavy guns peeped
forth to defend them. There were nearly sixty large vessels in all,
four of which were galleons, and twenty of which were galleys:
well-manned and well-armed with small cannon. There were many more
ships than in the attacking fleet.
It was the evening of June the 20th, 1596. The British vessels rapidly
sailed into the harbor, Raleigh leading, in the flagship, the _Water
Sprite_; behind him the _Mary Rose_, commanded by his cousin, Sir
George Carew; and the _Rainbow_ under Sir Francis Vere. All were eager
for the fray, and it was not long before their approach was observed
by the Spanish fleet. Instantly a huge galleon, the _Saint
Philip_--the largest in the Spanish Navy--swung out of her position,
followed by the _Saint Andrew_, second only to her in size.
"They're coming to meet me!" cried Raleigh--joyously.
Instead of that, the galleons sailed for a narrow strait in the
harbor--followed by the rest of the Spanish fleet--and cast anchor
just under the stout fortress of Puntal. They arranged themselves in
close array and awaited the attack of the English.
The English fleet anchored, but at daybreak, the impetuous Raleigh
bore down upon the formidable mass of hulking galleons. The sun rays
streamed over the old, Spanish town, gilding the pinnaces and spires
of the churches, shining brightly upon the flapping pennons of
Britisher and Don. The white sails flapped, spars creaked and groaned,
the sailors cheered, and--in a moment--the cannon began to bark, like
wolf hounds. The fight had begun.
Raleigh was the incarnation of battle. Passing rapidly from point to
point upon the deck of his vessel, he encouraged and urged on his men,
exposed himself as freely as the rest; and whenever a man faltered,
there he appeared to urge the faint heart on with words of inspiration
and hope.
_Roar! Roar! Roar! Zoom! Zoom! Crash!_
The arquebusses spittled and spat; cannon growled; and iron crashed
into solid oak planking.
The orders were not to board until the fly-boats (long, flat-bottomed
vessels with high sterns) came up, which were manned by Dutch allies.
For three hours the battle raged, but the fly-boats did not arrive.
The Earl of Essex--the commander of this expedition--now ordered his
flagship to pass through the advance line of vessels, and make the way
to the front. Raleigh was chafing with rage because the fly-boats did
not come, yet, in spite of the danger of being shot, he jumped into a
light skiff, and was rowed over to the galleon of Essex.
"I'll board the _Saint Philip_," cried he, "if the fly-boats do not
soon arrive. Even though it be against the orders of the Admiral. For
it is the same loss to burn, or to sink, and I must soon endure one or
the other."
"Go ahead!" yelled Essex, over the bow. "I'll second you, upon my
honor!"
Raleigh hastened with all speed to the deck of the _Water Sprite_,
where his men were pounding away at the Spanish galleons with all
their might and main. No sooner had he mounted the poop, than he saw,
with anger, that two vessels of his own squadron had forced themselves
into a position in front of his own; for their commanders wanted to
win first honors in this battle at sea.
Raleigh, himself, wished to have the honor, just like other sea
captains in later battles. But,--that's another story.
So, the gallant seaman ran the _Water Sprite_ between the two other
ships and took up his position as leader. Sir Francis Vere of the
_Rainbow_ was resolved to keep in front as well as Raleigh.
As the _Water Sprite_ passed him he slyly cast a rope to a sailor, who
tied it to her stern, and his own vessel thus kept abreast of the
lumbering galley of his chief. "But," writes Sir Walter, "some of my
company advising me thereof, I caused the rope to be cast off, and so
Vere fell back in his place, where I guarded him--all but his very
prow--from the sight of the enemy. I was very sure that none would
outstart me again for that day."
The guns of the fort appeared to be silent and the big galleons lay
apparently helpless in the face of the valiant enemy. Raleigh moved
on, but, as he was about to clutch his splendid prize, it escaped him,
for the Spaniards--finding that they would be captured--made haste to
run the _Saint Philip_, and several of her sister ships, aground on
the sand.
"Blow them up!" came the order.
The Spanish sailors and soldiers came tumbling out of the ships into
the sea in heaps--"as thick as if coals had been poured out of a sack
into many pots at once." Then a terrific roar boomed forth. The air
was filled with flying splinters, canvas, iron, and lead. The portions
of the galleons were now floating upon the waves and the water was
alive with the struggling bodies of the Spaniards as they desperately
endeavored to save themselves.
The spectacle was lamentable. Many drowned themselves. Many, half
burned, leaped into the water; while others hung by the ropes' ends;
by the ships' sides; under the sea, even to their lips. "If any man
had a desire to see Hell, itself," wrote Sir Walter, "it was there
most lively figured!"
Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!
The English sailors were cheering, for victory was theirs, and of all
the gallant warriors of that day, Raleigh had been the most
persistently daring and heroic.
"The _Saint Andrew_'s still afloat, good Sire!" cried one of his
sailors at this moment.
"Then we'll take her!" cried Raleigh.
She was boarded and captured with little difficulty, while yet another
galleon--the _Saint Matthew_--fell into his hands. These were the only
vessels of all that proud Spanish fleet which had escaped the flames.
Raleigh, himself, had been severely wounded in the leg, but he refused
to release the command of his ship. He gave orders that all lives
should be spared, and although these mandates were rigidly obeyed by
the English soldiers, the Dutch cruelly slaughtered many of their
hapless prisoners, for their hatred of the Spaniards was bitter and
savage.
Cadiz had not yet fallen and Raleigh was determined to go on shore
with the troops and witness the taking of the town, in spite of his
wound. A litter was prepared for him--he was lowered into one of the
boats--rowed ashore, carried upon the shoulders of some of his
faithful soldiers, and witnessed the furious struggle which now
ensued. Cadiz fell. Although the lives of the people were spared; the
castle, fortifications and the greater part of the town itself, were
burned and demolished. If you go there, to-day, you will still find
the marks of this great and stirring strife.
There was nothing left but to put the Spanish prisoners aboard the
galleons, collect the plunder, and set sail for England. When the
fleet again swung into the little harbor of Plymouth it was received
by the people with wildest enthusiasm and delight. All England rang
with the praise of the valor and courage of her heroes, for Spain had
been stripped of her ability to injure her English rival and England's
power was supreme upon the sea. Raleigh and his comrades had done
this,--and the descendants of Raleigh and his comrades have continued
to uphold the supremacy. Hurrah for Raleigh!
But how about those jealous courtiers? They were still around--Oh,
yes!--And Raleigh was greeted at court as coldly as when he had
departed with the fleet. He had been deprived of his office of Captain
of the Queen's Guard, and even his bravery at Cadiz did not win this
back for him. Nor did he receive any of the spoil which had been won
by himself and his comrades. Even Queen Bess was angry because her
share of the booty taken from Cadiz was not as great as she had hoped
for.
"What the Generals have got," wrote Sir Walter, "I know least. For my
own part, I have got a game leg, and am deformed. I have received many
good words and exceedingly kind and regardful usage; but I have
possession of naught but poverty and pain."
Not long afterwards the old Queen was persuaded to write Sir Walter to
come to court, and thus he and his wife, whom Elizabeth had also
forgiven, appeared daily in the brilliant throng which clustered in
the halls and corridors of the Royal Palace. He was restored to his
old office of Captain of the Queen's Guard and rode forth again in all
the splendor of his uniform, at the side of the sovereign.
The rest of Sir Walter's life can be briefly narrated. With Essex he
took part in a successful expedition to the Azores, where they
captured many ships, and with him divided much booty and fame. But
Essex became too ambitious and started a conspiracy to place himself
upon the throne of England. It was a failure. He was captured by the
Queen's soldiers--a part under Sir Walter himself--was tried, and
executed for High Treason.
Queen Bess soon died and was succeeded by a man who disliked Sir
Walter from the start. This was James the First of Scotland--a "dour"
fellow--who charged the valorous knight with treason, for it was
alleged that he had conspired, with Lord Cobham, to place the
youthful Arabella Stuart upon the throne. He was tried, convicted, and
thrown into the Tower, where he lived for twelve long, tedious years.
Think of it! A fellow of his venturesome and restless spirit forced to
remain in a dungeon-keep for such a time! Weep for brave Sir Walter!
This was fine treatment for a patriot!
But the jealous courtiers did not weep. Oh no! _They_ laughed.
When gallant Sir Walter was thrown into the Tower (for he had not
plotted against the King) he was a hale and stalwart cavalier of
fifty-two. He was released--after twelve years--when his hair and
beard were grizzled, his face worn and wrinkled, his body somewhat
bent, and his features grave and sorrowful. With what tearful joy he
clasped to his breast his ever faithful wife and his two sons! At
sixty-four his brave spirit was still unshaken; his ardent and
restless ambition was as keen as ever.
He went forth with the sentence of death still hanging over his head;
for King James, although giving a grudging consent to his release, had
refused to pardon him. And he went forth with the understanding that
he should lead an expedition to the coast of Guiana in South America;
there to attack the Spaniards and gain plunder, gold, and jewels. If
successful he was to go free. If non-successful, he was to suffer
punishment--perhaps death!
The expedition was a failure. The Spaniards and natives were well
aware of his coming, for 'tis said that King James, himself, sent them
news of the expedition.
"If I go home it's off with my head," said Sir Walter. "But I'll risk
it."
Don't you think if you had been Sir Walter, instead of sailing to
England where you knew that a headsman's axe awaited you, you would
have coasted by the shores of the Chesapeake Bay and dropped off
quietly where is the home of the canvas-back and the terrapin! Just
stepped into one of the jolly-boats and peacefully drifted ashore on a
dark night?
I think that you would have been strongly inclined to do so,--but
_you_ are not Sir Walter Raleigh. _He_ was a lion-hearted adventurer.
Opportunity after opportunity came to him to escape to the shores of
France. He let them go by, but, when he found that his enemies
demanded his trial for treason, he thought it high time to get away.
He learned that a French envoy had arranged to get him to France and
had a barque for this purpose. A certain Captain King had found a
small boat commanded by one of Sir Walter's old boatmen, which lay at
Tilbury awaiting his orders. It was arranged by Raleigh's guard--one
Stukeley--that he should be rowed to the little lugger on the evening
of Sunday, August the 9th, 1618. The latter was sent up the Thames
river to Gravesend.
At the hour designated, Raleigh, Captain King, Stukeley and his son
Hart, with a page, jumped into two small wherries in order to row to
the lugger. They had just shoved off, when keen Sir Walter saw another
boat push out from the bank and follow them.
"How's this?" said he to Stukeley.
But silent Stukeley did not answer.
The boat rowed fast, but the pursuing craft moved with equal speed.
The tide was singing and gurgling in a mad flow, and it became
doubtful whether the wherries could reach Gravesend under the
protection of darkness, for day was breaking, and the whirling water
made progress very slow.
At last--seeing that they could not get away--the shallops were forced
to turn about and retrace their passage. The pursuing boat swung,
also--like a shadow of the first. Sir Walter's heart beat
tumultuously.
When the fugitives reached Greenwich--Stukeley stood up and appeared
in his true colors. Laying a hand upon the shoulder of faithful
Captain King, he cried--
"I arrest you in the name of our Monarch, James First!"
Raleigh looked around in anger and dismay.
"Stukeley," he said with heat, "you are a trait'rous cur. These
actions will not turn out to your credit!"
But the knave laughed derisively,--so derisively that the common
people dubbed him "Sir Judas Stukeley." And it well suited him. Didn't
it?
The boatmen rowed directly to the Tower and the boat which had pursued
the wherries--which contained a courtier named Herbert (to whom
Stukeley had betrayed the projected escape)--followed them close. The
soldiers in her (for they had been well hidden) escorted the dejected
Sir Walter to the grim walls of the dungeon.
There was now no hope for that gallant adventurer: the man had
brought honor and renown to England. He was tried for Treason:
condemned: executed.
As he stood waiting for the axe to fall, he said:
"I have many sins for which to beseech God's pardon. For a long time
my course was a course of vanity. I have been a seafaring man, a
soldier, and a courtier; and, in the temptations of the least of these
there is enough to overthrow a good mind and a good man. I die in the
faith professed by the Church of England. I hope to be saved, and to
have my sins washed away by the precious blood and merits of our
Saviour, Jesus Christ."
A quick shudder ran through the multitude when Sir Walter had ceased
to live, and many groaned aloud at the horrible sight. One stout
yeoman cried out angrily, "We have not had such another head to be cut
off."
The crowd separated slowly, muttering and crying out against the
enemies of the valiant man; while his friends, who were present,
parted with tears coursing down their cheeks.
And the jealous courtiers said: "Magnificent!" It was now their turn
to shout. And they did it, too.
* * * * *
So, you see, Sir Walter Raleigh's patriotism was paid for by death.
The trouble with him was, he was too much of a man.
_Nowadays_--when a soldier or sailor does something for England--they
give him a Hip! Hip! Hurray!
He is appreciated. He is presented with titles, honors, and a warm
reception.
_Then_, when a man did something for England, those in power gave him
the cold shoulder; the icy stare.
That's the reason why England's sons will do something for her now. If
she had kept treating them as she did Sir Walter Raleigh she wouldn't
have many of them around when it came to a fight. _And, some day,
she'll need them all!_
So when a fellow does something really great, don't greet him with
frozen silence. _Cheer! He needs it! Besides,--it won't hurt you!_
_Give a tiger and three times three!_
THE VANISHED SAILORS
Say, sailors, what's happened to young Bill Jones?
Jones of Yarmouth; the bright-cheeked boy?
Jones who could handle a boat like a man,
Jones, who would grapple a smack like a toy?
"_Fell o'er the sea-end with Raleigh. Ahoy!_"
Well, sea-dogs, where's Thompson of Yarmouthport dock?
The chap who could outwit old Hawkins, they say,
The man with th' knowledge of charts and of reefs,
There wasn't his equal from Prawle to Torquay.
"_Fell o'er the sea-end with Raleigh, to-day!_"
Where's Rixey of Hampton; Smith of Rexhill?
Who'd coasted and traded from London to Ryde,
Huggins and Muggins, all seamen of worth,
Who could jibe and could sail, sir, when combers were wide?
"_Fell o'er the sea-end with Raleigh. Last tide!_"
Well, seamen, when that day shall come near,
When the salt sea is moved from its bed,
Some will there be, who can give us the news,
Of all that brave band, whom Adventure has led
To
"_Fall o'er the sea-end with Raleigh, 'tis said!_"
"Such is the man,
Whom neither shape nor danger can dismay,
Nor thought of tender happiness betray;
Who, not content that worth stands fast,
Looks forward, persevering to the last,
From good to better, daily self-surpassed."
--_Ballads of the Day._
JEAN BART
THE SCOURGE OF THE DUTCH
(1650-1702)
As long as selfishness remains a Human
Passion,--Warfare will continue.
JEAN BART
THE SCOURGE OF THE DUTCH
(1650-1702)
"'What means that canvas, Skipper? It's bearing down to port,
And it drives a blackish barquentine, with every topsail taut,
There're guns upon her poop deck. There're cannon near her bow,
And the bugler's bloomin' clarion, it shrills a how-de-row?'
The skipper took a peep at her, his face turned ashen pale,
His jaw began to tremble, and his knees began to fail,
As the flag of France swung to the breeze and fluttered without check,
'Jean Bart!' he gurgled weakly, and fainted on the deck."
--_Rhymes of The Dutch Channel Fleet._--1676.
The good ship _Cochon Gras_ boiled along off the coast of Normandy
under a full spread of canvas, for the breeze was light, and was from
the southward. A boy of sixteen stood at the helm. He was well bronzed
by exposure to the elements; was sturdy and strong. His dark hair
waved luxuriantly about a face in which keenness and shrewdness were
easily to be seen. His name was Jean Bart and he had been born at
Dunkirk in France.
The Captain of the _Cochon Gras_ strode about upon the deck below. He
was in an evil mood and his voice showed his ill feeling.
"Put the helm over!" he shouted to the steersman. "Don't you see that
your sails aren't half full! Boy, will you never learn!"
Jean Bart obeyed.
"Very good, my Captain!" said he. "Very good, my Monsieur Valbue."
And, at this, the captain scowled, for he was in a beastly temper.
"I am glad that you act quickly," said he. "You know nothing. By
acting quickly you will learn a thing or two. _Tiens!_ Be speedy! Be
very quick! Be like the Bishop of Oleron!"
He smiled and lurched against the rail.
"Ah, this good prelate was a true seaman," said he. "He knew the tides
like a mackerel. He knew as much as I do, myself, and that is saying a
good deal."
Jean Bart chuckled at the vanity of Monsieur Valbue.
"The good Bishop was standing on the rocks upon a stormy evening,"
continued the captain, "when he saw some fisher boats making for the
harbor. One of them was bearing too close to the shore. One of them
was going to go upon the rocks. One of them was steered by a poor
fellow who knew neither the reefs nor the shoals. 'Voila!' cried the
good bishop. 'Voila! I will save this dull-witted sailor.' And,
forthwith, what do you think that he did,--?"
A small knot of seamen had, by this time, collected around the
talkative captain. They all shook their heads.
[Illustration: JEAN BART.]
"Fools," cried Captain Valbue. "Fools! Why, he strode into the sea, of
course. Being a pure man of God and a member of the true church, he
walked upon the surface of the water. The boat coming in was manned by
Huguenots, by unbelievers, mark you! By fellows who had neither the
sense nor the grace to be members of the true church. _They_ could not
walk upon the water. Oh! No! But the good Bishop _he_ walked as easily
as a stormy petrel, for he was a man of God. And, as he reached the
boat he made the sign of the cross, saying, 'Beware of the rocks which
you sail down upon! Bear off to the left! When you see the red buoy,
bear to the right, and then come home by keeping your bow pointed for
the spire of the big church!' And they did so. They were saved by the
good Bishop, whom I know well. As for me. I would have let the foolish
Huguenots get their just deserts. It would have been one heretic less
and good riddance."
At this one of the seamen was plainly angered.
"Piff!" said he. "Piff!" That was all. But Monsieur Valbue had noticed
it and Monsieur Valbue grew angry in a moment. Seizing a half-empty
cider mug, from which he had been drinking, he hurled it at the head
of the fellow who had made the remark.
"You dog of a Huguenot!" he roared.
The seaman dodged, and the cider mug spun into the planks of a jolly
boat. Then he stepped forward and said,
"Captain Valbue, the Laws of Oleron, under which we sail, say that you
cannot and must not strike a seaman with any missile. I, Lanoix, will
strike back if you hit me."
But Monsieur Valbue was like a bubbling tea-pot. Seizing a
hand-spike, he shot it out at the man who knew the law.
"The Laws of Oleron allow me just one blow," blubbered Captain Valbue.
"Just as the laws of England allow each dog one bite."
As luck would have it, he missed his shot.
Lanoix leaped over the iron rail which separated the forecastle from
the after part of the vessel. Then he turned around.
"Follow me here, you coward!" he shouted to the captain, "and I will
have the right to crack you through the middle. Consult the Laws of
Oleron under which we sail and see if they do not back me up!"
"The laws be blowed!" yelled Monsieur Valbue, now beside himself with
rage. And, leaping across the rail he struck the Huguenot two sturdy
blows in the face.
Jean Bart, meanwhile, steered the ship: looked on; and said nothing.
R-i-i-p! There was a flash, a blow, and a cry of pain. A large, keen
knife was clenched in the strong right hand of Lanoix, and the captain
was running red, with a deep gash in his shoulder.
"Down with the Mutineer! Down with the dog!" came from the throats of
the members of the crew who had clustered about the two enraged men,
smiling at the little affair.
With a rush they were upon the Huguenot; had forced him to the deck;
and wrested the knife from his hand. But, before it was wrenched from
his fist, the blade had pierced the body of a seaman and had felled
him to the boarding.
"Bring up the Laws of Oleron," cried Captain Valbue, when the Huguenot
had been secured. "Bring up the Laws of Oleron from my cabin, and let
us see whether or no I was right, when I struck this prating Lanoix!"
The cabin-boy dove below and was soon again upon the deck.
"The law shall be read," cried the captain. "Out with it!"
Now, aboard the vessel was one Antoine Sauret--a good, old
boatswain--a friend of the father of Jean Bart, and a courageous man.
"The law shows you to be in the wrong," said he.
"Yes," cried Jean Bart from the wheel, which he had not left. "You
were, and are, in the wrong." Monsieur Valbue glowered at them.
"I am the law," said he. "Is this not my vessel?"
"But the right is on his side," interrupted the good Antoine Sauret.
"You wait and see what I do to this cur of a Huguenot," snarled
Captain Valbue. "And no more talk from either you or Jean Bart. Hear!
Six out of eight of the crew agree that this Lanoix has wounded me and
has slain one of his ship-mates--without proper provocation--I will
now fix him."
And this he did in the most approved manner.
Lashing his victim's arm to a sharp sword tied to the windlass, he
knocked the unfortunate Lanoix upon the deck with a hand-spike. Then,
tying him--still alive--to the dead sailor whom the Huguenot had
killed when the crew rushed upon him,--he cried out:
"Throw 'em both to the fishes!"
They were seized.
"One! Two! Three! Heave Away!" sounded from the throats of the
Frenchmen.
Lanoix and the dead sailor spun out above the blue water. A splash. A
gurgle of white foam, and the Atlantic closed above them.
Seamen--you witness--were brutes, in these merry days of privateering.
But hear the sequel of the gruesome story!
Jean Bart and the good boatswain Sauret had, from that moment, no high
opinion of the Laws of Oleron. So, when the vessel touched at Calais,
upon the coast of France, they walked up to the captain, saying:
"Sir. We wish to leave you! We cannot sail any longer beneath your
orders."
The brutal Valbue scowled.
"Go!" said he. "And good riddance."
But when the circumstances of the death of the two men were reported
to the authorities, the captain was tried.
"The Law of Oleron," said the Judge to him, "acquits you, for the
Huguenot sailor was in the wrong to draw his knife, when you struck
him only with your fists. But it is a bad law and must be changed."
Here he turned to young Jean Bart and the good Sauret.
"As for you two," said he, "I most highly commend you for protesting
against the brutality of this captain. Would that all the sailors of
France were as good as both of you. If they were, there would be less
trouble aboard ship. Again I commend you!"
So--feeling very happy, indeed--young Jean Bart went out into the
street. Though only sixteen he had been right in his attempt to save
the life of poor Lanoix. Good for young Bart! Hats off to the sailor
lad of sixteen who was more merciful than the cruel Law of Oleron! And
this brutal set of rules was soon changed to the Maritime Code of
France, which gave seamen some right to defend themselves against the
attacks of rough and overbearing captains. Thus Jean Bart had started
the ball rolling in the right direction. Again hats off to the
doughty, young Frenchman!
Not long after this event the Dutch fell out with the English and
began a smart little war. Jean Bart hastened to the scene of action,
enrolled in the Dutch cause, and fought with them for five full years.
Then the Dutch began to make war upon the French (in 1672), but this
was too much for the patriotic sentiments of the youthful volunteer.
"Ah!" said he. "When my own people are attacked, I must hasten to
their assistance. The Dutch have paid me well 'tis true, but now I
scorn their gold. Vive la France!"
So saying, he returned to Dunkirk, speedily found employment, and went
to sea again--not in a man-of-war, but in a privateer. He was now
four-and-twenty; was wiry, tough, and well used to battling both with
men and with the elements. The boat he sailed in mounted only two guns
and had a crew of thirty-six. She was named after a famous personage
of Biblical history: _King David_, and she conducted herself as
skilfully as did that ancient monarch, for was not Jean Bart at the
helm?
Cruising out upon the treacherous waters of the North Sea, it was not
long before a vessel was sighted that was of such small tonnage that
Bart was not afraid to give chase. He slapped on all canvas, put his
helm hard over, and steered for the dancing bit of canvas. The _King
David_ was a swift sailer, and soon the bow-gun spoke from the deck of
the French privateer, sending a challenging shot whistling close to
the stern of the stranger, who flew the flag of the States General
(the Dutch Republic) with which the French were now at war.
The stranger did not relish the challenge, and came to in a hurry,
while her flag fluttered weakly to the deck.
"She's ours!" cried Jean Bart, gleefully. "And without a fight. Hurray
for the life of a privateer!"
Quickly ranging alongside, the stranger was seen to be a valuable
prize, laden with tea, spices, and cotton. She was manned by a small
crew and sent to port.
"Now off for other luck!" cried Jean Bart.
Luck was with him, too. In four months cruising in the English
Channel, near the Belgian coast, he captured six prizes; all without
any fighting. The Dutch trading vessels of those days must have been
without guns and poorly manned, for it should have been easy to stand
off a crew of but thirty-six, with only two cannon aboard. Jean
Bart--you may be sure--was well satisfied. He was now rich, quite
famous, and keen for further adventure.
So well did the owners of the privateer _King David_ think of him,
that they now put him in charge of a larger vessel named _La Royale_,
carrying about eighty men and ten guns.
"Go out and win!" cried the chief owner of this privateer. "Jean Bart,
you are followed by the best blood of France. Your men are all from
Dunkirk!"
And Jean Bart smiled.
"Watch me!" said he.
Cruising near the coast of Holland in company with a small French
gun-boat, he fell in with a man-of-war--the _Esperance_--carrying
twelve guns and about one hundred and twenty men.
"Now we'll have a real fight!" cried the youthful French commander as
he cleared decks for action. "Men, see to it that your swords are
sharpened for there may be some boarding!"
Then he signalled to the little French gun-boat to follow him and give
battle. This ally carried about a hundred men and six cannon.
"Poof! Poof!"
The heavy guns of the Dutchman were the first to speak and they barked
away like fat Newfoundland watch-dogs.
"Poof! Poof! B-o-o-m!"
Jean Bart reserved his fire until within about seventy-five yards and
then he gave the command,
"Fire away! Aim low! And try to hull her!"
A sheet of flame sprang from the ten guns of _La Royale_ and a
splitting of boards and crackling of splinters showed that the iron
missiles had punctured the stout sides of the _Esperance_.
"Pop! Pop! Crash!"
The other French vessel now threw her lead into the stern of the
defender of the flag of the States General and her mizzen-mast was
seen to rock like an unfastened May pole.
"Whow!"
The _Esperance_ was not slow in answering back and her twelve guns
spat like leopards in the brush. She filled away and bore towards the
land, but the French gun-boat saw this move and checkmated it.
Sailing across her bow, the Frenchman raked her fore and aft, while
the rub-a-dub-dub of Jean Bart's guns went drumming against her
starboard side. Crash! Crash! Crash! Her boards were split, her
mizzen-mast was swaying, and her rigging was near cut in two. Men were
falling fast and two of her guns had blown up and were rendered
useless.
"Surrender!" came a sharp hail from the lusty throat of Jean Bart,
and, as he spoke, a perfect hail of grape came from his French ally,
now creeping up to port for a chance to grapple and board.
"What can I do?" sighed the stout, Dutch commander, turning to one of
his lieutenants. "Boy, haul down our flag!"
So down came the emblem of the States General amidst ringing cheers
from the throats of the followers of Jean Bart. They had won a notable
victory.
When the _Esperance_ was towed and half-sailed into Dunkirk harbor,
old Antoine Sauret was there.
"Ah, my friends," said he, "I always told you that my boy, Jean Bart,
would make a great name for himself. Three times three for the great
privateer of Dunkirk!"
And all the bystanders joined in right willingly.
Not long after this event, our hero's ship was lying in the harbor of
Bergen in Sweden. The captain of an English vessel met him on shore,
and, after having a chat with him, remarked:
"I hear that you have quite a reputation for fighting your ship. I,
too, am a sea warrior and would like to have a little affair with you.
My own vessel is of about the same tonnage as yours, so that we could
meet upon even terms. Will you join me?"
"I would be delighted," answered the war-like Jean Bart. "If you wait
two days I will be ready for you and will fight you three miles off
the coast. Meanwhile I must lie here and take on some stores which are
much needed by both men and guns."
The Englishman smiled.
"You are a man after my own heart," said he. "Good-by until we meet in
battle."
Three days after this, Jean Bart sent a boy to the English vessel with
a note for the captain. It ran:
"I am ready to fight you to-morrow. Meet me three miles
beyond the breakwater and may the best man win. Until
then--good luck.
"Yours for battle,
"JEAN BART."
The boy came back bearing a return missive from the Englishman, who
wrote:
"MONSIEUR BART: I am delighted to learn that you want to
fight me, and will do so. You are indeed a brave man.
But--before we go for each other's throats--pray let us
breakfast together. Will you therefore take your morning
meal with me, to-morrow, in my own cabin, aboard my
ship? I shall expect you.
"Yours to count on,
"MIDDLETON."
"I do not want to accept, but I will," mused Captain Bart. "These
English fellows are far too polite."
So, next morning, he was rowed to the British vessel and was soon
breakfasting with his red-faced opponent.
After the meal the Frenchman lighted his pipe, took a few puffs, and
said:
"Monsieur, I have greatly enjoyed this peaceful repast. But it is now
time for me to go and sharpen my boarding-pike. I must bid you adieu."
The Englishman smiled.
"No," said he. "You cannot go. You are my prisoner!"
Jean Bart still smoked.
"You are too quick!" he answered, slowly. "There you are wrong. I am
not your prisoner, for I see a barrel of gunpowder on the deck, and,
if you do not release me immediately, I will blow up your ship!"
The Englishman turned pale.
"Watch me!" cried Jean Bart.
Leaping from his seat, he rushed to the deck, lighted a match from his
pipe, and held it directly over the mouth of a barrel of gunpowder,
from which someone had pried the head.
"Lay on! You cowards!" he yelled. "Lay on, and we'll all go to the
Land of the Hereafter together."
His cry was heard upon his own vessel, which--with sails up--lay
waiting for him.
In a moment her bow was turned towards the British ship which was
still at anchor, with sails unhoisted. In a moment she dropped down
alongside--and--in less time than it takes to tell--the Frenchmen had
brought her upon the port quarter, and were swarming across the deck
to rescue their bold captain.
Taken by surprise, the English put up a plucky fight, but they were no
match for the infuriated men of Dunkirk. They were soon overpowered.
The captain was taken prisoner, and the vessel was considered a
legitimate prize of war, because of the trick which Middleton had
attempted to play upon Jean Bart. When--in a few days--the prize was
sailed into Dunkirk harbor--the Englishman well wished that he had not
attempted to capture the most able privateersman of all France.
The fame of this exploit spread over the land, and gave rise to a
ditty, which ran:
"If you want to catch Jean Bart, sir,
A slippery, slimy chap,
Don't bait him with gunpowder,
For he's sure to miss the trap.
You must splice him down with chains, sir;
You must nail him to the deck.
Put a belt around his middle,
And a collar 'round his neck.
Even then you cannot hold him,
For he's certain to get through,
While his sailors sing a song, sir,
With a
Cock-
a-
doodle-
doo!"
In July, 1675, Jean Bart was married, but he did not remain long on
shore. Three weeks after this auspicious event he once more put to sea
and captured a number of Dutch fishing boats, which he allowed the
captains to ransom for large sums of money.
This was a very convenient arrangement, for it saved him the trouble
of putting part of his own crew on board and sending the boats to
port. But the owners of _La Royale_, upon which he sailed, did not
care for his methods of procedure.
"You cannot do this in future!" said they. "And you must forfeit half
of what you took to us!"
Jean Bart obeyed, but he was very angry. It is even said that he
uttered "a round seaman's oath."
So successful was he, in fact, that he was given a much larger vessel
in 1676. This was a frigate--the _Palme_--with twenty-four guns and a
crew of one hundred and fifty men. Sailing into the North Sea with two
small French gun-boats, he soon fell in with three Dutch privateers
and eight armed whaling vessels. He attacked, and the battle raged for
three long, bloody hours.
When the smoke and the fumes of sulphur burned away, Bart had boarded
the largest privateer, while his two consorts had taken the eight
whalers. The other Dutch privateers found it too hot for their liking
and scudded for the coast, firing their stern-guns derisively as they
disappeared. It was a great victory, and again the French coast rung
with salvos for Jean Bart, while the old sea-dogs shrugged their
shoulders, saying:
"Ah! Ha! Did we not tell you that Dunkirk bred men of bone and marrow.
Ah! Ha!"
But Jean Bart was not happy.
"Would that I could meet a foe of my own force," he used to say.
"Either a man-of-war or a privateer, I don't care which. I want to try
it on with one of my own size and strength."
His wish was soon to be gratified.
On September 7th, 1676, he was pointing the _Palme_ towards the
Belgian coast-line, when he sighted a number of sail on the starboard
quarter. He headed for them; scanned the white dots through a glass,
and saw that this was a fishing fleet of small, unarmed luggers. But
a big, hulking Dutch frigate hovered in their rear, and thirty-two
guns pointed their brown muzzles menacingly from her open port-holes.
She was the _Neptune_ and she lazed along like a huge whale:
omnipotent and self-satisfied.
"Ah ha!" cried the delighted Jean Bart. "Now I have met an enemy that
is worthy of my steel. Up with the flag and sail into yonder Dutchman.
We have but twenty-four guns to her thirty-two, but are we to be awed
by this show of force? Be ready, my boys, to have the stiffest fight
in your careers!"
The Dutchman was equally well pleased when he saw who was coming for
him.
"Here is Jean Bart, the pirate and privateer," he cried. "For three
years I've been hoping to have a fight with him and now my chance has
come at last. I am fortunate, for I can pay him back for all the
damage that he has done to Dutch commerce. Shoot low, my hearties, and
do not fail to hull our enemy. Let your war-cry be: 'Down with Jean
Bart and his pirate crew!'"
"Hurrah!" shouted his men.
And an answering
"Hurray!" came from the _Palme_. These opponents were as eager to get
at each other as two prize-fighters of modern days.
_Crash!_ roared a broadside from the Dutch frigate as her flag went
aloft, and splash, splash, splash, went her shells around the sides of
the privateer.
"Sail in close!" yelled Jean Bart. "Hug her to leeward for awhile,
then cross her bows, rake her, get her wind, and board."
"Hurray!" shouted the men of Dunkirk, and a rattle, rattle, roar came
from the port guns of the _Palme_.
Around and around swung the sea gladiators and the little fishing
boats luffed and tittered on the waves like inquisitive sparrows.
"Bart cannot win!" said several of their skippers. "For he's
outweighted and outnumbered!"
But Bart was fighting like John Paul Jones.
Around and around went the two opponents, guns growling, men cheering,
sails slapping and ripping with the chain and solid shot. Again and
again Jean Bart endeavored to get a favorable position for boarding
and again and again he was forced to tack away by the quick manoeuvres
of the Dutchman.
"Fire into her rigging!" he now thundered. "Cripple those topsails and
I can bring my boat alongside."
"_Crash! Crash! Crash!_"
Volley after volley puffed from the side of the rolling _Palme_.
Volley after volley poured its lead and iron into the swaying rigging
of the Dutchman, and, with a great roaring, ripping, and smashing, the
mizzen topmast came toppling over the lee rail.
A lusty cheer sounded from the deck of the _Palme_.
"She's ours!" cried Jean Bart, smiling.
Instantly he spun over the wheel, luffed, and brought his boat upon
the starboard quarter of the Dutchman, who was now part helpless. It
took but a moment to run alongside, and, in a moment more, the
_Palme_ was lashed to the _Neptune_ in a deadly embrace. Smoke rolled
from the sides of both contestants and the roar of the guns drowned
the shrill cries of the wounded. The Dutchmen were now desperate and
their guns were spitting fire in rapid, successive volleys; but many
of them were silenced, as the great, brown side of the _Palme_ rubbed
its planking against the splintered railing of the shattered
_Neptune_.
As the vessels were securely bound together, Jean Bart seized a
boarding-pike, a brace of pistols, and, giving the helm to a sailor,
leaped into the waist of his ship.
"Board! Board!" he shouted.
A wild yelp greeted these welcome sounds. As he vaulted over the rail
of his own ship to the deck of the stranger, a motley crew of
half-wild sea-savages swarmed behind him. They had cutlasses and
boarding-pikes, and their faces were blackened with powder. Their eyes
were reddened with sulphurous fumes and their clothes torn with
splintered planking. They rolled over the gunwales like a huge wave of
irresistible fire: pistols spitting, pikes gleaming, cutlasses
glistening in the rays of the sun.
The captain of the _Neptune_ lay near his own wheel, grievously
wounded.
"Lay on, men!" he shouted. "Don't let this French privateer beat us.
We will be disgraced."
But his sailors were no match for the onrush of these fiends from
Dunkirk. They fell back like foam before a sea squall.
"Then down with our flag," cried the captain of the Dutchman. "But,
ye gods, how it hurts me to give the order."
A sailor seized the halyards and pulled the ensign to the deck, and,
as it fell upon the reddened planking, a wild, frenzied cheer came
from the French privateers.
"Jean Bart, forever! France forever! Jean Bart forever!" they cried.
"Up with the French flag!" yelled Jean Bart, laughing like a boy. "Up
with the white lilies of France."
And, as a spare ensign ran aloft, the little fishing luggers scudded
for the shore.
"After them, men!" cried Captain Bart. "Our work is not yet over. We
must have the lambs as well as the old wolf."
So, sail was soon clapped on the _Palme_, she headed for the fleeing
boats, and, with a few well directed shots, hove them to. Then they
were told to follow behind and head for France, which they did--but,
oh! how it did hurt!
It was a proud moment for Jean Bart, and his eyes danced with pleasure
when he sailed into Dunkirk with the captured _Neptune_ and the fleet
of fishing boats.
"Voila!" cried the townspeople. "Jean Bart is a true hero. Voila! He
shall have the freedom of the city. Voila!"
The fame of this gallant exploit soon spread abroad and the king
showed some desire to see this courageous privateersman.
"I would have him at court," said he to his minister Colbert. "For I
would reward him."
When news of this was brought to the privateersman he was naturally
delighted, and, travelling to Versailles, was ushered into the
presence of his Majesty.
"Here is a gold chain for you," said the king. "I trust that you will
keep it in recognition of my appreciation of your gallant conduct. I
would be glad, indeed, to have you in the Royal Service. Would you not
take a commission?"
"You overwhelm me," answered the valiant sea-fighter, blushing.
"I--I--I--am quite disconcerted. But--if it would please your Majesty,
I believe that I would prefer to remain a simple privateer. It is a
free life and it suits my roving nature."
The king chuckled.
"So be it," said he. "But my good sir, keep yourself in readiness for
a commission. I may need you in the Royal Marine!"
"Very good, Sire!" said Jean Bart, and, bowing low, he withdrew.
But he did not get away without an adventure,--quite as exciting as
any he had had aboard the rocking decks of one of his privateer ships.
The fame of Jean Bart had stirred up a number of enemies, for, when a
man is successful in life, are there not always a hundred unsuccessful
fellows who stand about and scoff?
Among these were a few followers of the sea who had determined to
make way with this too fortunate privateer. One--Jules Blanc by
name--even decided upon murder, if Jean Bart would not agree to leave
the privateering business to himself and his companions.
As the sailor from Dunkirk left the presence of the king he was
accosted by one of his old acquaintances.
"Ha, Jean Bart," said he. "Come with me to the Inn. Have a glass with
me, my boy, for I see that the king has richly rewarded you. You
deserve it, for you have done well, and you must be tired from your
journey. Come, let us dine together?"
Suspecting nothing, the gallant privateer followed his companion quite
willingly, and, when he arrived at the Inn, was not surprised to find
several other seamen from Dunkirk and the neighboring seaports of
France. They greeted him warmly.
"To your health!" cried they, raising their glasses of wine. "To the
health of the bravest privateer in all of France."
Jean Bart was delighted. He smiled like a child, seated himself at
their table, and began to drink with these jovial men of the sea.
As he sat there, suddenly a paper was mysteriously shoved into his
hand. He did not see from whence it came, and, as he scanned its
contents, his face grew strangely pale.
"Beware of these fellows," he read. "They mean to kill you if you do
not do what they wish. Beware!"
Jean Bart soon regained his composure.
"Come! Let us go to the dining-room up-stairs," said the friend who
had first accosted him. "Come, my boys! We will there have far more
quiet!"
All moved for the door.
Jean Bart moved, also, but before he went up-stairs, he loosened his
sword-belt and cocked two pistols which he carried at his waist. He
was not surprised when he saw them lock the stout door as they entered
the room upon the second floor.
When they were all seated Jules Blanc arose. His face well exhibited
his dislike for the successful privateersman, Jean Bart.
"Now, my friend," said he, facing the man from Dunkirk, "we have you
here with a purpose. We wish you to know that we are determined that
you shall no longer go to sea and spoil our own business for us. You
have had enough success. We want you to withdraw and give some one
else a chance."
Jean Bart smiled.
"We think that you should retire for we want some pickings for
ourselves."
"And if I refuse?" queried Jean Bart.
Jules Blanc placed his hand instantly upon his sword-hilt.
"Then--there will be trouble!"
"Poof!" said Jean Bart.
As he spoke, all drew their rapiers.
"Again Poof!" said Jean Bart.
As he spoke, a thrust came from his right. He parried it, leaped upon
a chair, and stood there smiling.
Crack! There was the sound of a pistol and a bullet whizzed by his
ear.
Then there was a sudden and awful _Crash!_ The room was filled with
dust.
When the startled sea-dogs looked about them Jean Bart no longer stood
upon the table. He had disappeared through the window. And broken
glass with splintered fastenings was all that remained of the once
perfect glazing.
"He has gone," said Jules Blanc. "Fellow seamen, we are outdone."
But Jean Bart was a quarter of a mile away, laughing softly to
himself, as he sped along the highway which led to quiet Dunkirk.
Things went well with him, also, for his employers--appreciating his
past services--now gave him command of a larger ship than the _Palme_:
the _Dauphin_, with thirty guns and two hundred eager and adventurous
sailors from the northern coast of France.
Sailing forth from Dunkirk harbor, on June 18th, 1678, Jean Bart
eagerly scanned the horizon with his glass. With him were two smaller
privateers, so that he felt well able to cope with any adversary from
Holland. His keen glance was soon to be rewarded, for when but two
days from port he spied a sail upon the starboard bow. It was a Dutch
frigate--the _Sherdam_--of forty guns and manned by many stout dogs of
the sea. Her captain--Andre Ranc--was a keen fighter and a man of
well-tried courage.
"Bear off to leeward!" signalled Jean Bart to his privateer
companion. "Then we will get the stranger between us, fasten to her,
and board her from either side."
The flag of the French privateer dipped back an answering, "All
right!" and, as she was nearest to the Dutchman, she attacked at once.
"_Poom! Poom!_" went the Dutch cannon, like the beating of a churn in
that land of canals and cheese-making. And _piff! piff!_ answered the
little howitzers of the privateer.
But Jean Bart meant to have a quick fight, so he bore down to
starboard, wore ship, and ran so close to the enemy, that his
grappling irons soon held her fast. In a moment more his own vessel
was hauled alongside.
Meanwhile the smaller French privateer had spanked over to larboard;
had run up upon the opposite side of the lumbering Dutchman; and had
also gripped her. A wild, nerve-wracking cheer went up, as--sword in
hand--Jean Bart led his boarders over the side of the Dutch vessel.
Ranc was badly wounded but he led his men to a counter assault with
courage born of desperation. Cutlasses crashed together,
boarding-pikes smashed and hacked, and pistols growled and spattered
in one discordant roar. Back went the Dutch sailors fighting savagely
and bluntly with all the stubbornness of their natures, then back they
pushed the followers of Jean Bart, while Ranc called to them:
"Drive these French curs into the sea!"
[Illustration: "JEAN BART LED HIS BOARDERS OVER THE SIDE OF THE DUTCH
VESSEL."]
But now the other privateer had made fast, and her men came clambering
over the rail, with cutlass, dirk, and pistols.
"We're outnumbered," Ranc shouted, his face showing extreme suffering.
"Haul down the flag! Had Jean Bart been here alone I could have
trounced him well."
Thus reluctantly and sadly the flag of the _Sherdam_ came down. But
the French had paid well for their victory.
Jean Bart was badly wounded in the leg; his face was burned by the
discharge of a gun, which went off--almost in his eyes--just as he
leaped on board the _Sherdam_. Six of his men were killed and
thirty-one were wounded, while the little privateer that had fastened
to the other flank of the huge _Sherdam_, was a total wreck. So well,
indeed, had the Dutch fighters plied their cannon as she approached,
that she was shattered almost beyond repair. With great difficulty she
was finally towed to shore.
Of course all France again rang with the fame of Jean Bart, while the
crafty sea-dogs who had endeavored to capture the slippery
privateersman were furious with envious rage. But Jean Bart hummed a
little tune to himself, which ran,
"You'll have to get up early if you want to catch Jean Bart,
You'll have to get up early, and have a goodly start,
For the early bird can catch the worm, if the worm is fast asleep,
But not if it's a privateer, who can through a window leap."
This invincible corsair was also not idle, for in two weeks' time he
was again at sea in the _Mars_ of thirty-two guns, and a fast sailer.
Eagerly looking for prizes, he cruised far up the coast of Holland and
was keenly hunting for either merchantman or frigate, when a small
vessel neared him, upon which was flying a white flag.
"A truce!" cried Jean Bart. "The war must be over."
When the little boat drew nearer, a fat Dutchman called out something
which sounded like, "Amsterdam yam Goslam!" which meant, "Peace has
been declared," in Dutch.
So Jean Bart sailed back into the sheltering harbor of Dunkirk with
tears of sorrow in his eyes, for he loved his exciting life.
"Helas!" said he. "It is all over!"
Thus, indeed, ended the career of Jean Bart as a privateer captain. In
January, 1679, he was given the commission of lieutenant in the French
navy, but, although he accepted, he was never happy in this service.
From captain to lieutenant was a decided come down, and besides this,
the aristocratic officers of the Crown made life very unpleasant for
one who had entered their ranks from privateering.
"Bah!" said they. "He is only a commoner!" And they would turn up
their titled noses.
But--mark you this!
Several hundred years have passed since those days, and Jean Bart's
name is still remembered. Who remembers the names of any of these
titled nobles who held commissions from his Majesty, the King of
France?
I do not think that any of you do. Certainly I do not.
Therefore, there is a little lesson to be learned, and it is this:
Never sneer at the fellow who accomplishes things, if he be of humble
birth. _His_ name may go down to history. _Yours_ probably will not.
So, the next time that you are tempted to do this, think it over. If
you do, you will not say, "Pish,--the Commoner!" But you will say,
"Well done! The Hero!"
So, good-by, Jean Bart, and may France produce your like again, if she
can!
"Keep these legends, gray with age,
Saved from the crumbling wrecks of yore,
When cheerful conquerors moored their barques
Along the Saxon shore."
--THOMPSON.
DU GUAY-TROUIN
THE GREAT FRENCH "BLUE"
(1673-1736)
"Self trust is the essence of Heroism."--PLUTARCH.
DU GUAY-TROUIN
THE GREAT FRENCH "BLUE"
(1673-1736)
"He's only a scurvy Democrat, his blood is hardly blue,
Oh, Sacre Nom de Dieu! Sapristi! Eet is true!
Yet, he fights like the Maid of Orleans, with dirk and halberd,
too,
Oh, Sacre Nom de Dieu! Sapristi! Eet is true!
Then--what'll you think, good gentlemen, you men of the kingly
pack,
Ye sons of Armand the Terrible, ye whelps of Catouriac,
Shall _he_ gain the royal purple? Shall _he_ sit in the ranks
with us?
Shall _he_ quaff of our golden vintage, shall _he_ ride in the
royal bus?
Nay! Nay! For that would be te-r-r-ible! Nay! Nay! _That ill-born
cuss?_
Par donc! but that is unbearable! 'Twould result in a shameful
fuss!
Pray, let him remain a Democrat--The cream of the fleet for us."
--_Song of the French Royal Marine._--1695.
"You _must_ be a churchman, Renee," said the good Luc Trouin, turning
to his little son. "I have always had a great ambition to have a child
of mine in the church, and I feel that you are in every way qualified
for the position of a prelate."
But little Renee hung his head.
"Look up, boy," continued the amiable Frenchman. "I know that you are
not now pleased with the idea, but--later on--after you have had more
experience, I feel sure that you can thank Heaven that your good
father started you in the right and proper direction."
Still, little Renee hung his head.
"Tut! Tut!" continued the old man. "You will leave, to-morrow, for the
college at Rheims, and, after you have been there but a short time, I
feel sure that you will like it. Tut! Tut!"
But still little Renee hung his head.
Again came the amiable "Tut! Tut!" and the chuckling Luc Trouin
wandered off into the garden to see how well the potatoes were
growing.
But little Renee still hung his head.
And--in spite of the fact that little Renee went to the Divinity
school at Rheims, he continued to hang his head. He hung his head for
three years. Then, news was brought to him, one day, that the good Luc
Trouin was dead, and, instead of holding his handkerchief to his eyes
to wipe away the tears, as one would expect of him, little Renee burst
into loud laughter.
"At last," cried he, "I can get away from the church and go to sea. At
last my freedom has come!"
And it was not many hours before little Renee was scudding away from
the school of Divinity, like a clipper-ship under a full spread of
canvas, before a rousing sou'west breeze.
For at least two hundred years before the birth of bad, little Renee,
the Trouin family had been well known and prosperous in the Breton
seaport of St. Malo. For many years a Trouin had been consul at
Malaga, Spain; and other members of the house had held excellent
positions with the King, so little Renee had no reason to be ashamed
of his forebears, in spite of the fact that his people were of the
"bourgeoisie:" ship-owners, traders, smugglers, privateers, and
merchants. And, as they were of the "bourgeoisie," they were somewhat
looked down upon by the proud and haughty aristocrats who fawned about
the weak and dissipated King.
Little Renee was the son of Luc Trouin and Marguerite Boscher but he
was called Du Guay-Trouin, in later years, and the reason for this is
plain. For--in accordance with the custom of the time--he was sent to
be nursed by a foster mother who resided in the little village of Le
Gue. So he was called Trouin du Gue; which shortly became Du
Guay-Trouin.
"I've come home, mother," shouted little Renee, when he had plodded
his weary way which lay between his temporary prison and the house of
his parents. "I've come home, mother, and I'm going to sea!"
But his mother did not take any too kindly to this bold and valiant
idea.
"You must study law," said she, with great firmness. And--in spite of
the fact that little Renee begged and pleaded--he was forced to give
up his idea of seafaring life for the dry drudgery and routine of a
clerk at law. He was now about sixteen years of age.
"The law is dry and my spirits are high," youthful Renee is said to
have carolled as he spent his first few hours at a lecture, "and
whatever may be I'm going to sea."
At any rate, he soon got into trouble and engaged in three duels in
his sixteenth year, in one of which his assailant gave him a serious
wound. This was too much for even his stern mother to bear, so,
summoning a family council, she gave forth the following opinion:
"Renee has failed as a student of Divinity. Renee has failed as a
student of law. Renee has entirely too high spirits. Renee shall,
therefore, be placed in one of the family ships and sent to sea."
And to this decree Renee is said to have cried: "At last! Hurray!" for
he longed for action.
In a very short time little Renee had a taste of that war and
adventure which he craved, for a historian writes that:
"During the first three months of this cruise his courage was tried by
a violent tempest, an imminent shipwreck, the boarding of an English
ship, and the threatened destruction of his own vessel by fire. The
following year, still as a volunteer, he displayed the greatest
personal courage and won much fame in an engagement which his ship had
with five merchant vessels."
"Ah ha," said little Renee, "this is indeed life. I am having a good
time."
So well did those higher in command feel towards the youthful sailor,
that, at the age of eighteen, he was actually put in charge of the
ship _Danycan_ of fourteen guns,--for France was at war with England,
Holland, and Spain, and to him who could strike a quick and well-aimed
blow there were "nice pickings" to be had. And the reckless young
sea-dog found some "nice pickings" in Ireland, for, he landed an armed
party upon the coast of County Clare, where he pillaged a village,
burned two ships at anchor, and escaped to his own vessel with
considerable booty and family heirlooms of the peasants, who said,
"Och, Begorra! We'll be afther that wild bhoy before many suns, and
spank him for his unseemly whork."
But the French cried "Voila! Here, indeed, is a brave young
Bourgeois," and promptly raised him to the command of the _Coetquen_
of eighteen guns, in which he soon went cruising, accompanied by a
sister-ship, the _St. Aaron_.
Prowling around the English channel, the skulking sea-hounds soon came
across two small English men-of-war with five valuable merchantmen
under their sheltering wings.
"All ready for the attack!" shouted Du Guay-Trouin. "We'll make
mince-meat of those foreign hulks, in spite of the fact that they are
protected by two men-of-war."
And, crowding on all sail, his own vessel and the _St. Aaron_ quickly
bore down upon the Englishmen, who, seeing them approach, hove-to for
action.
The engagement was short. After a few broadsides had been delivered,
the English struck, the prizes were taken over, and all started for
the coast of France. But suddenly a cry went up,
"Sail ho! Sail ho! off the starboard bow!"
"Ta Donc," cried the surprised Du Guay-Trouin. "It is a big
man-of-warsman and a Britisher too. We must give up our prizes, I
fear. Clap on all canvas and we'll hie us to shore."
So all sail was hoisted, and, steering for the shoals and rocks off
Lundy Island--where he knew that the heavy Englishman could not
follow--Du Guay-Trouin soon outdistanced and outwitted the
_Centurion_: a line-of-battle ship and a formidable opponent. The rich
prizes had to be left behind.
Honorable appointments crowded upon the daring, young sea-dog, after
this affair, and we find him successively in command of the _Profond_,
of thirty-two guns; the _Hercule_, of twenty-eight guns, and the
_Diligente_ of thirty-six guns and two hundred and fifty sailors,
which was a King's ship borrowed for privateering and run on
shares,--the monarch to have a certain part of the winnings.
Like partners in business the _Diligente_ and _Hercule_ now went
cruising, and it was not long before the two harpies swooped down upon
their prey in the shape of two Dutch East Indiamen, armed with
twenty-five guns each, and manned by rotund-bodied Dutchmen. There was
rich treasure aboard, and, with eagerness and zeal, the Frenchmen
slapped on all canvas in pursuit.
Now was a hot chase. Mile after mile was passed, and slowly but surely
the Frenchmen gained upon the lumbering foe. Then suddenly,--
_Crash!_
A ball screamed above the head of Du Guay-Trouin, and a Dutchman
hove-to for battle.
"Crawl in close," cried the valiant Frenchman, "and don't let go a
broadside until you can hit 'em below the water line. Try to scuttle
the Dutch lumber merchant!"
His men obeyed him willingly and soon there was a muffled roar as the
first broadside spoke in the still air. Another and another followed,
and the Dutchman trembled like an aspen leaf.
"Hah," shouted the enthusiastic Renee, "up goes the white flag!"
Sure enough, the vessel struck, and aboard of her was the Dutch
commodore. But the _Hercule_ was beaten off by the second Dutchman,
and, as the privateers boarded the captured vessel, the East Indiaman
showed a clean pair of heels, under a cloud of bellying canvas.
Du Guay-Trouin was delighted. "On we go, Boys," he cried, "for we'll
sail these waters until we strike another prize." And this is what
soon happened.
On May the 12th, the _Diligente_ was cruising alone, when, suddenly
six white dots appeared upon the horizon, and six British
ships-of-the-line were soon closing in upon the venturous French
navigator and his crew.
"Ye Gods," cried the doughty Frenchman, "we're in for it now, but we
will give them a lively bout even though we'll get the worst of it."
And here is how he has described the battle:
"One of the English ships named _Adventure_ first overtook me, and we
maintained a running fight for nearly four hours, before any other of
their ships could come up....
"At length my two topmasts were shot away; on which the _Adventure_
ranged up alongside me, a short pistol-shot off, and hauled up her
courses. Seeing her so near, it occurred to me to run foul of her and
board her with my whole crew. Forthwith I ordered such of the officers
as were near to send the people on deck, got ready the grapnels, and
put the helm over.
"We were just on the point of hooking on to her, when unfortunately,
one of my Lieutenants, looking out through a port and seeing the two
ships so close together, took it into his head that there was some
mistake, as he could not think that--under the circumstances--I had
any intention of boarding; and so, of himself, ordered the helm to be
reversed.
"I had no idea of what had been done, and was impatiently waiting for
the two ships to clash together, ready to throw myself on board the
enemy; but seeing that my ship did not obey her helm, I ran to the
wheel, and found it had been changed without my order.
"I had it again jammed hard on; but perceived, with the keenest
vexation, that the captain of the _Adventure_, having guessed by the
expression of my face what I had meant to do, had let fall his
courses, and was sheering off. We had been so near that my bowsprit
had broken his taffrail; but the mistake of my Lieutenant made me lose
the opportunity of one of the most surprising adventures ever heard
tell of.
"In the determination I was in to perish or to capture this ship,
which was much the fastest sailor of the squadron, it was more than
probable that I should have succeeded, and should thus have taken back
to France a much stronger ship than that which I abandoned. And, not
to speak of the credit which would have attached to the execution of
such a plan, it is quite certain that--being dismasted--there was
absolutely no other way for me to escape from forces so superior."
But closer--always closer--crowded the British war-dogs, and the
valorous French seamen became panic stricken. "We are outnumbered and
outfought," cried many, and, deserting their guns, they fled below to
the holds, in spite of the vigorous protests of Du Guay-Trouin.
"I was busy trying to put a stop to the panic," says he. "I had cut
down one and pistolled another, when, to crown my misfortune, fire
broke out in the gun-room. The fear of being blown up made it
necessary for me to go below; but, having got the fire put out, I had
a tub full of grenades brought me, and began throwing them down into
the hold.
"By this means I compelled the deserters to come up and to man some of
the lower deck guns; but, when I went up on the poop, I found, to my
astonishment and vexation, that some cowardly rascal had taken
advantage of my absence to haul down the colors.
"I ordered them to be hoisted again; but my officers represented that
to do so would be simply giving up the remnant of my ship's company to
be butchered by the English, who would give no quarter if the flag
were hoisted again, after being struck for so long, and that further
resistance was hopeless as the ship was dismasted."
"Never give in, for"--cried Du Guay-Trouin, whose democratic blood was
now up, but he did not finish the sentence as a spent shot then
knocked him senseless. And--as he fell--the white flag went aloft, for
his officers had not his fighting spirit.
"Ah ha," laughed the English jack-tars. "We've got the French rascal
at last, and we'll hold him too."
So little Renee was imprisoned in a nice, dark dungeon,--the kind
which the English used to put their poor debtors in. But--like a true
man of courage--little Renee escaped, took to a smuggler's skiff, and
made off to the coast of France, where he arrived on the 18th of June,
1694, and was received right boisterously by the Trouin family.
"My son," spoke his aged mother, "you were indeed not intended for the
law, for lawlessness seems to be your particular fancy."
So the delighted Trouins put him in charge of a splendid privateersman
mounting forty-eight guns, sailing under the simple name of
_Francois_, and, as she forged valiantly into the English channel, her
skipper chanted an old French song, which ran,--
"Sons of St. Malo, hark to my lay,
With a Heave! Ho! Blow the man down.
For we'll capture a lugger ere close of the day,
With a Heave! Ho! Blow the man down.
"She's filled with gold nuggets, her crew is asleep,
Then board her, and take her, for dead men are cheap,
We'll spike them and pike them, like so many sheep.
With a Heave! Ho! Blow the man down."
It was not long before a sail was sighted, and, on the 12th day of
January, 1695, the stout, little _Francois_ overhauled a solitary
timber ship, loaded with huge trees, bound to England from the good
town of Boston in New England. She was an easy capture, and, Du
Guay-Trouin smiled with joy when her skipper said:
"Three other lumber ships are in the offing. But they are under convoy
of the frigate _Nonsuch_ with forty-eight guns, and the _Falcon_ with
thirty-eight cannon. Look out my bold sea-dog, there'll be trouble."
But the French mariner laughed.
"It's just what I'm searching for," said he, and forthwith he swung
the stout _Francois_ in wide circles, with look-outs at every
mast-head.
"Sail ho!" shouted the watch, next morn, and there, off the port bow,
were the three merchantmen strung out in a line, with the two
protecting gun-boats to windward.
Like a greyhound the _Francois_ swept down upon them, and with the
audacity of despair, the privateersman of St. Malo ranged alongside of
the _Falcon_ and opened fire. The engagement was short. In an hour's
time the guns of the Englishman were silent and a white pennon
fluttered from the mizzen-mast.
The _Nonsuch_, meanwhile, had been ranging to windward in a vain
endeavor to bring her guns to bear upon the Frenchman without
crippling her own mate, and--as the _Francois_ drifted away from the
lurching _Falcon_--she bore down to within twenty yards, luffed, and
spanked a rakish broadside into the privateer.
"Board her!" shouted Du Guay-Trouin. "Board her!" and, bringing the
wheel close around, he swung the bow of the _Francois_ into the side
of the Englishman. But, as the sailors scampered to the bulwarks with
cutlass and with dirk, a sheet of flame burst from the port-holes of
the drifting _Nonsuch_. She was afire.
"Luff! Luff!" cried the keen-eyed French mariner, and the _Francois_
drew away as the red flames curled upward with a cruel hiss.
With a swift turn the helm again spun over, under the quick hand of Du
Guay-Trouin, and the _Francois_ was jibed about in order to run under
the port bow of the Englishman.
"Hold, Captain!" cried a French Lieutenant. "We, ourselves, are
afire!"
As he spoke--a direful cloud of vapor rolled from the starboard
quarter.
"Alack!" answered the now furious Renee. "This puts an end to the
fighting of this day, and we'd soon have had the second Britisher. All
hands below and bucket out this fire!"
So, as night fell upon the rolling ocean, the _Falcon_ lay drifting
helplessly, while the _Nonsuch_ and the _Francois_ were burning like
two beacons upon a jutting headland.
As day broke, the _Francois_ filled away (for the fire had been
extinguished after an hour's toil) and ranged within striking distance
of the _Nonsuch_. A broadside belched from her starboard guns and an
answering roar came back from the cannon of the Englishman. The fore
and main masts of the _Nonsuch_ trembled for a moment--then tottered
and fell--while the gallant Captain, struck in the chest by a flying
piece of shell, fell dying upon the deck. Du Guay-Trouin again
attempted to board, at this moment, but the third mast was shaking and
he was forced to sheer off lest the tangle of yards and rigging should
fall and crush his vessel. He hung within hailing distance of the
crippled sea-warrior, and, seeing that his antagonist was now
helpless, cried out through his trumpet:
"Run up the white flag, or I'll give you a broadside that will sink
you."
No answering hail came from the deck of the battered _Nonsuch_, but
the piece of a torn, white shirt was soon fluttering from the tangled
rigging of the foremast. Thus the gallant Renee had defeated two
warships of equal strength, and had captured vessels with a rich and
valuable cargo. Now, don't you think that this fellow was a doughty
sea rover? And, although the English made many excuses, the fact still
remains that a single privateer had conquered double her own force in
a fair and open fight upon the high seas.
The sturdy _Francois_ could just barely drift into St. Malo--so badly
crippled was she--but the rest came safely to port, in spite of a
hard gale which blew down the masts of two of the lumber boats. And
doughty Renee refitted the _Nonsuch_, transferred his flag to her,
called her the _Sans-Pareil_, and flung his flag defiantly from her
mast-head in spite of the fact that she was "made in England." All
France was agog over his exploit.
Now, know you, that doughty Renee was a "Blue;" a "Blue" being a man
of the people (the bourgeoisie) who were not of aristocratic birth.
And, as the French Royal Marine was the most exclusive body of
officers in the world, birth and station being necessary for
admittance therein, the titled office-holders threw up their hands
when Du Guay-Trouin's name was mentioned for a place of command,
saying,--
"Why, he's only a beastly Democrat. Pooh! Bah! We do not care to have
such a fellow among us." And they shrugged their shoulders.
The officers of the French Royal Marine wore red breeches, and, if by
chance a democrat were given a commission, he had to appear in blue
small-clothes throughout his entire career. Very few of the "Blues"
ever came to be an Admiral, for the odds were too great against them.
But Renee had done so bravely and well that a sword was sent him by
the King, who wrote,--
"Should you wish a commission in the Royal Navy, good sir, it shall be
yours."
And to this, Du Guay-Trouin replied,--
"I feel that I can do better where I am, Most Gracious Majesty. I
will remain a Privateer." For Du Guay-Trouin wished to accumulate
riches, as his forebears had done.
So, cruising down the coast of Ireland, he fell in with three East
Indiamen, whom he captured with ease, and, piloting them to St. Malo,
declared a dividend of two thousand pounds ($10,000) a share, to the
stockholders in his staunch vessel. And the value of the shares was
but one hundred pounds ($500) each. Would not the men of Wall Street
love such a fellow in these piping times of peace?
A month later we find him cruising in the Bay of Biscay, where--in the
dead of night--he ran into a great English fleet, roving about for just
such vessels as the _Sans-Pareil_ and eager for a broadside at the
French privateer. But young Renee--for he was now twenty-three--had not
lost his nerve. "There was no time," he wrote, "for hesitation. I had
two valuable prizes with me and ordered them to hoist Dutch colors and
to run away to leeward, saluting me with seven guns each as they went.
"Trusting to the goodness and soundness of the _Sans-Pareil_ I stood
towards the fleet, as boldly and as peaceably as if I had really been
one of their number, rejoining them after having spoken the Dutchmen.
Two capital ships and a thirty-six gun frigate had at first left the
fleet to overhaul me; but, on seeing what I was doing, the ships
returned to their stations; the frigate--impelled by her unlucky
fate--persisted in endeavoring to speak the two prizes, and I saw that
she was rapidly coming up with them.
"I had by this time joined the fleet, tranquil enough in appearance,
though inwardly I was fuming at the prospect of my two prizes being
taken by the frigate; and, as I perceived that my ship sailed much
better than those of the enemy who were near me, I kept away little by
little, at the same time forereaching on them. Suddenly, bearing up, I
ran down to place myself between the prizes and the frigate.
"I should have liked to lay aboard of her and carry her in sight of
the whole fleet; but her captain, being suspicious, would not let me
get within musket-shot of him, and sent his boat to help me. But, when
the boat was half way, her people made out that we were French, and
turned to go back; on which, seeing that we were discovered, I hoisted
my white flag and poured my broadside into the frigate.
"She answered with hers; but, not being able to sustain my fire, she
hauled her wind, and with a signal of distress flying, stood to meet
the captain's ship, which hastily ran down towards us. As they stopped
to render her assistance, and to pick up her boat, I was able to
rejoin my prizes, and, without misadventure, to take them to Port
Louis."
Again France rang with acclaim for the hero of this bold exploit, and
again the King offered a commission to the gallant sea-dog. But Du
Guay-Trouin shook his head.
"Perhaps I will become an officer in the Royal Marine later on," said
he. "But not now. I am too happy and successful as a Privateer."
He was quite right, for in March, 1697, was his greatest exploit.
While busily scanning the horizon for sail in the _St. Jacques des
Victoires_, upon the thirteenth day of that auspicious month, he saw
upon the horizon, a cluster of vessels. They drew near and proved to
be the Dutch East India fleet convoyed by two fifty-gun ships and a
thirty-gun sloop-of-war. With him was the _Sans-Pareil_ of forty-eight
guns, and the little sloop-of-war _Lenore_, mounting fourteen. The
hostile squadron was formidable, and Du Guay-Trouin hesitated to
attack.
In command of the Dutch vessels was Baron van Wassenaer, one of a
family of famous sea-fighters from Holland, and he manoeuvred his
ships with consummate skill; always interposing his own vessel between
the French privateer and his fleet of merchantmen.
"Ah-ha," cried gallant Renee, at this moment. "Here come some of my
own boys."
And--sure enough--from the direction of France, and boiling along
under full canvas, rolled two privateersmen of St. Malo. Cheer after
cheer went up from the deck of the _St. Jacques des Victoires_, as
they pounded through the spray, for this made the contending parties
about equal, although the Dutch boats were larger, heavier, and they
had more guns aboard.
The Dutchmen now formed in line. In front was the flagship--the
_Delft_--with her fifty guns glowering ominously from the port-holes;
second was the thirty-gun frigate; and third, the other war-hound of
fifty guns: the _Hondslaardjiik_. Through a trumpet Du Guay-Trouin
shrilled his orders.
"The _Sans-Pareil_ will attack the _Hondslaardjiik_," cried he. "The
two privateers will hammer the frigate, while I and the _St. Jacques
des Victoires_ will attend to the _Delft_. The _Lenore_ will sail in
among the convoy. Fight, and fight to win!"
A fine breeze rippled the waves. The two squadrons were soon at each
others' throats, and there upon the sobbing ocean a sea-fight took
place which was one of the most stubborn of the ages.
As the Frenchmen closed in upon the Dutch, the _Hondslaardjiik_
suddenly left the line and crashed a broadside into the _St. Jacques
des Victoires_. It staggered her, but she kept on, and--heading
straight for her lumbering antagonist--ran her down. A splitting of
timber, a crunch of boards, a growl of musketry, and, with a wild
cheer, the Frenchmen leaped upon the deck of the Dutch warship; Du
Guay-Trouin in the lead, a cutlass in his right hand, a spitting
pistol in the left.
_Crash! Crackle! Crash!_ An irregular fire of muskets and pistols
sputtered at the on-coming boarders. But they were not to be stopped.
With fierce, vindictive cheers the privateers of St. Malo hewed a
passage of blood across the decking, driving the Dutchmen below,
felling them upon the deck in windrows, and seizing the commander
himself by the coat collar, after his cutlass had been knocked from
his stalwart hand. The Dutchman was soon a prize, and her proud ensign
came fluttering to the decking.
But things were not going so well in other quarters. Disaster had
attended the dash of the _Sans-Pareil_ upon the _Delft_. An exploding
shell had set her afire and she lay derelict with a cloud of drifting
smoke above, when suddenly, _Crash!_
A terrible explosion shook the staunch, little vessel, her sides
belched outward, and a number of sailors came shooting through the
air, for a dozen loose cartridge boxes had been caught by the roaring
flames. Helplessly she lolled in the sweep of the gray, lurching
billows.
"Hah!" shouted Van Wassenaer, as he saw his work. "Now for the saucy
Du Guay-Trouin," and, twisting the helm of the _Sans-Pareil_, he soon
neared the _St. Jacques des Victoires_, which was hanging to the
_Delft_ like a leech, firing broadside after broadside with clock-like
precision, her sea-dogs cheering as the spars crackled, the rigging
tore; and splinters ricochetted from her sides.
"Ready about!" cried Renee, wiping the sweat from his brow, "and board
the _Hondslaardjiik_. Now for Van Wassenaer and let us show the
Dutchman how a privateer from St. Malo can battle."
So, luffing around in the steady breeze, the privateersman rolled
ominously towards the lolling _Delft_. A crash, a sputter of pistols,
a crushing of timber, and grappling hooks had pinioned the two
war-dogs in a sinister embrace. And--with a wild yell--the Frenchmen
plunged upon the reddened decking of the flagship of the courageous
Van Wassenaer, who cried, "Never give in, Lads! What will they think
of this in Holland!"
There was a different reception than when the privateers rushed the
_Hondslaardjiik_. The Dutch fought like wildcats. Three times the
cheering, bleeding Frenchmen stormed the planking, and three times
they were hurled back upon the slippery deck of their own ship;
maddened, cursing, furious at their inability to take the foreigner.
"The conflict was very bloody both by the very heavy fire on both
sides, of guns, muskets, and grenades," says Du Guay-Trouin, "and by
the splendid courage of the Baron Van Wassenaer, who received me with
astonishing boldness."
"Bear away," ordered the courageous Dutchman, at this juncture. "We
must have time to recover and refit our ship."
And--suiting the action to his words--the badly battered _Delft_
filled, and crept well to leeward.
Meanwhile the two privateers of St. Malo had captured the frigate as
she lay helpless; a white flag beckoning for a prize crew.
"The _Faluere_ will attack the _Delft_," shouted Du Guay-Trouin,
running near the largest of these; a ship of thirty-eight guns. "I
must have time to breathe and to refit."
But stubborn Van Wassenaer was ready for his new antagonist. He
received the privateer with such a furious fire that she turned tail
and fled to leeward; her captain bleeding upon the poop, her crew
cursing the blood which ran in the veins of the valorous Hollander.
[Illustration: COMBAT BETWEEN DU GUAY-TROUIN AND VAN WASSENAER.]
Du Guay-Trouin had now recovered his breath. Again the bellying canvas
of the _St. Jacques des Victoires_ bore her down upon the _Delft_, and
again the two war-dogs wrapped in deadly embrace. Hear the invincible
Frenchman's own account of the final assault:
"With head down," he writes, "I rushed against the redoubtable Baron,
resolved to conquer or to perish. The last action was so sharp and so
bloody that every one of the Dutch officers was killed or wounded.
Wassenaer, himself, received four dangerous wounds and fell on his
quarterdeck, where he was seized by my own brave fellows, his sword
still in his hand.
"The _Faluere_ had her share in the engagement, running alongside of
me, and sending me forty men on board for reinforcement. More than
half of my own crew perished in this action. I lost in it one of my
cousins, first Lieutenant of my own ship, and two other kinsmen on
board the _Sans-Pareil_, with many other officers killed or wounded.
It was an awful butchery."
But at last he had won, and the victorious pennon of the Privateer
fluttered triumphant over the battered hulks which barely floated upon
the spar-strewn water.
"The horrors of the night," he writes, "the dead and dying below, the
ship scarcely floating, the swelling waves threatening each moment to
engulf her, the wild howling of the storm, and the iron-bound coast
of Bretagne to leeward, were all together such as to try severely the
courage of the few remaining officers and men.
"At daybreak, however, the wind went down; we found ourselves near the
Breton coast; and, upon our firing guns and making signals of
distress, a number of boats came to our assistance. In this manner was
the _St. Jacques_ taken into Port Louis, followed in the course of the
day by the three Dutch ships-of-war, twelve of the merchant ships, the
_Lenore_, and the two St. Malo privateers. The _Sans-Pareil_ did not
get in till the next day, after having been twenty times upon the
point of perishing by fire and tempest."
Thus ended the great fight of Renee Du Guay-Trouin, whose blood, you
see, was quite as blue as his breeches.
* * * * *
"Again," wrote His Majesty the King, "do I offer you a commission in
the Royal Navy, Du Guay-Trouin. Will you accept? This time it is a
Captaincy."
"I do," replied little Renee,--quite simply--and, at the next dinner
of the officers of the Royal Marines, they sang a chorus, which ran:
"Oh, yes, he's only a Democrat, his blood is hardly blue,
Oh, Sacre Nom de Dieu! Sapristi! Eet is true!
But he's a jolly tar dog, with dirk and pistol, too,
He fights like William the Conqueror, he fights!
Egad! that's true!
A health to Renee the terrible; soldier and sailor too."
EDWARD ENGLAND
TERROR OF THE SOUTH SEAS
(1690?-_about_ 1725)
"A Privateer's not a Buccaneer, but they're pretty chummy friends,
One flies a reg'lar ensign, there's nothing that offends.
One sails 'neath Letters Legal, t'other 'neath Cross-Bones,
But, both will sink you, Sailor, or my name's not Davy Jones."
--_Old Ballad._
EDWARD ENGLAND
TERROR OF THE SOUTH SEAS
(1690?-_about_ 1725)
"If England wuz but wind an' paint,
How we'd hate him.
But he ain't."
--_Log of the Royal James._
"Hit him with a bottle, he deserves it, th' brute!"
The man who spoke was a thick-set sailor of some forty-five summers,
with a swarthy skin, a brownish mat of hair, a hard visage, and a cut
across one eye. He stood upon the deck of a good-sized brig, which was
drowsily lolling along the coast of Africa.
"Yes, he treated us like dogs aboard th' _Cuttlefish_. Here, give me a
shot at 'im."
Thus cried another sailor--a toughish customer also--and, as his voice
rang out, a dozen more came running to the spot.
Cringing before the evil gaze of the seamen stood the Captain of a
Bristol merchantman--the _Cadogan_--which lay a boat's length away,
upon the glassy surface of a rocking sea.
Again rang out the harsh tones of him who had first spoken.
"Ah, Captain Skinner, it is you, eh? You are the very person I wished
to see. I am much in your debt, and I shall pay you in your own coin."
The poor Captain trembled in every joint, and said, with a curious
chattering of his teeth,
"Yes, Edward England, you've got me now. But go easy like, will yer? I
always was a friend o' yourn."
"Yer didn't look like a friend on th' old _Jamaica_, when you refused
to pay me my wages," interrupted the first speaker. "Yer didn't remove
me to 'er cursed man-o'-warsman, did yer? Yer didn't see that I got
th' cat-o'-nine-tails on my back, did yer? Now, Mr. Skinner, it's my
chance ter get even. Tie him ter th' windlass, boys, and we'll fix th'
feller's hash."
With a jeering laugh the sailors seized the frightened man, roped him
tightly to the desired prop, and, procuring a lot of glass bottles,
pelted him with them until their arms were tired.
"You wuz a good master to me, Captain Skinner," cried one. "Now you're
gettin' a dose of your own medicine. Overboard with him, Boys."
And, suiting the action to the words, he seized him by the collar. The
ropes were unwound. The poor wretch was dragged to the rail, and, as
his body spun out into the oily sea, a shot ended the life of poor
Thomas Skinner of the _Cadogan_ from Bristol. Captain Edward England
and his men had had a sweet and sure revenge.
Where this reckless mariner was born, it is difficult to ascertain.
We know that he started life honestly enough, for he was mate of a
sloop that sailed from Jamaica, about the year 1715, and was taken by
a pirate called Captain Winter. The youthful sailor soon took up the
careless ways of his captors, and it was not many years before he
became Captain of his own vessel: a sloop flying the black flag with a
skull and cross-bones.
Off the east coast of Africa he soon took a ship called the _Pearl_,
for which he exchanged his own sloop, fitting the new vessel up for
piratical service, after rechristening her the _Royal James_. Cruising
about in this staunch craft, he captured several ships of different
sizes and flying the flags of many nations. He was rich and
prosperous.
"Captain," said one of his reckless followers, at this time,
"man-o'-warsmen are gettin' too thick in these parts for an honest
sailor. Let's get across th' pond to th' Brazilian coast."
"You're quite right," answered England. "We've got to look for other
pickings. After we provision-up, we'll sail towards th' setting sun.
That's a fresh field and we can have it to ourselves."
So all made ready for a trans-Atlantic voyage.
But Captain England was in error when he said that he was sailing for
fields which had never before been touched. Two other piratical
vessels: the _Revenge_ and the _Flying King_, had been cruising off
the coast of Brazil, just before his advent. Fighting in partnership,
they had taken two Portuguese schooners, and were making off with
them, when a Portuguese man-o'-warsman came booming along under full
canvas. She was an unwelcome guest.
Setting all sail the two pirates had attempted to get away and the
_Revenge_ succeeded in doing so. Two days later a typhoon struck her
and she was soon swinging bottom upwards, with the kittiwakes
shrieking over her barnacled keel.
But the revengeful man-o'-warsman ploughed relentlessly after the
_Flying King_, which could not fly quite fast enough, this time,
and--in despair--was run, bows on, upon the shore, where the crew
scrambled to the sand in a desperate endeavor to get away. The sailors
from the man-o'-warsman were speedy; they shot twelve of the
buccaneers, took the rest prisoners (there were seventy in all) and
hanged thirty-eight to the yard-arm. News of this came to Captain
England when he neared the tropic coast of Brazil.
"It's all in a life-time," said he. "If I'm captured, of course I'll
swing. But, meanwhile, I hope to have a good life."
Not many days afterwards he heard the welcome sound of:
"Sail ho! Off the port bow!"
And raising the glass to his eye discovered two fat,
prosperous-looking merchant ships, slipping quietly along like an old
maid fresh from market.
"Slap on all sail and give chase!" was bellowed out in stentorian
tones, and the _Royal James_ was soon fairly boiling along with every
stitch aloft, which she could carry.
As she neared the merchantmen, the names came plainly to view: the
_Peterborough_ of Bristol, and the _Victory_ of Liverpool, but a shot
screamed across the bowsprit of the latter and victory was turned into
defeat. A white flag was fluttering at her mainmast in a moment, for
the Captain had no stomach for a fight.
"Egad, it's a pirate," said the good seaman in despair, as the black
flag with the skull and cross-bones fluttered from the rigging of his
capturer. "I thought she was a privateersman under Letters of Marque.
It's all up with us."
As the boat-load of boarders came bobbing alongside he cried out,
"Mercy! Have mercy upon the souls of these poor wretches who sail with
me."
The pirates guffawed, helped themselves to everything of value, and
took the merchantmen with them to the coast of Brazil, where the crew
were allowed to escape to the shore. The _Peterborough_ was
re-christened the _Victory_ and was manned by half of England's crew,
while the other vessel was burned at night; the pirates dancing on the
beach to the light of the flames and singing the weird songs of the
sea.
Now there was a scene of wild revel upon the Brazilian coast; but the
natives grew angry at the conduct of these rough men of the ocean.
"Ugh!" spoke a chief, "we must drive them away, else they will burn
our own villages as they did their houses upon the water."
One peaceful evening the followers of Captain England were hard beset
by fully a thousand black-skinned warriors from the Brazilian jungle.
There was a fierce battle. The negroes were pressed back upon their
principal town and were driven through it on the run, for their arrows
and spears were not as effective as the guns and pistols of the
English, Dutch, Spaniards and Portuguese, who had adopted a piratical
career. Their thatched huts were set on fire, and, satisfied with the
day's work, the pirates retired to their ships, where a vote was cast
where was to be their next venture. It fell to the East Indies and the
Island of Madagascar. So they set sail, singing an old ballad which
ran,
"Heave the lead and splice th' topsail,
Tie her down, and let her fill,
We're agoin' to Madagascar,
Where th' little tom-tits trill,
"Bill an' coo, an' sing so sweetly,
In th' dronin' hours of noon,
That you want to die there, neatly,
Just drop off into 'er swoon."
The voyage across was a good one and the pirates captured two East
Indiamen and a Dutchman, bound to Bombay. These they exchanged for one
of their own vessels, and then set out for Madagascar Island, where
several of their hands were set ashore with tents and ammunition, to
kill such beasts and venison as the place afforded.
Then they sailed for the Isle of Juanna,--not a great distance from
Madagascar,--and here had as keen a little engagement as ever
employed a piratical crew. Hear the story of this fight in the words
of Captain Mackra, an English sea-captain who happened at that time to
be in the harbor.
"BOMBAY, November 16th, 1720.
"We arrived on the 25th of July last, in company with
the _Greenwich_, at Juanna, an island not far from
Madagascar. Putting in there to refresh our men, we
found fourteen pirates who came in their canoes from the
Mayotta (island) where the pirate ship to which they
belonged, the _Indian Queen_--two hundred and fifty
tons, twenty-eight guns, commanded by Captain Oliver de
la Bouche, bound from the Guinea coast to the East
Indies--had been bulged (run ashore) and lost. They said
they left the Captain and forty men building a new
vessel, to proceed upon their wicked designs.
"Captain Kirby and I concluding that it might be of
great service to the East India Company to destroy such
a nest of rogues, were ready to sail for this purpose on
the 17th of August, about eight o'clock in the morning,
when we discovered two pirates standing into the Bay of
Juanna, one of thirty-four and the other of thirty-six
guns.
"I immediately went on board the _Greenwich_ where they
seemed very diligent in preparation for an engagement,
and I left Captain Kirby with mutual understanding of
standing by each other. I then unmoored, got under sail,
and brought two boats ahead to row me close to the
_Greenwich_; but he being open to a breeze, made the
best of his way from me; which an Ostender in our
company of twenty-two guns, seeing, did the same, though
the Captain had promised heartily to engage with us,
and, I believe would have been as good as his word, if
Captain Kirby had kept his.
"About half an hour after twelve, I called several times
to the _Greenwich_ to bear down to our assistance, and
fired a shot at him, but to no purpose; for, though we
did not doubt but he would join us, because, when he got
about a league from us he brought his ship to and looked
on; yet both he and the Ostender basely deserted us, and
left us engaged with barbarous and inhuman enemies, with
their black and bloody flags hanging over us, without
the least appearance of ever escaping, but to be cut to
pieces.
"But God in his good providence, determined otherwise;
for, notwithstanding their superiority, we engaged them
both about three hours, during which time the biggest of
them received some shot betwixt wind and water, which
made her keep a little off, to stop her leaks. The other
endeavored all she could to board us, by rowing with her
oars, being within half a ship's length of us about an
hour; but, by good fortune, we shot all her oars to
pieces, which prevented them from getting in close, and
consequently saved our lives.
[Illustration: "'LEFT US ENGAGED WITH BARBAROUS AND INHUMAN ENEMIES.'"]
"About four o'clock most of the officers and men posted
on the quarter-deck being killed and wounded, the
largest ship made up to us with diligence, after giving
us a broadside. There now being no hopes of Captain
Kirby's coming to our assistance, we endeavored to run
ashore; and though we drew four feet of water more than
the pirate, it pleased God that he stuck fast on a
higher ground than happily we fell in with; so was
disappointed a second time from boarding us.
"Here we had a more violent engagement than before. All
of my officers and most of my men behaved with
unexpected courage; and, as we had a considerable
advantage by having a chance to hurl a broadside into
his bow, we did him great damage. Had Captain Kirby come
in then, I believe we should have taken both the
vessels, for we had one of them, sure.
"The other pirate (who was still firing at us) seeing
the _Greenwich_ did not offer to assist us, supplied his
consort with three boats full of fresh men. About five
in the evening the _Greenwich_ stood clear away to sea,
leaving us struggling hard for life, in the very jaws of
death; which the other pirate that was afloat, seeing,
got a hawser out, and began to haul under our stern.
"By this time many of my men were being killed and
wounded, and no hopes left us of escaping being all
murdered by enraged barbarous conquerors, I ordered all
that could to get into the long-boat, under the cover of
the smoke from our guns; so that, with what some did in
boats, and others by swimming, most of us that were able
got ashore by seven o'clock.
"When the pirates came aboard, they cut three of our
wounded men to pieces. I, with some of my people, made
what haste I could to Kings-town, twenty-five miles from
us; where I arrived next day, almost dead with the
fatigue and loss of blood, having been sorely wounded in
the head by a musket-ball.
"At this town I heard that the pirates had offered ten
thousand dollars to the country people to bring me in,
which many of them would have accepted, only they knew
that the king and all his chief people were in my
interest. Meanwhile I caused a report to be circulated
that I was dead of my wounds, which much abated their
fury.
"We had, in all, thirteen killed and twenty-four
wounded; and we were told that we destroyed about
ninety, or a hundred, of the pirates. I am persuaded
that, had our consort the _Greenwich_ done her duty, we
could have destroyed both of them, and got two hundred
thousand pounds ($1,000,000.00) for our owners and
ourselves."
What say you to this fight? And to think that our own good friend
Captain Mackra just missed being a millionaire! Weep for the gallant
sea warrior!
At any rate he got safely away, for, at length going aboard one of the
piratical vessels,--under a flag of truce--he discovered that several
of the wild sea-robbers knew him; some of them--even--had sailed with
him in earlier years.
"I found this to be of great advantage," he writes. "For,
notwithstanding their promise not to harm me, some of them would have
cut me to pieces, had it not been for their chief, Captain Edward
England, and some others whom I knew."
And he used his powers of persuasion to such effect that: "They made
me a present of the shattered ship--which was Dutch built--called the
_Fancy_, her burden being about three hundred tons.
"With jury-masts, and such other old sails as they left me, I set sail
on September 8th, with forty-three of my ship's crew, including two
passengers and twelve soldiers. After a passage of forty-eight days I
arrived at Bombay on the 26th of October, almost naked and starved,
having been reduced to a pint of water a day, and almost in despair of
ever seeing land,
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