Famous Privateersmen and Adventurers of the Sea / Their rovings, cruises, escapades, and fierce battling upon the ocean for patriotism and for treasure

FAMOUS LEADERS SERIES

BY

CHARLES H. L. JOHNSTON

Each one volume, large 12mo, illustrated,
$1.50

THE PAGE COMPANY

53 Beacon Street, Boston, Mass.

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

THE COLONIAL PRESS
C. H. SIMONDS CO., BOSTON, U. S. A.

I DEDICATE THIS BOOK TO THE HAPPY MEMORY OF

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.

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The bugle calls to quarters,
The roar of guns is clear,
Now—ram your charges home, Lads!
And cheer, Boys! Cheer!

CONTENTS

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LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

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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.”

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.

[!--unnumbered title page --]

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.

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.”

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.

[!--unnumbered title page --]

SIR WALTER RALEIGH
PERSECUTOR OF THE SPANIARDS
(1552-1618)

“All great men have lived by hope.”—James Freeman Clarke.

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.

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.

[!-- unnumbered title page --]

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 Valbué.”

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 Oléron!”

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 Valbué.

“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. ‘Voilà!’ cried the good bishop. ‘Voilà! 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.

JEAN BART.

“Fools,” cried Captain Valbué. “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 Valbué had noticed it and Monsieur Valbué 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 Valbué, the Laws of Oléron, 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 Valbué was like a bubbling tea-pot. Seizing a hand-spike, he shot it out at the man who knew the law.

“The Laws of Oléron allow me just one blow,” blubbered Captain Valbué. “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 Oléron under which we sail and see if they do not back me up!”

“The laws be blowed!” yelled Monsieur Valbué, 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 Oléron,” cried Captain Valbué, when the Huguenot had been secured. “Bring up the Laws of Oléron 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 Valbué 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 Valbué. “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 Oléron. 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 Valbué 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 Oléron,” 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 Oléron! 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 manœuvres 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.

“Voilà!” cried the townspeople. “Jean Bart is a true hero. Voilà! He shall have the freedom of the city. Voilà!”

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—André 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!”

“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.

[!-- unnumbered title page --]

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, Rénee,” 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 Rénee 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 Rénee 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 Rénee 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 Rénee still hung his head.

And—in spite of the fact that little Rénee 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 Rénee 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 Rénee 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 Rénee, 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 Rénee 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 Rénee 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 Gué. So he was called Trouin du Gué; which shortly became Du Guay-Trouin.

“I’ve come home, mother,” shouted little Rénee, 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 Rénee 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 Rénee 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:

“Rénee has failed as a student of Divinity. Rénee has failed as a student of law. Rénee has entirely too high spirits. Rénee shall, therefore, be placed in one of the family ships and sent to sea.”

And to this decree Rénee is said to have cried: “At last! Hurray!” for he longed for action.

In a very short time little Rénee 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 Rénee, “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 “Voilà! 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 Rénee, “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 Rénee 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 Rénee 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 Rénee. “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 Rénee 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 Rénee 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 Rénee 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 Rénee 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 Rénee—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 manœuvred his ships with consummate skill; always interposing his own vessel between the French privateer and his fleet of merchantmen.

“Ah-ha,” cried gallant Rénee, 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 Rénee, 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.

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 Rénee 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 Rénee,—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 Rénee the terrible; soldier and sailor too.”

[!-- unnumbered title page --]

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.

“‘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, by reason of the calms we met with between the coast of Arabia and Malabar.”

The gallant writer of this interesting description was certainly in imminent danger of his life, when he trusted himself upon the pirate ship, and unquestionably nothing could have justified such a hazardous step but the desperate circumstances in which he was placed. The honor and influence of Captain England, however, protected him and his men from the wrath of the crew, who would willingly have wreaked their vengeance upon those who had dealt them such heavy blows in the recent fight.

But the generosity of Captain England toward the unfortunate Mackra proved to be calamitous to himself.

“You are no true pirate,” cried one of his crew. “For a buccaneer never allows his foes to get away.”

“No! No!” shouted others. “This fighting Mackra will soon come against us with a strong force. You did wrong in letting him escape.”

“To the yard-arm with the traitor!” sounded from the throat of many a ruffianly seaman.

Thus grew the feeling of mutiny—and the result of these murmurs of discontent—was that Captain England was put ashore by the cruel villains; and, with three others was marooned upon the island of Mauritius. Had they not been destitute of every necessity they might have been able to live in comfort, for the island abounds in deer, hogs, and other animals. Dissatisfied, however, with this solitary situation, Captain England and his three men exerted their industry and ingenuity, built a small boat, and sailed to Madagascar, where they lived upon the generosity of some more fortunate piratical companions.

But can a pirate remain happy when not pirating?

“Away with this life,” cried Captain England. “I pine for more treasure and for battle. Let’s out and to sea!”

“Good! Good!” said his mates. “Let’s ship aboard another vessel and get away from here.”

So, they again took to the ocean, but what became of Edward England is not known.

Some say that he was killed in a brawl; some that he was again marooned and was adopted by a savage tribe; some that he perished in a fight upon the Indian Ocean. At any rate that rough and valiant soul is lost to history, and—somewhere—in the vast solitude of the Southern Hemisphere, lie the bleaching bones of him who had flaunted the skull-and-cross-bones upon the wide highway of the gleaming wastes of salty brine. His was a rough and careless life. Do not emulate the career of Edward England!

Near the straits of Madagascar; near the sobbing oceans’ roar,
A ghostly shape glides nightly, by the beady, kelp-strewn shore.—
As the Cubic monkeys chatter; as the Bulbul lizards hiss,
Comes a clear and quiet murmur, like a Zulu lover’s kiss.
The flying-fishes scatter; the chattering magpies scream,
The topaz hummers dart and dip; their jewelled feathers gleam.
The mud-grimed hippos bellow; the dove-eyed elands bleat,
When the clank of steel disturbs them, and the beat of sandalled feet.
The pirate crew is out to-night, no rest is for their souls,
The blood of martyrs moves them; they charge a million tolls.
On! On! Their souls must hasten. On! On! Their shapes must go,
While the limpid rushes quiver, and the beast-lapped waters glow.
No rest for Captain England. No rest, for King or pawn,
On! On! Their feet must wander. On! On! Forever on!

SONG OF THE PIRATE

“To the mast nail our flag! it is dark as the grave,
Or the death which it bears while it sweeps o’er the wave;
Let our decks clear for action, our guns be prepared;
Be the boarding-axe sharpened, the scimetar bared:
Set the canisters ready, and then bring to me,
For the last of my duties, the powder-room key.
It shall never be lowered, the black flag we bear,
If the sea be denied us, we sweep through the air.
Unshared have we left our last victory’s prey;
It is mine to divide it, and yours to obey:
There are shawls that might suit a Sultana’s white neck,
And pearls that are fair as the arms they will deck;
There are flasks which, unseal them, the air will disclose
Diametta’s fair summers, the home of the rose.
I claim not a portion: I ask but as mine—
But to drink to our victory—one cup of red wine.
Some fight, ’tis for riches—some fight, ’tis for fame:
The first I despise, and the last is a name.
I fight ’tis for vengeance! I love to see flow,
At the stroke of my sabre, the life of my foe.
I strike for the memory of long-vanished years;
I only shed blood where another sheds tears,
I come, as the lightning comes red from above,
O’er the race that I loathe, to the battle I love.”

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WOODES ROGERS
THE BRISTOL MARINER
(?-1736)

“If you want to win a lass, or a sea fight; don’t cajole. Sail in!”—Old Proverb.

WOODES ROGERS
THE BRISTOL MARINER
(?-1736)

For he can fight a Spaniard, like a Tipperary cat,
For he can sack a city, like a blawsted, rangy rat;
Woodes Rogers was a Gentleman, from Bristol-town he sailed,
An’ his crew came from th’ prisons, an’ were
Bailed,
Bailed,
Bailed.