Chapter III: Part 3

But how about those jealous courtiers? They were still around--Oh, yes!--And Raleigh was greeted at court as coldly as when he had departed with the fleet. He had been deprived of his office of Captain of the Queen's Guard, and even his bravery at Cadiz did not win this back for him. Nor did he receive any of the spoil which had been won by himself and his comrades. Even Queen Bess was angry because her share of the booty taken from Cadiz was not as great as she had hoped for.

"What the Generals have got," wrote Sir Walter, "I know least. For my own part, I have got a game leg, and am deformed. I have received many good words and exceedingly kind and regardful usage; but I have possession of naught but poverty and pain."

Not long afterwards the old Queen was persuaded to write Sir Walter to come to court, and thus he and his wife, whom Elizabeth had also forgiven, appeared daily in the brilliant throng which clustered in the halls and corridors of the Royal Palace. He was restored to his old office of Captain of the Queen's Guard and rode forth again in all the splendor of his uniform, at the side of the sovereign.

The rest of Sir Walter's life can be briefly narrated. With Essex he took part in a successful expedition to the Azores, where they captured many ships, and with him divided much booty and fame. But Essex became too ambitious and started a conspiracy to place himself upon the throne of England. It was a failure. He was captured by the Queen's soldiers--a part under Sir Walter himself--was tried, and executed for High Treason.

Queen Bess soon died and was succeeded by a man who disliked Sir Walter from the start. This was James the First of Scotland--a "dour" fellow--who charged the valorous knight with treason, for it was alleged that he had conspired, with Lord Cobham, to place the youthful Arabella Stuart upon the throne. He was tried, convicted, and thrown into the Tower, where he lived for twelve long, tedious years. Think of it! A fellow of his venturesome and restless spirit forced to remain in a dungeon-keep for such a time! Weep for brave Sir Walter! This was fine treatment for a patriot!

But the jealous courtiers did not weep. Oh no! _They_ laughed.

When gallant Sir Walter was thrown into the Tower (for he had not plotted against the King) he was a hale and stalwart cavalier of fifty-two. He was released--after twelve years--when his hair and beard were grizzled, his face worn and wrinkled, his body somewhat bent, and his features grave and sorrowful. With what tearful joy he clasped to his breast his ever faithful wife and his two sons! At sixty-four his brave spirit was still unshaken; his ardent and restless ambition was as keen as ever.

He went forth with the sentence of death still hanging over his head; for King James, although giving a grudging consent to his release, had refused to pardon him. And he went forth with the understanding that he should lead an expedition to the coast of Guiana in South America; there to attack the Spaniards and gain plunder, gold, and jewels. If successful he was to go free. If non-successful, he was to suffer punishment--perhaps death!

The expedition was a failure. The Spaniards and natives were well aware of his coming, for 'tis said that King James, himself, sent them news of the expedition.

"If I go home it's off with my head," said Sir Walter. "But I'll risk it."

Don't you think if you had been Sir Walter, instead of sailing to England where you knew that a headsman's axe awaited you, you would have coasted by the shores of the Chesapeake Bay and dropped off quietly where is the home of the canvas-back and the terrapin! Just stepped into one of the jolly-boats and peacefully drifted ashore on a dark night?

I think that you would have been strongly inclined to do so,--but _you_ are not Sir Walter Raleigh. _He_ was a lion-hearted adventurer.

Opportunity after opportunity came to him to escape to the shores of France. He let them go by, but, when he found that his enemies demanded his trial for treason, he thought it high time to get away. He learned that a French envoy had arranged to get him to France and had a barque for this purpose. A certain Captain King had found a small boat commanded by one of Sir Walter's old boatmen, which lay at Tilbury awaiting his orders. It was arranged by Raleigh's guard--one Stukeley--that he should be rowed to the little lugger on the evening of Sunday, August the 9th, 1618. The latter was sent up the Thames river to Gravesend.

At the hour designated, Raleigh, Captain King, Stukeley and his son Hart, with a page, jumped into two small wherries in order to row to the lugger. They had just shoved off, when keen Sir Walter saw another boat push out from the bank and follow them.

"How's this?" said he to Stukeley.

But silent Stukeley did not answer.

The boat rowed fast, but the pursuing craft moved with equal speed. The tide was singing and gurgling in a mad flow, and it became doubtful whether the wherries could reach Gravesend under the protection of darkness, for day was breaking, and the whirling water made progress very slow.

At last--seeing that they could not get away--the shallops were forced to turn about and retrace their passage. The pursuing boat swung, also--like a shadow of the first. Sir Walter's heart beat tumultuously.

When the fugitives reached Greenwich--Stukeley stood up and appeared in his true colors. Laying a hand upon the shoulder of faithful Captain King, he cried--

"I arrest you in the name of our Monarch, James First!"

Raleigh looked around in anger and dismay.

"Stukeley," he said with heat, "you are a trait'rous cur. These actions will not turn out to your credit!"

But the knave laughed derisively,--so derisively that the common people dubbed him "Sir Judas Stukeley." And it well suited him. Didn't it?

The boatmen rowed directly to the Tower and the boat which had pursued the wherries--which contained a courtier named Herbert (to whom Stukeley had betrayed the projected escape)--followed them close. The soldiers in her (for they had been well hidden) escorted the dejected Sir Walter to the grim walls of the dungeon.

There was now no hope for that gallant adventurer: the man had brought honor and renown to England. He was tried for Treason: condemned: executed.

As he stood waiting for the axe to fall, he said:

"I have many sins for which to beseech God's pardon. For a long time my course was a course of vanity. I have been a seafaring man, a soldier, and a courtier; and, in the temptations of the least of these there is enough to overthrow a good mind and a good man. I die in the faith professed by the Church of England. I hope to be saved, and to have my sins washed away by the precious blood and merits of our Saviour, Jesus Christ."

A quick shudder ran through the multitude when Sir Walter had ceased to live, and many groaned aloud at the horrible sight. One stout yeoman cried out angrily, "We have not had such another head to be cut off."

The crowd separated slowly, muttering and crying out against the enemies of the valiant man; while his friends, who were present, parted with tears coursing down their cheeks.

And the jealous courtiers said: "Magnificent!" It was now their turn to shout. And they did it, too.

* * * * *

So, you see, Sir Walter Raleigh's patriotism was paid for by death. The trouble with him was, he was too much of a man.

_Nowadays_--when a soldier or sailor does something for England--they give him a Hip! Hip! Hurray!

He is appreciated. He is presented with titles, honors, and a warm reception.

_Then_, when a man did something for England, those in power gave him the cold shoulder; the icy stare.

That's the reason why England's sons will do something for her now. If she had kept treating them as she did Sir Walter Raleigh she wouldn't have many of them around when it came to a fight. _And, some day, she'll need them all!_

So when a fellow does something really great, don't greet him with frozen silence. _Cheer! He needs it! Besides,--it won't hurt you!_

_Give a tiger and three times three!_

THE VANISHED SAILORS

Say, sailors, what's happened to young Bill Jones?
Jones of Yarmouth; the bright-cheeked boy?
Jones who could handle a boat like a man,
Jones, who would grapple a smack like a toy?

"_Fell o'er the sea-end with Raleigh. Ahoy!_"

Well, sea-dogs, where's Thompson of Yarmouthport dock?
The chap who could outwit old Hawkins, they say,
The man with th' knowledge of charts and of reefs,
There wasn't his equal from Prawle to Torquay.

"_Fell o'er the sea-end with Raleigh, to-day!_"

Where's Rixey of Hampton; Smith of Rexhill?
Who'd coasted and traded from London to Ryde,
Huggins and Muggins, all seamen of worth,
Who could jibe and could sail, sir, when combers were wide?

"_Fell o'er the sea-end with Raleigh. Last tide!_"

Well, seamen, when that day shall come near,
When the salt sea is moved from its bed,
Some will there be, who can give us the news,
Of all that brave band, whom Adventure has led
To

"_Fall o'er the sea-end with Raleigh, 'tis said!_"

"Such is the man,
Whom neither shape nor danger can dismay,
Nor thought of tender happiness betray;
Who, not content that worth stands fast,
Looks forward, persevering to the last,
From good to better, daily self-surpassed."

--_Ballads of the Day._

JEAN BART

THE SCOURGE OF THE DUTCH

(1650-1702)

As long as selfishness remains a Human
Passion,--Warfare will continue.

JEAN BART

THE SCOURGE OF THE DUTCH

(1650-1702)

"'What means that canvas, Skipper? It's bearing down to port,
And it drives a blackish barquentine, with every topsail taut,
There're guns upon her poop deck. There're cannon near her bow,
And the bugler's bloomin' clarion, it shrills a how-de-row?'
The skipper took a peep at her, his face turned ashen pale,
His jaw began to tremble, and his knees began to fail,
As the flag of France swung to the breeze and fluttered without check,
'Jean Bart!' he gurgled weakly, and fainted on the deck."

--_Rhymes of The Dutch Channel Fleet._--1676.

The good ship _Cochon Gras_ boiled along off the coast of Normandy under a full spread of canvas, for the breeze was light, and was from the southward. A boy of sixteen stood at the helm. He was well bronzed by exposure to the elements; was sturdy and strong. His dark hair waved luxuriantly about a face in which keenness and shrewdness were easily to be seen. His name was Jean Bart and he had been born at Dunkirk in France.

The Captain of the _Cochon Gras_ strode about upon the deck below. He was in an evil mood and his voice showed his ill feeling.

"Put the helm over!" he shouted to the steersman. "Don't you see that your sails aren't half full! Boy, will you never learn!"

Jean Bart obeyed.

"Very good, my Captain!" said he. "Very good, my Monsieur Valbue."

And, at this, the captain scowled, for he was in a beastly temper.

"I am glad that you act quickly," said he. "You know nothing. By acting quickly you will learn a thing or two. _Tiens!_ Be speedy! Be very quick! Be like the Bishop of Oleron!"

He smiled and lurched against the rail.

"Ah, this good prelate was a true seaman," said he. "He knew the tides like a mackerel. He knew as much as I do, myself, and that is saying a good deal."

Jean Bart chuckled at the vanity of Monsieur Valbue.

"The good Bishop was standing on the rocks upon a stormy evening," continued the captain, "when he saw some fisher boats making for the harbor. One of them was bearing too close to the shore. One of them was going to go upon the rocks. One of them was steered by a poor fellow who knew neither the reefs nor the shoals. 'Voila!' cried the good bishop. 'Voila! I will save this dull-witted sailor.' And, forthwith, what do you think that he did,--?"

A small knot of seamen had, by this time, collected around the talkative captain. They all shook their heads.

"Fools," cried Captain Valbue. "Fools! Why, he strode into the sea, of course. Being a pure man of God and a member of the true church, he walked upon the surface of the water. The boat coming in was manned by Huguenots, by unbelievers, mark you! By fellows who had neither the sense nor the grace to be members of the true church. _They_ could not walk upon the water. Oh! No! But the good Bishop _he_ walked as easily as a stormy petrel, for he was a man of God. And, as he reached the boat he made the sign of the cross, saying, 'Beware of the rocks which you sail down upon! Bear off to the left! When you see the red buoy, bear to the right, and then come home by keeping your bow pointed for the spire of the big church!' And they did so. They were saved by the good Bishop, whom I know well. As for me. I would have let the foolish Huguenots get their just deserts. It would have been one heretic less and good riddance."

At this one of the seamen was plainly angered.

"Piff!" said he. "Piff!" That was all. But Monsieur Valbue had noticed it and Monsieur Valbue grew angry in a moment. Seizing a half-empty cider mug, from which he had been drinking, he hurled it at the head of the fellow who had made the remark.

"You dog of a Huguenot!" he roared.

The seaman dodged, and the cider mug spun into the planks of a jolly boat. Then he stepped forward and said,

"Captain Valbue, the Laws of Oleron, under which we sail, say that you cannot and must not strike a seaman with any missile. I, Lanoix, will strike back if you hit me."

But Monsieur Valbue was like a bubbling tea-pot. Seizing a hand-spike, he shot it out at the man who knew the law.

"The Laws of Oleron allow me just one blow," blubbered Captain Valbue. "Just as the laws of England allow each dog one bite."

As luck would have it, he missed his shot.

Lanoix leaped over the iron rail which separated the forecastle from the after part of the vessel. Then he turned around.

"Follow me here, you coward!" he shouted to the captain, "and I will have the right to crack you through the middle. Consult the Laws of Oleron under which we sail and see if they do not back me up!"

"The laws be blowed!" yelled Monsieur Valbue, now beside himself with rage. And, leaping across the rail he struck the Huguenot two sturdy blows in the face.

Jean Bart, meanwhile, steered the ship: looked on; and said nothing.

R-i-i-p! There was a flash, a blow, and a cry of pain. A large, keen knife was clenched in the strong right hand of Lanoix, and the captain was running red, with a deep gash in his shoulder.

"Down with the Mutineer! Down with the dog!" came from the throats of the members of the crew who had clustered about the two enraged men, smiling at the little affair.

With a rush they were upon the Huguenot; had forced him to the deck; and wrested the knife from his hand. But, before it was wrenched from his fist, the blade had pierced the body of a seaman and had felled him to the boarding.

"Bring up the Laws of Oleron," cried Captain Valbue, when the Huguenot had been secured. "Bring up the Laws of Oleron from my cabin, and let us see whether or no I was right, when I struck this prating Lanoix!"

The cabin-boy dove below and was soon again upon the deck.

"The law shall be read," cried the captain. "Out with it!"

Now, aboard the vessel was one Antoine Sauret--a good, old boatswain--a friend of the father of Jean Bart, and a courageous man.

"The law shows you to be in the wrong," said he.

"Yes," cried Jean Bart from the wheel, which he had not left. "You were, and are, in the wrong." Monsieur Valbue glowered at them.

"I am the law," said he. "Is this not my vessel?"

"But the right is on his side," interrupted the good Antoine Sauret.

"You wait and see what I do to this cur of a Huguenot," snarled Captain Valbue. "And no more talk from either you or Jean Bart. Hear! Six out of eight of the crew agree that this Lanoix has wounded me and has slain one of his ship-mates--without proper provocation--I will now fix him."

And this he did in the most approved manner.

Lashing his victim's arm to a sharp sword tied to the windlass, he knocked the unfortunate Lanoix upon the deck with a hand-spike. Then, tying him--still alive--to the dead sailor whom the Huguenot had killed when the crew rushed upon him,--he cried out:

"Throw 'em both to the fishes!"

They were seized.

"One! Two! Three! Heave Away!" sounded from the throats of the Frenchmen.

Lanoix and the dead sailor spun out above the blue water. A splash. A gurgle of white foam, and the Atlantic closed above them.

Seamen--you witness--were brutes, in these merry days of privateering. But hear the sequel of the gruesome story!

Jean Bart and the good boatswain Sauret had, from that moment, no high opinion of the Laws of Oleron. So, when the vessel touched at Calais, upon the coast of France, they walked up to the captain, saying:

"Sir. We wish to leave you! We cannot sail any longer beneath your orders."

The brutal Valbue scowled.

"Go!" said he. "And good riddance."

But when the circumstances of the death of the two men were reported to the authorities, the captain was tried.

"The Law of Oleron," said the Judge to him, "acquits you, for the Huguenot sailor was in the wrong to draw his knife, when you struck him only with your fists. But it is a bad law and must be changed."

Here he turned to young Jean Bart and the good Sauret.

"As for you two," said he, "I most highly commend you for protesting against the brutality of this captain. Would that all the sailors of France were as good as both of you. If they were, there would be less trouble aboard ship. Again I commend you!"

So--feeling very happy, indeed--young Jean Bart went out into the street. Though only sixteen he had been right in his attempt to save the life of poor Lanoix. Good for young Bart! Hats off to the sailor lad of sixteen who was more merciful than the cruel Law of Oleron! And this brutal set of rules was soon changed to the Maritime Code of France, which gave seamen some right to defend themselves against the attacks of rough and overbearing captains. Thus Jean Bart had started the ball rolling in the right direction. Again hats off to the doughty, young Frenchman!

Not long after this event the Dutch fell out with the English and began a smart little war. Jean Bart hastened to the scene of action, enrolled in the Dutch cause, and fought with them for five full years. Then the Dutch began to make war upon the French (in 1672), but this was too much for the patriotic sentiments of the youthful volunteer.

"Ah!" said he. "When my own people are attacked, I must hasten to their assistance. The Dutch have paid me well 'tis true, but now I scorn their gold. Vive la France!"

So saying, he returned to Dunkirk, speedily found employment, and went to sea again--not in a man-of-war, but in a privateer. He was now four-and-twenty; was wiry, tough, and well used to battling both with men and with the elements. The boat he sailed in mounted only two guns and had a crew of thirty-six. She was named after a famous personage of Biblical history: _King David_, and she conducted herself as skilfully as did that ancient monarch, for was not Jean Bart at the helm?

Cruising out upon the treacherous waters of the North Sea, it was not long before a vessel was sighted that was of such small tonnage that Bart was not afraid to give chase. He slapped on all canvas, put his helm hard over, and steered for the dancing bit of canvas. The _King David_ was a swift sailer, and soon the bow-gun spoke from the deck of the French privateer, sending a challenging shot whistling close to the stern of the stranger, who flew the flag of the States General (the Dutch Republic) with which the French were now at war.

The stranger did not relish the challenge, and came to in a hurry, while her flag fluttered weakly to the deck.

"She's ours!" cried Jean Bart, gleefully. "And without a fight. Hurray for the life of a privateer!"

Quickly ranging alongside, the stranger was seen to be a valuable prize, laden with tea, spices, and cotton. She was manned by a small crew and sent to port.

"Now off for other luck!" cried Jean Bart.

Luck was with him, too. In four months cruising in the English Channel, near the Belgian coast, he captured six prizes; all without any fighting. The Dutch trading vessels of those days must have been without guns and poorly manned, for it should have been easy to stand off a crew of but thirty-six, with only two cannon aboard. Jean Bart--you may be sure--was well satisfied. He was now rich, quite famous, and keen for further adventure.

So well did the owners of the privateer _King David_ think of him, that they now put him in charge of a larger vessel named _La Royale_, carrying about eighty men and ten guns.

"Go out and win!" cried the chief owner of this privateer. "Jean Bart, you are followed by the best blood of France. Your men are all from Dunkirk!"

And Jean Bart smiled.

"Watch me!" said he.

Cruising near the coast of Holland in company with a small French gun-boat, he fell in with a man-of-war--the _Esperance_--carrying twelve guns and about one hundred and twenty men.

"Now we'll have a real fight!" cried the youthful French commander as he cleared decks for action. "Men, see to it that your swords are sharpened for there may be some boarding!"

Then he signalled to the little French gun-boat to follow him and give battle. This ally carried about a hundred men and six cannon.

"Poof! Poof!"

The heavy guns of the Dutchman were the first to speak and they barked away like fat Newfoundland watch-dogs.

"Poof! Poof! B-o-o-m!"

Jean Bart reserved his fire until within about seventy-five yards and then he gave the command,

"Fire away! Aim low! And try to hull her!"

A sheet of flame sprang from the ten guns of _La Royale_ and a splitting of boards and crackling of splinters showed that the iron missiles had punctured the stout sides of the _Esperance_.

"Pop! Pop! Crash!"

The other French vessel now threw her lead into the stern of the defender of the flag of the States General and her mizzen-mast was seen to rock like an unfastened May pole.

"Whow!"

The _Esperance_ was not slow in answering back and her twelve guns spat like leopards in the brush. She filled away and bore towards the land, but the French gun-boat saw this move and checkmated it.

Sailing across her bow, the Frenchman raked her fore and aft, while the rub-a-dub-dub of Jean Bart's guns went drumming against her starboard side. Crash! Crash! Crash! Her boards were split, her mizzen-mast was swaying, and her rigging was near cut in two. Men were falling fast and two of her guns had blown up and were rendered useless.

"Surrender!" came a sharp hail from the lusty throat of Jean Bart, and, as he spoke, a perfect hail of grape came from his French ally, now creeping up to port for a chance to grapple and board.

"What can I do?" sighed the stout, Dutch commander, turning to one of his lieutenants. "Boy, haul down our flag!"

So down came the emblem of the States General amidst ringing cheers from the throats of the followers of Jean Bart. They had won a notable victory.

When the _Esperance_ was towed and half-sailed into Dunkirk harbor, old Antoine Sauret was there.

"Ah, my friends," said he, "I always told you that my boy, Jean Bart, would make a great name for himself. Three times three for the great privateer of Dunkirk!"

And all the bystanders joined in right willingly.

Not long after this event, our hero's ship was lying in the harbor of Bergen in Sweden. The captain of an English vessel met him on shore, and, after having a chat with him, remarked:

"I hear that you have quite a reputation for fighting your ship. I, too, am a sea warrior and would like to have a little affair with you. My own vessel is of about the same tonnage as yours, so that we could meet upon even terms. Will you join me?"

"I would be delighted," answered the war-like Jean Bart. "If you wait two days I will be ready for you and will fight you three miles off the coast. Meanwhile I must lie here and take on some stores which are much needed by both men and guns."

The Englishman smiled.

"You are a man after my own heart," said he. "Good-by until we meet in battle."

Three days after this, Jean Bart sent a boy to the English vessel with a note for the captain. It ran:

"I am ready to fight you to-morrow. Meet me three miles
beyond the breakwater and may the best man win. Until
then--good luck.

"Yours for battle,

"JEAN BART."

The boy came back bearing a return missive from the Englishman, who wrote:

"MONSIEUR BART: I am delighted to learn that you want to
fight me, and will do so. You are indeed a brave man.
But--before we go for each other's throats--pray let us
breakfast together. Will you therefore take your morning
meal with me, to-morrow, in my own cabin, aboard my
ship? I shall expect you.

"Yours to count on,

"MIDDLETON."

"I do not want to accept, but I will," mused Captain Bart. "These English fellows are far too polite."

So, next morning, he was rowed to the British vessel and was soon breakfasting with his red-faced opponent.

After the meal the Frenchman lighted his pipe, took a few puffs, and said:

"Monsieur, I have greatly enjoyed this peaceful repast. But it is now time for me to go and sharpen my boarding-pike. I must bid you adieu."

The Englishman smiled.

"No," said he. "You cannot go. You are my prisoner!"

Jean Bart still smoked.

"You are too quick!" he answered, slowly. "There you are wrong. I am not your prisoner, for I see a barrel of gunpowder on the deck, and, if you do not release me immediately, I will blow up your ship!"

The Englishman turned pale.

"Watch me!" cried Jean Bart.

Leaping from his seat, he rushed to the deck, lighted a match from his pipe, and held it directly over the mouth of a barrel of gunpowder, from which someone had pried the head.

"Lay on! You cowards!" he yelled. "Lay on, and we'll all go to the Land of the Hereafter together."

His cry was heard upon his own vessel, which--with sails up--lay waiting for him.

In a moment her bow was turned towards the British ship which was still at anchor, with sails unhoisted. In a moment she dropped down alongside--and--in less time than it takes to tell--the Frenchmen had brought her upon the port quarter, and were swarming across the deck to rescue their bold captain.

Taken by surprise, the English put up a plucky fight, but they were no match for the infuriated men of Dunkirk. They were soon overpowered. The captain was taken prisoner, and the vessel was considered a legitimate prize of war, because of the trick which Middleton had attempted to play upon Jean Bart. When--in a few days--the prize was sailed into Dunkirk harbor--the Englishman well wished that he had not attempted to capture the most able privateersman of all France.

The fame of this exploit spread over the land, and gave rise to a ditty, which ran:

"If you want to catch Jean Bart, sir,
A slippery, slimy chap,
Don't bait him with gunpowder,
For he's sure to miss the trap.
You must splice him down with chains, sir;
You must nail him to the deck.
Put a belt around his middle,
And a collar 'round his neck.
Even then you cannot hold him,
For he's certain to get through,
While his sailors sing a song, sir,
With a
Cock-
a-
doodle-
doo!"

In July, 1675, Jean Bart was married, but he did not remain long on shore. Three weeks after this auspicious event he once more put to sea and captured a number of Dutch fishing boats, which he allowed the captains to ransom for large sums of money.

This was a very convenient arrangement, for it saved him the trouble of putting part of his own crew on board and sending the boats to port. But the owners of _La Royale_, upon which he sailed, did not care for his methods of procedure.

"You cannot do this in future!" said they. "And you must forfeit half of what you took to us!"

Jean Bart obeyed, but he was very angry. It is even said that he uttered "a round seaman's oath."

So successful was he, in fact, that he was given a much larger vessel in 1676. This was a frigate--the _Palme_--with twenty-four guns and a crew of one hundred and fifty men. Sailing into the North Sea with two small French gun-boats, he soon fell in with three Dutch privateers and eight armed whaling vessels. He attacked, and the battle raged for three long, bloody hours.

When the smoke and the fumes of sulphur burned away, Bart had boarded the largest privateer, while his two consorts had taken the eight whalers. The other Dutch privateers found it too hot for their liking and scudded for the coast, firing their stern-guns derisively as they disappeared. It was a great victory, and again the French coast rung with salvos for Jean Bart, while the old sea-dogs shrugged their shoulders, saying:

"Ah! Ha! Did we not tell you that Dunkirk bred men of bone and marrow. Ah! Ha!"

But Jean Bart was not happy.

"Would that I could meet a foe of my own force," he used to say. "Either a man-of-war or a privateer, I don't care which. I want to try it on with one of my own size and strength."

His wish was soon to be gratified.

On September 7th, 1676, he was pointing the _Palme_ towards the Belgian coast-line, when he sighted a number of sail on the starboard quarter. He headed for them; scanned the white dots through a glass, and saw that this was a fishing fleet of small, unarmed luggers. But a big, hulking Dutch frigate hovered in their rear, and thirty-two guns pointed their brown muzzles menacingly from her open port-holes. She was the _Neptune_ and she lazed along like a huge whale: omnipotent and self-satisfied.

"Ah ha!" cried the delighted Jean Bart. "Now I have met an enemy that is worthy of my steel. Up with the flag and sail into yonder Dutchman. We have but twenty-four guns to her thirty-two, but are we to be awed by this show of force? Be ready, my boys, to have the stiffest fight in your careers!"

The Dutchman was equally well pleased when he saw who was coming for him.

"Here is Jean Bart, the pirate and privateer," he cried. "For three years I've been hoping to have a fight with him and now my chance has come at last. I am fortunate, for I can pay him back for all the damage that he has done to Dutch commerce. Shoot low, my hearties, and do not fail to hull our enemy. Let your war-cry be: 'Down with Jean Bart and his pirate crew!'"

"Hurrah!" shouted his men.

And an answering

"Hurray!" came from the _Palme_. These opponents were as eager to get at each other as two prize-fighters of modern days.

_Crash!_ roared a broadside from the Dutch frigate as her flag went aloft, and splash, splash, splash, went her shells around the sides of the privateer.

"Sail in close!" yelled Jean Bart. "Hug her to leeward for awhile, then cross her bows, rake her, get her wind, and board."

"Hurray!" shouted the men of Dunkirk, and a rattle, rattle, roar came from the port guns of the _Palme_.

Around and around swung the sea gladiators and the little fishing boats luffed and tittered on the waves like inquisitive sparrows.

"Bart cannot win!" said several of their skippers. "For he's outweighted and outnumbered!"

But Bart was fighting like John Paul Jones.

Around and around went the two opponents, guns growling, men cheering, sails slapping and ripping with the chain and solid shot. Again and again Jean Bart endeavored to get a favorable position for boarding and again and again he was forced to tack away by the quick manoeuvres of the Dutchman.

"Fire into her rigging!" he now thundered. "Cripple those topsails and I can bring my boat alongside."

"_Crash! Crash! Crash!_"

Volley after volley puffed from the side of the rolling _Palme_. Volley after volley poured its lead and iron into the swaying rigging of the Dutchman, and, with a great roaring, ripping, and smashing, the mizzen topmast came toppling over the lee rail.

A lusty cheer sounded from the deck of the _Palme_.

"She's ours!" cried Jean Bart, smiling.

Instantly he spun over the wheel, luffed, and brought his boat upon the starboard quarter of the Dutchman, who was now part helpless. It took but a moment to run alongside, and, in a moment more, the _Palme_ was lashed to the _Neptune_ in a deadly embrace. Smoke rolled from the sides of both contestants and the roar of the guns drowned the shrill cries of the wounded. The Dutchmen were now desperate and their guns were spitting fire in rapid, successive volleys; but many of them were silenced, as the great, brown side of the _Palme_ rubbed its planking against the splintered railing of the shattered _Neptune_.

As the vessels were securely bound together, Jean Bart seized a boarding-pike, a brace of pistols, and, giving the helm to a sailor, leaped into the waist of his ship.

"Board! Board!" he shouted.

A wild yelp greeted these welcome sounds. As he vaulted over the rail of his own ship to the deck of the stranger, a motley crew of half-wild sea-savages swarmed behind him. They had cutlasses and boarding-pikes, and their faces were blackened with powder. Their eyes were reddened with sulphurous fumes and their clothes torn with splintered planking. They rolled over the gunwales like a huge wave of irresistible fire: pistols spitting, pikes gleaming, cutlasses glistening in the rays of the sun.

The captain of the _Neptune_ lay near his own wheel, grievously wounded.

"Lay on, men!" he shouted. "Don't let this French privateer beat us. We will be disgraced."

But his sailors were no match for the onrush of these fiends from Dunkirk. They fell back like foam before a sea squall.

"Then down with our flag," cried the captain of the Dutchman. "But, ye gods, how it hurts me to give the order."

A sailor seized the halyards and pulled the ensign to the deck, and, as it fell upon the reddened planking, a wild, frenzied cheer came from the French privateers.

"Jean Bart, forever! France forever! Jean Bart forever!" they cried.

"Up with the French flag!" yelled Jean Bart, laughing like a boy. "Up with the white lilies of France."

And, as a spare ensign ran aloft, the little fishing luggers scudded for the shore.

"After them, men!" cried Captain Bart. "Our work is not yet over. We must have the lambs as well as the old wolf."

So, sail was soon clapped on the _Palme_, she headed for the fleeing boats, and, with a few well directed shots, hove them to. Then they were told to follow behind and head for France, which they did--but, oh! how it did hurt!

It was a proud moment for Jean Bart, and his eyes danced with pleasure when he sailed into Dunkirk with the captured _Neptune_ and the fleet of fishing boats.

"Voila!" cried the townspeople. "Jean Bart is a true hero. Voila! He shall have the freedom of the city. Voila!"

The fame of this gallant exploit soon spread abroad and the king showed some desire to see this courageous privateersman.

"I would have him at court," said he to his minister Colbert. "For I would reward him."

When news of this was brought to the privateersman he was naturally delighted, and, travelling to Versailles, was ushered into the presence of his Majesty.

"Here is a gold chain for you," said the king. "I trust that you will keep it in recognition of my appreciation of your gallant conduct. I would be glad, indeed, to have you in the Royal Service. Would you not take a commission?"

"You overwhelm me," answered the valiant sea-fighter, blushing. "I--I--I--am quite disconcerted. But--if it would please your Majesty, I believe that I would prefer to remain a simple privateer. It is a free life and it suits my roving nature."

The king chuckled.

"So be it," said he. "But my good sir, keep yourself in readiness for a commission. I may need you in the Royal Marine!"

"Very good, Sire!" said Jean Bart, and, bowing low, he withdrew.

But he did not get away without an adventure,--quite as exciting as any he had had aboard the rocking decks of one of his privateer ships.

The fame of Jean Bart had stirred up a number of enemies, for, when a man is successful in life, are there not always a hundred unsuccessful fellows who stand about and scoff?

Among these were a few followers of the sea who had determined to make way with this too fortunate privateer. One--Jules Blanc by name--even decided upon murder, if Jean Bart would not agree to leave the privateering business to himself and his companions.

As the sailor from Dunkirk left the presence of the king he was accosted by one of his old acquaintances.

"Ha, Jean Bart," said he. "Come with me to the Inn. Have a glass with me, my boy, for I see that the king has richly rewarded you. You deserve it, for you have done well, and you must be tired from your journey. Come, let us dine together?"

Suspecting nothing, the gallant privateer followed his companion quite willingly, and, when he arrived at the Inn, was not surprised to find several other seamen from Dunkirk and the neighboring seaports of France. They greeted him warmly.

"To your health!" cried they, raising their glasses of wine. "To the health of the bravest privateer in all of France."

Jean Bart was delighted. He smiled like a child, seated himself at their table, and began to drink with these jovial men of the sea.

As he sat there, suddenly a paper was mysteriously shoved into his hand. He did not see from whence it came, and, as he scanned its contents, his face grew strangely pale.

"Beware of these fellows," he read. "They mean to kill you if you do not do what they wish. Beware!"

Jean Bart soon regained his composure.

"Come! Let us go to the dining-room up-stairs," said the friend who had first accosted him. "Come, my boys! We will there have far more quiet!"

All moved for the door.

Jean Bart moved, also, but before he went up-stairs, he loosened his sword-belt and cocked two pistols which he carried at his waist. He was not surprised when he saw them lock the stout door as they entered the room upon the second floor.

When they were all seated Jules Blanc arose. His face well exhibited his dislike for the successful privateersman, Jean Bart.

"Now, my friend," said he, facing the man from Dunkirk, "we have you here with a purpose. We wish you to know that we are determined that you shall no longer go to sea and spoil our own business for us. You have had enough success. We want you to withdraw and give some one else a chance."

Jean Bart smiled.

"We think that you should retire for we want some pickings for ourselves."

"And if I refuse?" queried Jean Bart.

Jules Blanc placed his hand instantly upon his sword-hilt.

"Then--there will be trouble!"

"Poof!" said Jean Bart.

As he spoke, all drew their rapiers.

"Again Poof!" said Jean Bart.

As he spoke, a thrust came from his right. He parried it, leaped upon a chair, and stood there smiling.

Crack! There was the sound of a pistol and a bullet whizzed by his ear.

Then there was a sudden and awful _Crash!_ The room was filled with dust.

When the startled sea-dogs looked about them Jean Bart no longer stood upon the table. He had disappeared through the window. And broken glass with splintered fastenings was all that remained of the once perfect glazing.

"He has gone," said Jules Blanc. "Fellow seamen, we are outdone."

But Jean Bart was a quarter of a mile away, laughing softly to himself, as he sped along the highway which led to quiet Dunkirk.

Things went well with him, also, for his employers--appreciating his past services--now gave him command of a larger ship than the _Palme_: the _Dauphin_, with thirty guns and two hundred eager and adventurous sailors from the northern coast of France.

Sailing forth from Dunkirk harbor, on June 18th, 1678, Jean Bart eagerly scanned the horizon with his glass. With him were two smaller privateers, so that he felt well able to cope with any adversary from Holland. His keen glance was soon to be rewarded, for when but two days from port he spied a sail upon the starboard bow. It was a Dutch frigate--the _Sherdam_--of forty guns and manned by many stout dogs of the sea. Her captain--Andre Ranc--was a keen fighter and a man of well-tried courage.

"Bear off to leeward!" signalled Jean Bart to his privateer companion. "Then we will get the stranger between us, fasten to her, and board her from either side."

The flag of the French privateer dipped back an answering, "All right!" and, as she was nearest to the Dutchman, she attacked at once.

"_Poom! Poom!_" went the Dutch cannon, like the beating of a churn in that land of canals and cheese-making. And _piff! piff!_ answered the little howitzers of the privateer.

But Jean Bart meant to have a quick fight, so he bore down to starboard, wore ship, and ran so close to the enemy, that his grappling irons soon held her fast. In a moment more his own vessel was hauled alongside.

Meanwhile the smaller French privateer had spanked over to larboard; had run up upon the opposite side of the lumbering Dutchman; and had also gripped her. A wild, nerve-wracking cheer went up, as--sword in hand--Jean Bart led his boarders over the side of the Dutch vessel.

Ranc was badly wounded but he led his men to a counter assault with courage born of desperation. Cutlasses crashed together, boarding-pikes smashed and hacked, and pistols growled and spattered in one discordant roar. Back went the Dutch sailors fighting savagely and bluntly with all the stubbornness of their natures, then back they pushed the followers of Jean Bart, while Ranc called to them:

"Drive these French curs into the sea!"

But now the other privateer had made fast, and her men came clambering over the rail, with cutlass, dirk, and pistols.

"We're outnumbered," Ranc shouted, his face showing extreme suffering. "Haul down the flag! Had Jean Bart been here alone I could have trounced him well."

Thus reluctantly and sadly the flag of the _Sherdam_ came down. But the French had paid well for their victory.

Jean Bart was badly wounded in the leg; his face was burned by the discharge of a gun, which went off--almost in his eyes--just as he leaped on board the _Sherdam_. Six of his men were killed and thirty-one were wounded, while the little privateer that had fastened to the other flank of the huge _Sherdam_, was a total wreck. So well, indeed, had the Dutch fighters plied their cannon as she approached, that she was shattered almost beyond repair. With great difficulty she was finally towed to shore.

Of course all France again rang with the fame of Jean Bart, while the crafty sea-dogs who had endeavored to capture the slippery privateersman were furious with envious rage. But Jean Bart hummed a little tune to himself, which ran,

"You'll have to get up early if you want to catch Jean Bart,
You'll have to get up early, and have a goodly start,
For the early bird can catch the worm, if the worm is fast asleep,
But not if it's a privateer, who can through a window leap."

This invincible corsair was also not idle, for in two weeks' time he was again at sea in the _Mars_ of thirty-two guns, and a fast sailer. Eagerly looking for prizes, he cruised far up the coast of Holland and was keenly hunting for either merchantman or frigate, when a small vessel neared him, upon which was flying a white flag.

"A truce!" cried Jean Bart. "The war must be over."

When the little boat drew nearer, a fat Dutchman called out something which sounded like, "Amsterdam yam Goslam!" which meant, "Peace has been declared," in Dutch.

So Jean Bart sailed back into the sheltering harbor of Dunkirk with tears of sorrow in his eyes, for he loved his exciting life.

"Helas!" said he. "It is all over!"

Thus, indeed, ended the career of Jean Bart as a privateer captain. In January, 1679, he was given the commission of lieutenant in the French navy, but, although he accepted, he was never happy in this service. From captain to lieutenant was a decided come down, and besides this, the aristocratic officers of the Crown made life very unpleasant for one who had entered their ranks from privateering.

"Bah!" said they. "He is only a commoner!" And they would turn up their titled noses.

But--mark you this!

Several hundred years have passed since those days, and Jean Bart's name is still remembered. Who remembers the names of any of these titled nobles who held commissions from his Majesty, the King of France?

I do not think that any of you do. Certainly I do not.

Therefore, there is a little lesson to be learned, and it is this:

Never sneer at the fellow who accomplishes things, if he be of humble birth. _His_ name may go down to history. _Yours_ probably will not.

So, the next time that you are tempted to do this, think it over. If you do, you will not say, "Pish,--the Commoner!" But you will say,

"Well done! The Hero!"

So, good-by, Jean Bart, and may France produce your like again, if she can!

"Keep these legends, gray with age,
Saved from the crumbling wrecks of yore,
When cheerful conquerors moored their barques
Along the Saxon shore."

--THOMPSON.

DU GUAY-TROUIN

THE GREAT FRENCH "BLUE"

(1673-1736)

"Self trust is the essence of Heroism."--PLUTARCH.

DU GUAY-TROUIN

THE GREAT FRENCH "BLUE"

(1673-1736)

"He's only a scurvy Democrat, his blood is hardly blue,
Oh, Sacre Nom de Dieu! Sapristi! Eet is true!
Yet, he fights like the Maid of Orleans, with dirk and halberd,
too,
Oh, Sacre Nom de Dieu! Sapristi! Eet is true!
Then--what'll you think, good gentlemen, you men of the kingly
pack,
Ye sons of Armand the Terrible, ye whelps of Catouriac,
Shall _he_ gain the royal purple? Shall _he_ sit in the ranks
with us?
Shall _he_ quaff of our golden vintage, shall _he_ ride in the
royal bus?
Nay! Nay! For that would be te-r-r-ible! Nay! Nay! _That ill-born
cuss?_
Par donc! but that is unbearable! 'Twould result in a shameful
fuss!
Pray, let him remain a Democrat--The cream of the fleet for us."

--_Song of the French Royal Marine._--1695.

"You _must_ be a churchman, Renee," said the good Luc Trouin, turning to his little son. "I have always had a great ambition to have a child of mine in the church, and I feel that you are in every way qualified for the position of a prelate."

But little Renee hung his head.

"Look up, boy," continued the amiable Frenchman. "I know that you are not now pleased with the idea, but--later on--after you have had more experience, I feel sure that you can thank Heaven that your good father started you in the right and proper direction."

Still, little Renee hung his head.

"Tut! Tut!" continued the old man. "You will leave, to-morrow, for the college at Rheims, and, after you have been there but a short time, I feel sure that you will like it. Tut! Tut!"

But still little Renee hung his head.

Again came the amiable "Tut! Tut!" and the chuckling Luc Trouin wandered off into the garden to see how well the potatoes were growing.

But little Renee still hung his head.

And--in spite of the fact that little Renee went to the Divinity school at Rheims, he continued to hang his head. He hung his head for three years. Then, news was brought to him, one day, that the good Luc Trouin was dead, and, instead of holding his handkerchief to his eyes to wipe away the tears, as one would expect of him, little Renee burst into loud laughter.

"At last," cried he, "I can get away from the church and go to sea. At last my freedom has come!"

And it was not many hours before little Renee was scudding away from the school of Divinity, like a clipper-ship under a full spread of canvas, before a rousing sou'west breeze.

For at least two hundred years before the birth of bad, little Renee, the Trouin family had been well known and prosperous in the Breton seaport of St. Malo. For many years a Trouin had been consul at Malaga, Spain; and other members of the house had held excellent positions with the King, so little Renee had no reason to be ashamed of his forebears, in spite of the fact that his people were of the "bourgeoisie:" ship-owners, traders, smugglers, privateers, and merchants. And, as they were of the "bourgeoisie," they were somewhat looked down upon by the proud and haughty aristocrats who fawned about the weak and dissipated King.

Little Renee was the son of Luc Trouin and Marguerite Boscher but he was called Du Guay-Trouin, in later years, and the reason for this is plain. For--in accordance with the custom of the time--he was sent to be nursed by a foster mother who resided in the little village of Le Gue. So he was called Trouin du Gue; which shortly became Du Guay-Trouin.

"I've come home, mother," shouted little Renee, when he had plodded his weary way which lay between his temporary prison and the house of his parents. "I've come home, mother, and I'm going to sea!"

But his mother did not take any too kindly to this bold and valiant idea.

"You must study law," said she, with great firmness. And--in spite of the fact that little Renee begged and pleaded--he was forced to give up his idea of seafaring life for the dry drudgery and routine of a clerk at law. He was now about sixteen years of age.

"The law is dry and my spirits are high," youthful Renee is said to have carolled as he spent his first few hours at a lecture, "and whatever may be I'm going to sea."

At any rate, he soon got into trouble and engaged in three duels in his sixteenth year, in one of which his assailant gave him a serious wound. This was too much for even his stern mother to bear, so, summoning a family council, she gave forth the following opinion:

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

And to this decree Renee is said to have cried: "At last! Hurray!" for he longed for action.

In a very short time little Renee had a taste of that war and adventure which he craved, for a historian writes that:

"During the first three months of this cruise his courage was tried by a violent tempest, an imminent shipwreck, the boarding of an English ship, and the threatened destruction of his own vessel by fire. The following year, still as a volunteer, he displayed the greatest personal courage and won much fame in an engagement which his ship had with five merchant vessels."