Chapter IV: Part 4

"Ah ha," said little Renee, "this is indeed life. I am having a good time."

So well did those higher in command feel towards the youthful sailor, that, at the age of eighteen, he was actually put in charge of the ship _Danycan_ of fourteen guns,--for France was at war with England, Holland, and Spain, and to him who could strike a quick and well-aimed blow there were "nice pickings" to be had. And the reckless young sea-dog found some "nice pickings" in Ireland, for, he landed an armed party upon the coast of County Clare, where he pillaged a village, burned two ships at anchor, and escaped to his own vessel with considerable booty and family heirlooms of the peasants, who said, "Och, Begorra! We'll be afther that wild bhoy before many suns, and spank him for his unseemly whork."

But the French cried "Voila! Here, indeed, is a brave young Bourgeois," and promptly raised him to the command of the _Coetquen_ of eighteen guns, in which he soon went cruising, accompanied by a sister-ship, the _St. Aaron_.

Prowling around the English channel, the skulking sea-hounds soon came across two small English men-of-war with five valuable merchantmen under their sheltering wings.

"All ready for the attack!" shouted Du Guay-Trouin. "We'll make mince-meat of those foreign hulks, in spite of the fact that they are protected by two men-of-war."

And, crowding on all sail, his own vessel and the _St. Aaron_ quickly bore down upon the Englishmen, who, seeing them approach, hove-to for action.

The engagement was short. After a few broadsides had been delivered, the English struck, the prizes were taken over, and all started for the coast of France. But suddenly a cry went up,

"Sail ho! Sail ho! off the starboard bow!"

"Ta Donc," cried the surprised Du Guay-Trouin. "It is a big man-of-warsman and a Britisher too. We must give up our prizes, I fear. Clap on all canvas and we'll hie us to shore."

So all sail was hoisted, and, steering for the shoals and rocks off Lundy Island--where he knew that the heavy Englishman could not follow--Du Guay-Trouin soon outdistanced and outwitted the _Centurion_: a line-of-battle ship and a formidable opponent. The rich prizes had to be left behind.

Honorable appointments crowded upon the daring, young sea-dog, after this affair, and we find him successively in command of the _Profond_, of thirty-two guns; the _Hercule_, of twenty-eight guns, and the _Diligente_ of thirty-six guns and two hundred and fifty sailors, which was a King's ship borrowed for privateering and run on shares,--the monarch to have a certain part of the winnings.

Like partners in business the _Diligente_ and _Hercule_ now went cruising, and it was not long before the two harpies swooped down upon their prey in the shape of two Dutch East Indiamen, armed with twenty-five guns each, and manned by rotund-bodied Dutchmen. There was rich treasure aboard, and, with eagerness and zeal, the Frenchmen slapped on all canvas in pursuit.

Now was a hot chase. Mile after mile was passed, and slowly but surely the Frenchmen gained upon the lumbering foe. Then suddenly,--

_Crash!_

A ball screamed above the head of Du Guay-Trouin, and a Dutchman hove-to for battle.

"Crawl in close," cried the valiant Frenchman, "and don't let go a broadside until you can hit 'em below the water line. Try to scuttle the Dutch lumber merchant!"

His men obeyed him willingly and soon there was a muffled roar as the first broadside spoke in the still air. Another and another followed, and the Dutchman trembled like an aspen leaf.

"Hah," shouted the enthusiastic Renee, "up goes the white flag!"

Sure enough, the vessel struck, and aboard of her was the Dutch commodore. But the _Hercule_ was beaten off by the second Dutchman, and, as the privateers boarded the captured vessel, the East Indiaman showed a clean pair of heels, under a cloud of bellying canvas.

Du Guay-Trouin was delighted. "On we go, Boys," he cried, "for we'll sail these waters until we strike another prize." And this is what soon happened.

On May the 12th, the _Diligente_ was cruising alone, when, suddenly six white dots appeared upon the horizon, and six British ships-of-the-line were soon closing in upon the venturous French navigator and his crew.

"Ye Gods," cried the doughty Frenchman, "we're in for it now, but we will give them a lively bout even though we'll get the worst of it."

And here is how he has described the battle:

"One of the English ships named _Adventure_ first overtook me, and we maintained a running fight for nearly four hours, before any other of their ships could come up....

"At length my two topmasts were shot away; on which the _Adventure_ ranged up alongside me, a short pistol-shot off, and hauled up her courses. Seeing her so near, it occurred to me to run foul of her and board her with my whole crew. Forthwith I ordered such of the officers as were near to send the people on deck, got ready the grapnels, and put the helm over.

"We were just on the point of hooking on to her, when unfortunately, one of my Lieutenants, looking out through a port and seeing the two ships so close together, took it into his head that there was some mistake, as he could not think that--under the circumstances--I had any intention of boarding; and so, of himself, ordered the helm to be reversed.

"I had no idea of what had been done, and was impatiently waiting for the two ships to clash together, ready to throw myself on board the enemy; but seeing that my ship did not obey her helm, I ran to the wheel, and found it had been changed without my order.

"I had it again jammed hard on; but perceived, with the keenest vexation, that the captain of the _Adventure_, having guessed by the expression of my face what I had meant to do, had let fall his courses, and was sheering off. We had been so near that my bowsprit had broken his taffrail; but the mistake of my Lieutenant made me lose the opportunity of one of the most surprising adventures ever heard tell of.

"In the determination I was in to perish or to capture this ship, which was much the fastest sailor of the squadron, it was more than probable that I should have succeeded, and should thus have taken back to France a much stronger ship than that which I abandoned. And, not to speak of the credit which would have attached to the execution of such a plan, it is quite certain that--being dismasted--there was absolutely no other way for me to escape from forces so superior."

But closer--always closer--crowded the British war-dogs, and the valorous French seamen became panic stricken. "We are outnumbered and outfought," cried many, and, deserting their guns, they fled below to the holds, in spite of the vigorous protests of Du Guay-Trouin.

"I was busy trying to put a stop to the panic," says he. "I had cut down one and pistolled another, when, to crown my misfortune, fire broke out in the gun-room. The fear of being blown up made it necessary for me to go below; but, having got the fire put out, I had a tub full of grenades brought me, and began throwing them down into the hold.

"By this means I compelled the deserters to come up and to man some of the lower deck guns; but, when I went up on the poop, I found, to my astonishment and vexation, that some cowardly rascal had taken advantage of my absence to haul down the colors.

"I ordered them to be hoisted again; but my officers represented that to do so would be simply giving up the remnant of my ship's company to be butchered by the English, who would give no quarter if the flag were hoisted again, after being struck for so long, and that further resistance was hopeless as the ship was dismasted."

"Never give in, for"--cried Du Guay-Trouin, whose democratic blood was now up, but he did not finish the sentence as a spent shot then knocked him senseless. And--as he fell--the white flag went aloft, for his officers had not his fighting spirit.

"Ah ha," laughed the English jack-tars. "We've got the French rascal at last, and we'll hold him too."

So little Renee was imprisoned in a nice, dark dungeon,--the kind which the English used to put their poor debtors in. But--like a true man of courage--little Renee escaped, took to a smuggler's skiff, and made off to the coast of France, where he arrived on the 18th of June, 1694, and was received right boisterously by the Trouin family.

"My son," spoke his aged mother, "you were indeed not intended for the law, for lawlessness seems to be your particular fancy."

So the delighted Trouins put him in charge of a splendid privateersman mounting forty-eight guns, sailing under the simple name of _Francois_, and, as she forged valiantly into the English channel, her skipper chanted an old French song, which ran,--

"Sons of St. Malo, hark to my lay,
With a Heave! Ho! Blow the man down.
For we'll capture a lugger ere close of the day,
With a Heave! Ho! Blow the man down.

"She's filled with gold nuggets, her crew is asleep,
Then board her, and take her, for dead men are cheap,
We'll spike them and pike them, like so many sheep.
With a Heave! Ho! Blow the man down."

It was not long before a sail was sighted, and, on the 12th day of January, 1695, the stout, little _Francois_ overhauled a solitary timber ship, loaded with huge trees, bound to England from the good town of Boston in New England. She was an easy capture, and, Du Guay-Trouin smiled with joy when her skipper said:

"Three other lumber ships are in the offing. But they are under convoy of the frigate _Nonsuch_ with forty-eight guns, and the _Falcon_ with thirty-eight cannon. Look out my bold sea-dog, there'll be trouble."

But the French mariner laughed.

"It's just what I'm searching for," said he, and forthwith he swung the stout _Francois_ in wide circles, with look-outs at every mast-head.

"Sail ho!" shouted the watch, next morn, and there, off the port bow, were the three merchantmen strung out in a line, with the two protecting gun-boats to windward.

Like a greyhound the _Francois_ swept down upon them, and with the audacity of despair, the privateersman of St. Malo ranged alongside of the _Falcon_ and opened fire. The engagement was short. In an hour's time the guns of the Englishman were silent and a white pennon fluttered from the mizzen-mast.

The _Nonsuch_, meanwhile, had been ranging to windward in a vain endeavor to bring her guns to bear upon the Frenchman without crippling her own mate, and--as the _Francois_ drifted away from the lurching _Falcon_--she bore down to within twenty yards, luffed, and spanked a rakish broadside into the privateer.

"Board her!" shouted Du Guay-Trouin. "Board her!" and, bringing the wheel close around, he swung the bow of the _Francois_ into the side of the Englishman. But, as the sailors scampered to the bulwarks with cutlass and with dirk, a sheet of flame burst from the port-holes of the drifting _Nonsuch_. She was afire.

"Luff! Luff!" cried the keen-eyed French mariner, and the _Francois_ drew away as the red flames curled upward with a cruel hiss.

With a swift turn the helm again spun over, under the quick hand of Du Guay-Trouin, and the _Francois_ was jibed about in order to run under the port bow of the Englishman.

"Hold, Captain!" cried a French Lieutenant. "We, ourselves, are afire!"

As he spoke--a direful cloud of vapor rolled from the starboard quarter.

"Alack!" answered the now furious Renee. "This puts an end to the fighting of this day, and we'd soon have had the second Britisher. All hands below and bucket out this fire!"

So, as night fell upon the rolling ocean, the _Falcon_ lay drifting helplessly, while the _Nonsuch_ and the _Francois_ were burning like two beacons upon a jutting headland.

As day broke, the _Francois_ filled away (for the fire had been extinguished after an hour's toil) and ranged within striking distance of the _Nonsuch_. A broadside belched from her starboard guns and an answering roar came back from the cannon of the Englishman. The fore and main masts of the _Nonsuch_ trembled for a moment--then tottered and fell--while the gallant Captain, struck in the chest by a flying piece of shell, fell dying upon the deck. Du Guay-Trouin again attempted to board, at this moment, but the third mast was shaking and he was forced to sheer off lest the tangle of yards and rigging should fall and crush his vessel. He hung within hailing distance of the crippled sea-warrior, and, seeing that his antagonist was now helpless, cried out through his trumpet:

"Run up the white flag, or I'll give you a broadside that will sink you."

No answering hail came from the deck of the battered _Nonsuch_, but the piece of a torn, white shirt was soon fluttering from the tangled rigging of the foremast. Thus the gallant Renee had defeated two warships of equal strength, and had captured vessels with a rich and valuable cargo. Now, don't you think that this fellow was a doughty sea rover? And, although the English made many excuses, the fact still remains that a single privateer had conquered double her own force in a fair and open fight upon the high seas.

The sturdy _Francois_ could just barely drift into St. Malo--so badly crippled was she--but the rest came safely to port, in spite of a hard gale which blew down the masts of two of the lumber boats. And doughty Renee refitted the _Nonsuch_, transferred his flag to her, called her the _Sans-Pareil_, and flung his flag defiantly from her mast-head in spite of the fact that she was "made in England." All France was agog over his exploit.

Now, know you, that doughty Renee was a "Blue;" a "Blue" being a man of the people (the bourgeoisie) who were not of aristocratic birth. And, as the French Royal Marine was the most exclusive body of officers in the world, birth and station being necessary for admittance therein, the titled office-holders threw up their hands when Du Guay-Trouin's name was mentioned for a place of command, saying,--

"Why, he's only a beastly Democrat. Pooh! Bah! We do not care to have such a fellow among us." And they shrugged their shoulders.

The officers of the French Royal Marine wore red breeches, and, if by chance a democrat were given a commission, he had to appear in blue small-clothes throughout his entire career. Very few of the "Blues" ever came to be an Admiral, for the odds were too great against them.

But Renee had done so bravely and well that a sword was sent him by the King, who wrote,--

"Should you wish a commission in the Royal Navy, good sir, it shall be yours."

And to this, Du Guay-Trouin replied,--

"I feel that I can do better where I am, Most Gracious Majesty. I will remain a Privateer." For Du Guay-Trouin wished to accumulate riches, as his forebears had done.

So, cruising down the coast of Ireland, he fell in with three East Indiamen, whom he captured with ease, and, piloting them to St. Malo, declared a dividend of two thousand pounds ($10,000) a share, to the stockholders in his staunch vessel. And the value of the shares was but one hundred pounds ($500) each. Would not the men of Wall Street love such a fellow in these piping times of peace?

A month later we find him cruising in the Bay of Biscay, where--in the dead of night--he ran into a great English fleet, roving about for just such vessels as the _Sans-Pareil_ and eager for a broadside at the French privateer. But young Renee--for he was now twenty-three--had not lost his nerve. "There was no time," he wrote, "for hesitation. I had two valuable prizes with me and ordered them to hoist Dutch colors and to run away to leeward, saluting me with seven guns each as they went.

"Trusting to the goodness and soundness of the _Sans-Pareil_ I stood towards the fleet, as boldly and as peaceably as if I had really been one of their number, rejoining them after having spoken the Dutchmen. Two capital ships and a thirty-six gun frigate had at first left the fleet to overhaul me; but, on seeing what I was doing, the ships returned to their stations; the frigate--impelled by her unlucky fate--persisted in endeavoring to speak the two prizes, and I saw that she was rapidly coming up with them.

"I had by this time joined the fleet, tranquil enough in appearance, though inwardly I was fuming at the prospect of my two prizes being taken by the frigate; and, as I perceived that my ship sailed much better than those of the enemy who were near me, I kept away little by little, at the same time forereaching on them. Suddenly, bearing up, I ran down to place myself between the prizes and the frigate.

"I should have liked to lay aboard of her and carry her in sight of the whole fleet; but her captain, being suspicious, would not let me get within musket-shot of him, and sent his boat to help me. But, when the boat was half way, her people made out that we were French, and turned to go back; on which, seeing that we were discovered, I hoisted my white flag and poured my broadside into the frigate.

"She answered with hers; but, not being able to sustain my fire, she hauled her wind, and with a signal of distress flying, stood to meet the captain's ship, which hastily ran down towards us. As they stopped to render her assistance, and to pick up her boat, I was able to rejoin my prizes, and, without misadventure, to take them to Port Louis."

Again France rang with acclaim for the hero of this bold exploit, and again the King offered a commission to the gallant sea-dog. But Du Guay-Trouin shook his head.

"Perhaps I will become an officer in the Royal Marine later on," said he. "But not now. I am too happy and successful as a Privateer."

He was quite right, for in March, 1697, was his greatest exploit.

While busily scanning the horizon for sail in the _St. Jacques des Victoires_, upon the thirteenth day of that auspicious month, he saw upon the horizon, a cluster of vessels. They drew near and proved to be the Dutch East India fleet convoyed by two fifty-gun ships and a thirty-gun sloop-of-war. With him was the _Sans-Pareil_ of forty-eight guns, and the little sloop-of-war _Lenore_, mounting fourteen. The hostile squadron was formidable, and Du Guay-Trouin hesitated to attack.

In command of the Dutch vessels was Baron van Wassenaer, one of a family of famous sea-fighters from Holland, and he manoeuvred his ships with consummate skill; always interposing his own vessel between the French privateer and his fleet of merchantmen.

"Ah-ha," cried gallant Renee, at this moment. "Here come some of my own boys."

And--sure enough--from the direction of France, and boiling along under full canvas, rolled two privateersmen of St. Malo. Cheer after cheer went up from the deck of the _St. Jacques des Victoires_, as they pounded through the spray, for this made the contending parties about equal, although the Dutch boats were larger, heavier, and they had more guns aboard.

The Dutchmen now formed in line. In front was the flagship--the _Delft_--with her fifty guns glowering ominously from the port-holes; second was the thirty-gun frigate; and third, the other war-hound of fifty guns: the _Hondslaardjiik_. Through a trumpet Du Guay-Trouin shrilled his orders.

"The _Sans-Pareil_ will attack the _Hondslaardjiik_," cried he. "The two privateers will hammer the frigate, while I and the _St. Jacques des Victoires_ will attend to the _Delft_. The _Lenore_ will sail in among the convoy. Fight, and fight to win!"

A fine breeze rippled the waves. The two squadrons were soon at each others' throats, and there upon the sobbing ocean a sea-fight took place which was one of the most stubborn of the ages.

As the Frenchmen closed in upon the Dutch, the _Hondslaardjiik_ suddenly left the line and crashed a broadside into the _St. Jacques des Victoires_. It staggered her, but she kept on, and--heading straight for her lumbering antagonist--ran her down. A splitting of timber, a crunch of boards, a growl of musketry, and, with a wild cheer, the Frenchmen leaped upon the deck of the Dutch warship; Du Guay-Trouin in the lead, a cutlass in his right hand, a spitting pistol in the left.

_Crash! Crackle! Crash!_ An irregular fire of muskets and pistols sputtered at the on-coming boarders. But they were not to be stopped. With fierce, vindictive cheers the privateers of St. Malo hewed a passage of blood across the decking, driving the Dutchmen below, felling them upon the deck in windrows, and seizing the commander himself by the coat collar, after his cutlass had been knocked from his stalwart hand. The Dutchman was soon a prize, and her proud ensign came fluttering to the decking.

But things were not going so well in other quarters. Disaster had attended the dash of the _Sans-Pareil_ upon the _Delft_. An exploding shell had set her afire and she lay derelict with a cloud of drifting smoke above, when suddenly, _Crash!_

A terrible explosion shook the staunch, little vessel, her sides belched outward, and a number of sailors came shooting through the air, for a dozen loose cartridge boxes had been caught by the roaring flames. Helplessly she lolled in the sweep of the gray, lurching billows.

"Hah!" shouted Van Wassenaer, as he saw his work. "Now for the saucy Du Guay-Trouin," and, twisting the helm of the _Sans-Pareil_, he soon neared the _St. Jacques des Victoires_, which was hanging to the _Delft_ like a leech, firing broadside after broadside with clock-like precision, her sea-dogs cheering as the spars crackled, the rigging tore; and splinters ricochetted from her sides.

"Ready about!" cried Renee, wiping the sweat from his brow, "and board the _Hondslaardjiik_. Now for Van Wassenaer and let us show the Dutchman how a privateer from St. Malo can battle."

So, luffing around in the steady breeze, the privateersman rolled ominously towards the lolling _Delft_. A crash, a sputter of pistols, a crushing of timber, and grappling hooks had pinioned the two war-dogs in a sinister embrace. And--with a wild yell--the Frenchmen plunged upon the reddened decking of the flagship of the courageous Van Wassenaer, who cried, "Never give in, Lads! What will they think of this in Holland!"

There was a different reception than when the privateers rushed the _Hondslaardjiik_. The Dutch fought like wildcats. Three times the cheering, bleeding Frenchmen stormed the planking, and three times they were hurled back upon the slippery deck of their own ship; maddened, cursing, furious at their inability to take the foreigner. "The conflict was very bloody both by the very heavy fire on both sides, of guns, muskets, and grenades," says Du Guay-Trouin, "and by the splendid courage of the Baron Van Wassenaer, who received me with astonishing boldness."

"Bear away," ordered the courageous Dutchman, at this juncture. "We must have time to recover and refit our ship."

And--suiting the action to his words--the badly battered _Delft_ filled, and crept well to leeward.

Meanwhile the two privateers of St. Malo had captured the frigate as she lay helpless; a white flag beckoning for a prize crew.

"The _Faluere_ will attack the _Delft_," shouted Du Guay-Trouin, running near the largest of these; a ship of thirty-eight guns. "I must have time to breathe and to refit."

But stubborn Van Wassenaer was ready for his new antagonist. He received the privateer with such a furious fire that she turned tail and fled to leeward; her captain bleeding upon the poop, her crew cursing the blood which ran in the veins of the valorous Hollander.

Du Guay-Trouin had now recovered his breath. Again the bellying canvas of the _St. Jacques des Victoires_ bore her down upon the _Delft_, and again the two war-dogs wrapped in deadly embrace. Hear the invincible Frenchman's own account of the final assault:

"With head down," he writes, "I rushed against the redoubtable Baron, resolved to conquer or to perish. The last action was so sharp and so bloody that every one of the Dutch officers was killed or wounded. Wassenaer, himself, received four dangerous wounds and fell on his quarterdeck, where he was seized by my own brave fellows, his sword still in his hand.

"The _Faluere_ had her share in the engagement, running alongside of me, and sending me forty men on board for reinforcement. More than half of my own crew perished in this action. I lost in it one of my cousins, first Lieutenant of my own ship, and two other kinsmen on board the _Sans-Pareil_, with many other officers killed or wounded. It was an awful butchery."

But at last he had won, and the victorious pennon of the Privateer fluttered triumphant over the battered hulks which barely floated upon the spar-strewn water.

"The horrors of the night," he writes, "the dead and dying below, the ship scarcely floating, the swelling waves threatening each moment to engulf her, the wild howling of the storm, and the iron-bound coast of Bretagne to leeward, were all together such as to try severely the courage of the few remaining officers and men.

"At daybreak, however, the wind went down; we found ourselves near the Breton coast; and, upon our firing guns and making signals of distress, a number of boats came to our assistance. In this manner was the _St. Jacques_ taken into Port Louis, followed in the course of the day by the three Dutch ships-of-war, twelve of the merchant ships, the _Lenore_, and the two St. Malo privateers. The _Sans-Pareil_ did not get in till the next day, after having been twenty times upon the point of perishing by fire and tempest."

Thus ended the great fight of Renee Du Guay-Trouin, whose blood, you see, was quite as blue as his breeches.

* * * * *

"Again," wrote His Majesty the King, "do I offer you a commission in the Royal Navy, Du Guay-Trouin. Will you accept? This time it is a Captaincy."

"I do," replied little Renee,--quite simply--and, at the next dinner of the officers of the Royal Marines, they sang a chorus, which ran:

"Oh, yes, he's only a Democrat, his blood is hardly blue,
Oh, Sacre Nom de Dieu! Sapristi! Eet is true!
But he's a jolly tar dog, with dirk and pistol, too,
He fights like William the Conqueror, he fights!
Egad! that's true!
A health to Renee the terrible; soldier and sailor too."

EDWARD ENGLAND

TERROR OF THE SOUTH SEAS

(1690?-_about_ 1725)

"A Privateer's not a Buccaneer, but they're pretty chummy friends,
One flies a reg'lar ensign, there's nothing that offends.
One sails 'neath Letters Legal, t'other 'neath Cross-Bones,
But, both will sink you, Sailor, or my name's not Davy Jones."

--_Old Ballad._

EDWARD ENGLAND

TERROR OF THE SOUTH SEAS

(1690?-_about_ 1725)

"If England wuz but wind an' paint,
How we'd hate him.
But he ain't."

--_Log of the Royal James._

"Hit him with a bottle, he deserves it, th' brute!"

The man who spoke was a thick-set sailor of some forty-five summers, with a swarthy skin, a brownish mat of hair, a hard visage, and a cut across one eye. He stood upon the deck of a good-sized brig, which was drowsily lolling along the coast of Africa.

"Yes, he treated us like dogs aboard th' _Cuttlefish_. Here, give me a shot at 'im."

Thus cried another sailor--a toughish customer also--and, as his voice rang out, a dozen more came running to the spot.

Cringing before the evil gaze of the seamen stood the Captain of a Bristol merchantman--the _Cadogan_--which lay a boat's length away, upon the glassy surface of a rocking sea.

Again rang out the harsh tones of him who had first spoken.

"Ah, Captain Skinner, it is you, eh? You are the very person I wished to see. I am much in your debt, and I shall pay you in your own coin."

The poor Captain trembled in every joint, and said, with a curious chattering of his teeth,

"Yes, Edward England, you've got me now. But go easy like, will yer? I always was a friend o' yourn."

"Yer didn't look like a friend on th' old _Jamaica_, when you refused to pay me my wages," interrupted the first speaker. "Yer didn't remove me to 'er cursed man-o'-warsman, did yer? Yer didn't see that I got th' cat-o'-nine-tails on my back, did yer? Now, Mr. Skinner, it's my chance ter get even. Tie him ter th' windlass, boys, and we'll fix th' feller's hash."

With a jeering laugh the sailors seized the frightened man, roped him tightly to the desired prop, and, procuring a lot of glass bottles, pelted him with them until their arms were tired.

"You wuz a good master to me, Captain Skinner," cried one. "Now you're gettin' a dose of your own medicine. Overboard with him, Boys."

And, suiting the action to the words, he seized him by the collar. The ropes were unwound. The poor wretch was dragged to the rail, and, as his body spun out into the oily sea, a shot ended the life of poor Thomas Skinner of the _Cadogan_ from Bristol. Captain Edward England and his men had had a sweet and sure revenge.

Where this reckless mariner was born, it is difficult to ascertain. We know that he started life honestly enough, for he was mate of a sloop that sailed from Jamaica, about the year 1715, and was taken by a pirate called Captain Winter. The youthful sailor soon took up the careless ways of his captors, and it was not many years before he became Captain of his own vessel: a sloop flying the black flag with a skull and cross-bones.

Off the east coast of Africa he soon took a ship called the _Pearl_, for which he exchanged his own sloop, fitting the new vessel up for piratical service, after rechristening her the _Royal James_. Cruising about in this staunch craft, he captured several ships of different sizes and flying the flags of many nations. He was rich and prosperous.

"Captain," said one of his reckless followers, at this time, "man-o'-warsmen are gettin' too thick in these parts for an honest sailor. Let's get across th' pond to th' Brazilian coast."

"You're quite right," answered England. "We've got to look for other pickings. After we provision-up, we'll sail towards th' setting sun. That's a fresh field and we can have it to ourselves."

So all made ready for a trans-Atlantic voyage.

But Captain England was in error when he said that he was sailing for fields which had never before been touched. Two other piratical vessels: the _Revenge_ and the _Flying King_, had been cruising off the coast of Brazil, just before his advent. Fighting in partnership, they had taken two Portuguese schooners, and were making off with them, when a Portuguese man-o'-warsman came booming along under full canvas. She was an unwelcome guest.

Setting all sail the two pirates had attempted to get away and the _Revenge_ succeeded in doing so. Two days later a typhoon struck her and she was soon swinging bottom upwards, with the kittiwakes shrieking over her barnacled keel.

But the revengeful man-o'-warsman ploughed relentlessly after the _Flying King_, which could not fly quite fast enough, this time, and--in despair--was run, bows on, upon the shore, where the crew scrambled to the sand in a desperate endeavor to get away. The sailors from the man-o'-warsman were speedy; they shot twelve of the buccaneers, took the rest prisoners (there were seventy in all) and hanged thirty-eight to the yard-arm. News of this came to Captain England when he neared the tropic coast of Brazil.

"It's all in a life-time," said he. "If I'm captured, of course I'll swing. But, meanwhile, I hope to have a good life."

Not many days afterwards he heard the welcome sound of:

"Sail ho! Off the port bow!"

And raising the glass to his eye discovered two fat, prosperous-looking merchant ships, slipping quietly along like an old maid fresh from market.

"Slap on all sail and give chase!" was bellowed out in stentorian tones, and the _Royal James_ was soon fairly boiling along with every stitch aloft, which she could carry.

As she neared the merchantmen, the names came plainly to view: the _Peterborough_ of Bristol, and the _Victory_ of Liverpool, but a shot screamed across the bowsprit of the latter and victory was turned into defeat. A white flag was fluttering at her mainmast in a moment, for the Captain had no stomach for a fight.

"Egad, it's a pirate," said the good seaman in despair, as the black flag with the skull and cross-bones fluttered from the rigging of his capturer. "I thought she was a privateersman under Letters of Marque. It's all up with us."

As the boat-load of boarders came bobbing alongside he cried out,

"Mercy! Have mercy upon the souls of these poor wretches who sail with me."

The pirates guffawed, helped themselves to everything of value, and took the merchantmen with them to the coast of Brazil, where the crew were allowed to escape to the shore. The _Peterborough_ was re-christened the _Victory_ and was manned by half of England's crew, while the other vessel was burned at night; the pirates dancing on the beach to the light of the flames and singing the weird songs of the sea.

Now there was a scene of wild revel upon the Brazilian coast; but the natives grew angry at the conduct of these rough men of the ocean.

"Ugh!" spoke a chief, "we must drive them away, else they will burn our own villages as they did their houses upon the water."

One peaceful evening the followers of Captain England were hard beset by fully a thousand black-skinned warriors from the Brazilian jungle.

There was a fierce battle. The negroes were pressed back upon their principal town and were driven through it on the run, for their arrows and spears were not as effective as the guns and pistols of the English, Dutch, Spaniards and Portuguese, who had adopted a piratical career. Their thatched huts were set on fire, and, satisfied with the day's work, the pirates retired to their ships, where a vote was cast where was to be their next venture. It fell to the East Indies and the Island of Madagascar. So they set sail, singing an old ballad which ran,

"Heave the lead and splice th' topsail,
Tie her down, and let her fill,
We're agoin' to Madagascar,
Where th' little tom-tits trill,

"Bill an' coo, an' sing so sweetly,
In th' dronin' hours of noon,
That you want to die there, neatly,
Just drop off into 'er swoon."

The voyage across was a good one and the pirates captured two East Indiamen and a Dutchman, bound to Bombay. These they exchanged for one of their own vessels, and then set out for Madagascar Island, where several of their hands were set ashore with tents and ammunition, to kill such beasts and venison as the place afforded.

Then they sailed for the Isle of Juanna,--not a great distance from Madagascar,--and here had as keen a little engagement as ever employed a piratical crew. Hear the story of this fight in the words of Captain Mackra, an English sea-captain who happened at that time to be in the harbor.

"BOMBAY, November 16th, 1720.

"We arrived on the 25th of July last, in company with
the _Greenwich_, at Juanna, an island not far from
Madagascar. Putting in there to refresh our men, we
found fourteen pirates who came in their canoes from the
Mayotta (island) where the pirate ship to which they
belonged, the _Indian Queen_--two hundred and fifty
tons, twenty-eight guns, commanded by Captain Oliver de
la Bouche, bound from the Guinea coast to the East
Indies--had been bulged (run ashore) and lost. They said
they left the Captain and forty men building a new
vessel, to proceed upon their wicked designs.

"Captain Kirby and I concluding that it might be of
great service to the East India Company to destroy such
a nest of rogues, were ready to sail for this purpose on
the 17th of August, about eight o'clock in the morning,
when we discovered two pirates standing into the Bay of
Juanna, one of thirty-four and the other of thirty-six
guns.

"I immediately went on board the _Greenwich_ where they
seemed very diligent in preparation for an engagement,
and I left Captain Kirby with mutual understanding of
standing by each other. I then unmoored, got under sail,
and brought two boats ahead to row me close to the
_Greenwich_; but he being open to a breeze, made the
best of his way from me; which an Ostender in our
company of twenty-two guns, seeing, did the same, though
the Captain had promised heartily to engage with us,
and, I believe would have been as good as his word, if
Captain Kirby had kept his.

"About half an hour after twelve, I called several times
to the _Greenwich_ to bear down to our assistance, and
fired a shot at him, but to no purpose; for, though we
did not doubt but he would join us, because, when he got
about a league from us he brought his ship to and looked
on; yet both he and the Ostender basely deserted us, and
left us engaged with barbarous and inhuman enemies, with
their black and bloody flags hanging over us, without
the least appearance of ever escaping, but to be cut to
pieces.

"But God in his good providence, determined otherwise;
for, notwithstanding their superiority, we engaged them
both about three hours, during which time the biggest of
them received some shot betwixt wind and water, which
made her keep a little off, to stop her leaks. The other
endeavored all she could to board us, by rowing with her
oars, being within half a ship's length of us about an
hour; but, by good fortune, we shot all her oars to
pieces, which prevented them from getting in close, and
consequently saved our lives.

"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."

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.

"Yes, you can have the _Duke_ and the _Duchess_. They are both staunch craft and we expect to get a good return for our investment in them."

The fellow who spoke--a stout-bodied Quaker--looked quizzically at a bronzed sea-captain, who, cap in hand, stood before him. By his side were seated a number of merchants, fat, sleek, contented-looking. They were giving instructions to Captain Woodes Rogers: their privateersman, who was about to make a voyage of adventure in their behalf.

"My good friends," said the mariner, "I shall do my very best for you all. The French and Spaniards have been having it all their own way in the South seas. It is about time that the English had a share in the rich spoils of that treasure highway. I shall work my hardest for you."

The merchants, ship-owners and Quakers nodded.

"May Providence guide your course aright," said they. And--as Captain Woodes Rogers went off to inspect his privateersmen--all indulged in a glass of Madeira to pledge "good luck and good health" to the staunch seaman from Bristol.

It was not many weeks before the _Duke_ (of three hundred and twenty tons) with thirty guns and one hundred and seventeen men, and the _Duchess_ (of two hundred and sixty tons) with twenty-six guns and one hundred and eight men, sailed from King Road for Cork, in Ireland.

"Egad!" cried Captain Rogers, as they passed out to sea. "Our rigging is slack. Our decks are lumbered up. Our stores are badly stowed. Our crew is so very mixed that I must stop in Ireland to get more able sea-dogs. Was ever captain in a worse fix?"

His Lieutenants grinned, for they saw that things were in a sorry mess, indeed.

"Most of us have embraced this trip around the world in order to retrieve our fortunes," continued the captain. "Did you ever see a harder crew than this? There are tinkers, tailors, haymakers, peddlers, fiddlers, a negro and ten boys. None know how to use the cutlass and they haven't got any sea-legs. Well, well; I'll make the best of it, but it's hard goin', I assure you."

And still the Lieutenants grinned.

They grinned still more when they had lain a few days at Cork, for the crew were continually marrying, although they expected to sail immediately. However, as the two privateers got under way on September 1st,--with the _Hastings_, a man-of-war--the majority of the crew drank a health to their spouses; waved their hands to them over the rail; and "parted unconcerned." Truly, a sailor has a lass in every port.

Not many days after their out-going, a sail was sighted and all speed was made to capture her. The Swedish colors fluttered from her mast-head, and she hove to at the first gun. Rogers boarded.

"No contraband goods are here," said he, after looking into the hold. "We must let her off."

Then--turning to her captain--he said,

"You can go. I am not a pirate--but a privateer--sailing under Letters of Marque. I only seize goods that are contraband."

Bobbing and courtesying on the waves, the little Swede soon drifted from view.

But the crew grew mutinous,--for had they not come out for plunder? The boatswain even called Rogers a traitor.

"Seize the fellow and flog him," cried the sturdy captain. "Put ten of these talkative hounds in irons. We'll do the talking on this boat, and the sailors must do theirs in the fo'castle."

This was done immediately.

Next day a seaman came aft, with near half the ship's company in his rear, and cried:

"I demand the boatswain out of his irons, Captain Rogers. He's done nothing to deserve such a severe punishment."

"Speak with me privately, on the quarter-deck," said the bluff commander. "I cannot discuss this matter with you in such a crowd." And he moved aft.

The grumbler followed, but, no sooner was he alone with stout Woodes, than the captain sprang upon him with the agility of a leopard. He was thrown to the ground, held, and bound by two officers. Then he was stripped and whipped until the blood ran.

"This method," writes the doughty Woodes, "I deemed best for breaking any unlawful friendship among the mutinous crew. It allayed the tumult, so that they began to submit quietly and those in irons begged my pardon, and promised amendment."

Thus the captain had won the first round with the mutineers.

Now, know you, that the War of the Spanish Succession was then in progress; a war in which one party was endeavoring to put the Archduke Charles of Austria upon the Spanish throne; another to place Philip, grandson of Louis XIV of France, in the chair of the rulers. And when--a few days later--the two privateers captured a small Spanish vessel, they found that their possession of it was disputed, when they sailed into the Canaries.

"It has been agreed between Queen Anne of England and the Kings of Spain and France," said the Vice-Consul of that place--an Englishman--"that all vessels trading to the Canary Isles shall be exempt from interference by men-o'-war, or privateers. The prize must be released. If you do not do so, we will keep your agent, Mr. Vanbrugh, who has come ashore, and will throw him into irons."

But the Vice-Consul had reckoned without his host.

"We are apprehensive that you are obliged to give us this advice in order to gratify the Spaniards," wrote Captain Rogers. "If you do not allow my agent to come on board my ship, you may expect a visit from my guns at eight o'clock to-morrow morn."

To this there was no reply.