Chapter XI (4)

After remaining nine days at Jamaica, I was so fortunate as to
obtain a passage with Capt. Ellsmore, direct for St. Johns--the
thoughts of once more returning home and of so soon joining my
anxious friends, when I could have an opportunity to communicate to
my aged parents, to a beloved sister and a large circle of
acquaintances, the sad tale of the misfortunes which had attended me
since I bid them adieu, would have been productive of the most
pleasing sensations, had they not been interrupted by the melancholy
reflection that I was the bearer of tidings of the most
heart-rending nature, to the bereaved families of those unfortunate
husbands and parents who had in my presence fallen victims to
Piratical barbarity. Thankful should I have been had the distressing
duty fell to the lot of some one of less sensibility--but, unerring
Providence had ordered otherwise. We arrived safe at our port of
destination after a somewhat boisterous passage of 18 days. I found
my friends all well, but the effects produced on their minds by the
relation of the distressing incidents and adverse fortune that had
attended me since my departure, I shall not attempt to describe--and
much less can you expect, brother, that I should attempt a
description of the feelings of the afflicted widow and fatherless
child, who first received from me the melancholy tidings that they
were so!

Thus, brother, have I furnished you with as minute a detail of the
sad misfortunes that have attended me, in my intended passage to
Antigua, in February and March last, as circumstances will admit
of--and here permit me once more to repeat the enquiry--is it not
sufficient to satisfy you and every reasonable person, that I owe my
life and liberty to the interposition of a Divine Providence?--so
fully persuaded am I of this, dear brother, and of my great
obligations to that Supreme Being who turned not away my prayer nor
his mercy from me, that I am determined to engage with my whole
heart to serve Him the residue of my days on earth, by the aid of
his heavenly grace--and invite all who profess to fear Him (should a
single doubt remain on their minds) to come and hear what he hath
done for me!

I am, dear brother, affectionately yours,
LUCRETIA PARKER.

FOOTNOTES:

[26] From an Old Pamphlet, published in 1825.

THE PASSING OF MOGUL MACKENZIE

The Last of the North Atlantic Pirates[27]

ARTHUR HUNT CHUTE

In the farther end of the Bay of Fundy, about a mile off from the Nova Scotian coast, is the Isle of Haut. It is a strange rocky island that rises several hundred feet sheer out of the sea, without any bay or inlets. A landing can only be effected there in the calmest weather; and on account of the tremendous ebb of the Fundy tides, which rise and fall sixty feet every twelve hours, the venturesome explorer cannot long keep his boat moored against the precipitous cliffs.

Because of this inaccessibility little is known of the solitary island. Within its rampart walls of rock they say there is a green valley, and in its center is a fathomless lake, where the Micmac Indians used to bury their dead, and hence its dread appellation of the "Island of the Dead." Beyond these bare facts nothing more is certain about the secret valley and the haunted lake. Many wild and fabulous descriptions are current, but they are merely the weavings of fancy.

Sometimes on a stormy night the unhappy navigators of the North Channel miss the coast lights in the fog, and out from the Isle of Haut a gentle undertow flirts with their bewildered craft. Then little by little they are gathered into a mighty current against which all striving is in vain, and in the white foam among the iron cliffs their ship is pounded into splinters. The quarry which she gathers in so softly at first and so fiercely at last, however, is soon snatched away from the siren shore. The ebb-tide bears every sign of wreckage far out into the deeps of the Atlantic, and not a trace remains of the ill-starred vessel or her crew. But one of the boats in the fishing fleet never comes home, and from lonely huts on the coast reproachful eyes are cast upon the "Island of the Dead."

On the long winter nights, when the "boys" gather about the fire in Old Steele's General Stores at Hall's Harbor, their hard gray life becomes bright for a spell. When a keg of hard cider is flowing freely the grim fishermen forget their taciturnity, the ice is melted from their speech, and the floodgates of their souls pour forth. But ever in the background of their talk, unforgotten, like a haunting shadow, is the "Island of the Dead." Of their weirdest and most blood-curdling yarns it is always the center; and when at last, with uncertain steps, they leave the empty keg and the dying fire to turn homeward through the drifting snow, fearful and furtive glances are cast to where the island looms up like a ghostly sentinel from the sea. Across its high promontory the Northern Lights scintillate and blaze, and out of its moving brightness the terrified fishermen behold the war-canoes of dead Indians freighted with their redskin braves; the forms of _c[oe]ur de bois_ and desperate Frenchmen swinging down the sky-line in a ghastly snake-dance; the shapes and spars of ships long since forgotten from the "Missing List"; and always, most dread-inspiring of them all, the distress signals from the sinking ship of Mogul Mackenzie and his pirate crew.

Captain Mogul Mackenzie was the last of the pirates to scourge the North Atlantic seaboard. He came from that school of freebooters that was let loose by the American Civil War. With a letter of marque from the Confederate States, he sailed the seas to prey on Yankee shipping. He and his fellow-privateers were so thorough in their work of destruction, that the Mercantile Marine of the United States was ruined for a generation to come. When the war was over the defeated South called off her few remaining bloodhounds on the sea. But Mackenzie, who was still at large, had drunk too deeply of the wine of a wild, free life. He did not return to lay down his arms, but began on a course of shameless piracy. He lived only a few months under the black flag, until he went down on the Isle of Haut. The events of that brief and thrilling period are unfortunately obscure, with only a ray of light here and there. But the story of his passing is the most weird of all the strange yarns that are spun about the "Island of the Dead."

In May, 1865, a gruesome discovery was made off the coast of Maine, which sent a chill of fear through all the seaport towns of New England. A whaler bound for New Bedford was coming up Cape Cod one night long after dark. There was no fog, and the lights of approaching vessels could easily be discerned. The man on the lookout felt no uneasiness at his post, when, without any warning of bells or lights, the sharp bow of a brigantine suddenly loomed up, hardly a ship's length in front.

"What the blazes are you trying to do?" roared the mate from the bridge, enraged at this unheard-of violation of the right of way. But no voice answered his challenge, and the brigantine went swinging by, with all her sails set to a spanking breeze. She bore directly across the bow of the whaler, which just grazed her stern in passing.

"There's something rotten on board there," said the mate.

"Ay," said the captain, who had come on the bridge, "there's something rotten there right enough. Swing your helm to port, and get after the devils," he ordered.

"Ay, ay, sir!" came the ready response, and nothing loth the helmsman changed his course to follow the eccentric craft. She was evidently bound on some secret mission, for not otherwise would she thus tear through the darkness before the wind without the flicker of a light.

The whaler was the swifter of the two ships, and she could soon have overhauled the other; but fearing some treachery, the captain refrained from running her down until daylight. All night long she seemed to be veering her course, attempting to escape from her pursuer. In the morning, off the coast of Maine, she turned her nose directly out to sea. Then a boat was lowered from the whaler, and rowed out to intercept the oncoming vessel. When they were directly in her course, they lay on their oars and waited. The brigantine did not veer again, but came steadily on, and soon the whalemen were alongside, and made themselves fast to a dinghy which she had in tow. A few minutes of apprehensive waiting followed, and as nothing happened, one of the boldest swung himself up over the tow-rope on to the deck. He was followed by the others, and they advanced cautiously with drawn knives and pistols.

Not a soul was to be seen, and the men, who were brave enough before a charging whale, trembled with fear. The wheel and the lookout were alike deserted, and no sign of life could be discovered anywhere below. In the galley were the embers of a dead fire, and the table in the captain's cabin was spread out ready for a meal which had never been eaten. On deck everything was spick and span, and not the slightest evidence of a storm or any other disturbance could be found. The theory of a derelict was impossible. Apparently all had been well on board, and they had been sailing with good weather, when, without any warning, her crew had been suddenly snatched away by some dread power.

The sailors with one accord agreed that it was the work of a sea-serpent. But the mate had no place for the ordinary superstitions of the sea, and he still scoured the hold, expecting at any minute to encounter a dead body or some other evil evidence of foul play. Nothing more, however, was found, and the mate at length had to end his search with the unsatisfactory conclusion that the _St. Clare_, a brigantine registered from Hartpool, with cargo of lime, had been abandoned on the high seas for no apparent reason. Her skipper had taken with him the ship's papers, and had not left a single clue behind.

A crew was told off to stand by the _St. Clare_ to bring her into port, and the others climbed into the long-boat to row back to the whaler.

"Just see if there is a name on that there dinghy, before we go," said the mate.

An exclamation of horror broke from one of the men as he read on the bow of the dinghy the name, _Kanawha_.

The faces of all went white with a dire alarm as the facts of the mystery suddenly flashed before them. The _Kanawha_ was the ship in which Captain Mogul Mackenzie had made himself notorious as a privateersman. Every one had heard her awe-inspiring name, and every Yankee seafaring man prayed that he might never meet her on the seas. After the _Alabama_ was sunk, and the _Talahassee_ was withdrawn, the _Kanawha_ still remained to threaten the shipping of the North. For a long time her whereabouts had been unknown, and then she was discovered by a Federal gunboat, which gave chase and fired upon her. Without returning fire, she raced in for shelter amongst the dangerous islands off Cape Sable, and was lost in the fog. Rumor had it that she ran on the rocks off that perilous coast, and sank with all on board. As time went by, and there was no more sign of the corsair, the rumor was accepted as proven. Men began to spin yarns in the forecastle about Mogul Mackenzie, with an interest that was tinged with its former fear. Skippers were beginning to feel at ease again on the grim waters, when suddenly, like a bolt from the blue, came the awful news of the discovery of the _St. Clare_.

Gunboats put off to scour the coast-line; and again with fear and trembling the look-out began to eye suspiciously every new sail coming up on the horizon.

One afternoon, toward the end of May, a schooner came tearing into Portland harbor, with all her canvas, crowded on, and flying distress signals. Her skipper said that off the island of Campabello he had seen a long gray sailing-ship with auxiliary power sweeping down upon him. As the wind was blowing strong inshore, he had taken to his heels and made for Portland. He was chased all the way, and his pursuer did not drop him until he was just off the harbor bar.

Many doubted his story, however, saying that no one would dare to chase a peaceful craft so near to a great port in broad daylight. And, again, it was urged that an auxiliary vessel could easily have overhauled the schooner between Campabello and Portland. The fact that the captain of the schooner was as often drunk as sober, and that when he was under the influence of drink he was given to seeing visions, was pointed to as conclusive proof that his yarn was a lie. After the New Bedford whaler came into port with the abandoned _St. Clare_, it was known beyond doubt that the _Kanawha_ was still a real menace. But nobody cared to admit that Mogul Mackenzie was as bold as the schooner's report would imply, and hence countless arguments were put forward to allay such fears.

But a few days later the fact that the pirates were still haunting their coast was absolutely corroborated. A coastal packet from Boston arrived at Yarmouth with the news that she had not only sighted _Kanawha_ in the distance, but they had crossed each other's paths so near that the name could be discerned beyond question with a spyglass. She was heading up the Bay of Fundy, and did not pause or pay any heed to the other ship.

This news brought with it consternation, and every town and village along the Fundy was a-hum with stories and theories about the pirate ship. The interest, instead of being abated, was augmented as the days went by with no further report. In the public-houses and along the quays it was almost the only topic of conversation. The excitement became almost feverish when it was known that several captains, outward bound, had taken with them a supply of rifles and ammunition. The prospect of a fight seemed imminent.

About a week after the adventure of the Boston packet Her Majesty's ship _Buzzard_ appeared off Yarmouth harbor. The news of the _Kanawha_ had come to the Admiral at Halifax, and he had dispatched the warship to cruise about the troubled coast.

"That'll be the end of old Mogul Mackenzie, now that he's got an English ship on his trail," averred a Canadian as he sat drinking in the "Yarmouth Light" with a group of seafaring men of various nationalities. "It takes the British jack-tar to put the kibosh on this pirate game. One of them is worth a shipload of Yankees at the business."

"Well, don't you crow too loud now," replied a Boston skipper. "I reckon that that Nova Scotian booze-artist, who ran into Portland the other day scared of his shadow, would not do you fellows much credit."

"Yes; but what about your gunboats that have had the job of fixing the _Kanawha_ for the last three years, and haven't done it yet?" The feelings between Canada and the United States were none too good just after the Civil War, and the Canadian was bound not to lose this opportunity for horse-play. "You're a fine crowd of sea-dogs, you are, you fellows from the Boston Tea-Party. Three years after one little half-drowned rat, and haven't got him yet. Wouldn't Sir Francis Drake or Lord Nelson be proud of the record that you long-legged, slab-sided Yankees have made on the sea!"

"Shut your mouth! you blue-nosed, down-East herring-choker!" roared the Yankee skipper. "I reckon we've given you traitors that tried to stab us in the back a good enough licking; and if any more of your dirty dogs ever come nosing about down south of Mason and Dixon's Line, I bet they'll soon find out what our record is."

"Well, you fools can waste your tongue and wind," said a third man, raising his glass, "but for me here's good luck to the _Buzzard_."

"So say we all of us," chimed in the others, and the Yankee and the Canadian drank together to the success of the British ship, forgetting their petty jealousies before a common foe.

Everywhere the news of the arrival of the British warship was hailed with delight. All seemed to agree that her presence assured the speedy extermination of the pirate crew. But after several days of futile cruising about the coast, her commander, to escape from a coming storm, had to put into St. Mary's Bay, with the object of his search still eluding his vigilance. He only arrived in time to hear the last chapter of the _Kanawha's_ tale of horrors.

The night before, Dominic Lefountain, a farmer living alone at Meteighan, a little village on the French shore, had been awakened from his sleep by the moaning and wailing of a human voice. For days the imminent peril of an assault from the pirates had filled the people of the French coast with forebodings. And now, awakened thus in the dead of night, the lonely Frenchman was wellnigh paralyzed with terror. With his flesh creeping, and his eyes wide, he groped for his rifle, and waited in the darkness, while ever and anon came those unearthly cries from the beach. Nearly an hour passed before he could gather himself together sufficiently to investigate the cause of the alarm. At last, when the piteous wailing had grown weak and intermittent, the instinct of humanity mastered his fears, and he went forth to give a possible succor to the one in need.

On the beach, lying prostrate, with the water lapping about his feet, he found a man in the last stage of exhaustion. The blood was flowing from his mouth, and as Dominic turned him over to stanch its flow, he found that his tongue had been cut out, and hence the unearthly wailing which had roused him from his sleep. The beach was deserted by this time, and it was too dark to see far out into the bay.

Dominic carried the unfortunate man to his house, and nursed him there for many weeks. He survived his frightful experiences, and lived on for twenty years, a pathetic and helpless figure, supported by the big-hearted farmers and fishermen of the French shore. Evidently he had known too much for his enemies, and they had sealed his mouth forever. He became known as the "Mysterious Man of Meteighan," and his deplorable condition was always pointed to as a mute witness of the last villainy of Mogul Mackenzie.

On the night following the episode of the "Mysterious Man of Meteighan," a wild and untoward storm swept down the North Atlantic and over the seaboard far and near. In the Bay of Fundy that night the elements met in their grandest extremes. Tide-rips and mountain waves opposed each other with titanic force. All along the bleak and rock-ribbed coast the boiling waters lay churned into foam. Over the breakwaters the giant combers crashed and soared far up into the troubled sky; while out under the black clouds of the night the whirlpools and the tempests met. Was ever a night like this before? Those on shore thanked God; and those with fathers on the sea gazed out upon a darkness where no star of hope could shine.

Now and again through the Stygian gloom a torrent of sheet-lightning rolled down across the heavens, bringing in its wake a moment of terrible light. It was in one of these brief moments of illumination that the wan watchers at Hall's Harbor discerned a long gray ship being swept like a specter before the winds towards the Isle of Haut. Until the flash of lightning the doomed seamen appeared to have been unconscious of their fast approaching fate; and then, as if suddenly awakened, they sent a long thin trail of light, to wind itself far up into the darkness. Again and again the rockets shot upward from her bow, while above the noises of the tempest came the roar of a gun.

The people on the shore looked at each other with blanched faces, speechless, helpless. A lifetime by that shore had taught them the utter puniness of the sons of men. Others would have tried to do something with what they thought was their strong arm. But the fishermen knew too well that the Fundy's arm was stronger. In silence they waited with bated breath while the awful moments passed. Imperturbable they stood there, with their feet in the white foam and their faces in the salt spray, and gazed at the curtain of the night, behind which a tragedy was passing, as dark and dire as any in the annals of the sea.

Another flash of lightning, and there, dashing upon the iron rocks, was a great ship, with all her sails set, and a cloud of lurid smoke trailing from her funnel. She was gray-colored, with auxiliary power, and as her lines dawned upon those who saw her in the moment of light, they burst out with one accord, "It's the _Kanawha_! It's the _Kanawha_!" As if an answer to their sudden cry another gun roared, and another shower of rockets shot up into the sky; and then all was lost again in the darkness and the voices of the tempest.

Next morning the winds had gone out with the tide, and when in the afternoon the calm waters had risen, a boat put off from Hall's Harbor and rowed to the Isle of Haut. For several hours the rocky shores were searched for some traces of the wreck, but not a spar or splinter could be found. All about the bright waters laughed, with naught but the sunbeams on their bosom, and not a shadow remained from last night's sorrow on the sea.

So Mogul Mackenzie, who had lived a life of stress, passed out on the wings of storm. In his end, as always, he baffled pursuit, and was sought but could not be found. His sailings on the sea were in secret, and his last port in death was a mystery. But, as has been already related, when the Northern Lights come down across the haunted island, the distress signals of his pirate crew are still seen shooting up into the night.

FOOTNOTES:

[27] From _Blackwood's Magazine_.

THE LAST OF THE SEA-ROVERS

The Riff Coast Pirates[28]

W. B. LORD

O nay, O nay, then said our King,
O nay, this must not be,
To yield to such a rover
Myself will not agree;
He hath deceived the Frenchman,
Likewise the King of Spain,
And how can he be true to me,
That hath been false to twain?

OLD SEA SONG OF THE YEAR 1620.

Probably by this time the greater part of the piratical craft along the Riff coast has been destroyed, and the long-promised Moorish gunboat stationed there to protect foreign shipping.[29] These steps have doubtless been hastened by the fact that the pirates, unfortunately for themselves, attacked a vessel some little time ago belonging to the Sultan of Morocco. For years past the Governments of several European Powers have sought to put friendly pressure upon the Sultan of Morocco to effectually stop the depredations of the Riffian coast pirates. No strong measures, however, were really taken until the above episode occurred. It is said that in early days the Moors were some time in accustoming themselves to the perils of the deep. At first they marvelled greatly at "those that go down to the sea in ships, and have their business in great waters," but they did not hasten to follow their example. One eminent ruler of ancient times, in that region, when asked what the sea was like, replied, "The sea is a huge beast which silly folk ride like worms on logs." But it afterwards became clear that the Moors had a strong fancy for the "worms" and "logs" too. They gave up marvelling at those who went to sea, and went on it themselves in search of plunder. The risk, the uncertainty, the danger, the sense of superior skill and ingenuity, that attract the adventurous spirit, and the passion for sport, are stated by some writers to have brought such a state of things into existence. One fact seems to be pretty certain, that when these depredations were first made, they took the form of reprisals upon the Spaniards. No sooner was Granada fallen, than thousands of desperate Moors left the land, disdaining to live under a Spanish yoke. Settling along a portion of the northern coast of Africa, they immediately proceeded to first attack all Spanish vessels that could be found. Their quickness and knowledge of the coasts gave them the opportunity of reprisals for which they longed. Probably this got monotonous in course of time, for in their wild sea courses they took to harrying the vessels belonging to other nations, and so laid the foundation for a race of pirates, which has continued down to quite recently. As nowadays, the Moors cruised in boats from the commencement of their marauding expeditions. Each man pulled an oar, and knew how to fight as well as row. Drawing little water, a small squadron of these craft could be pushed up almost any creek, or lie hidden behind a rock, till the enemy came in sight. Then oars out, and a quick stroke for a few minutes. Next they were alongside their unsuspecting prey, and pouring in a first volley. Ultimately the prize was usually taken, the crew put in irons, and the pirates returned home with their capture, no doubt being received with acclamation upon their arrival.

As far back as the sixteenth century the Spanish forts at Alhucemas--not to mention other places--were established for the purpose of repressing piracy in its vicinity. Considerable interest is attached to several of the piracies committed during the past few years, as they culminated in strong representations being made to the Sultan of Morocco by the various Governments under whose flag the respective vessels sailed. Some of them went so far as to send warships to cruise along the Riffian coast. This step apparently had some moral effect upon the pirates, for from that time onwards attacks upon foreign vessels practically ceased. Something more than this, however, was needed, for no one could say how soon the marauding expeditions might be renewed upon a larger scale than ever, so as to make up for lost opportunities. On August 14, 1897, the Italian three-masted schooner _Fiducia_ was off the coast of Morocco, in the Mediterranean, homeward bound from Pensacola to Marseilles. Here she got becalmed, and while in that condition two boats approached her from the shore. At first the crew of the _Fiducia_ thought they were native fishing boats. When, however, the latter got within a hundred yards or so of the helpless vessel, the suspicions of the crew were aroused. The captain warned the Moors not to approach any nearer; a volley of bullets was returned by way of reply, followed by a regular fusillade as the boats advanced. There were only three revolvers on board the schooner, and with these the crew prepared to defend themselves. Soon, however, their supply of ammunition became exhausted, and the pirates boarded the schooner without further opposition. The vessel was at once ransacked, even the clothes of the crew being taken. The ship's own boat was lowered, and into this the marauders put their booty, and took it ashore, also carrying the captain and one of the crew with them. About an hour later another boat, containing about twenty pirates, came off and fired on the ship. The crew, seeing that they could offer no effective resistance, hid themselves away in the hold. The other pirates had left very little for the new arrivals to take, and this seemed to annoy them so much that they gave vent to their ill-feelings in several ways, not the least wanton being the pollution of the ship's fresh water. They also smashed the vessel's compass, and tore up the charts. For the next two days the crew existed on a few biscuits, which the pirates had left behind. The following day the British steamship _Oanfa_, of London, hove in sight. The crew of the schooner hoisted a shirt as a signal, which was fortunately seen, and a boat sent off in response thereto. Assistance was promptly rendered, and the _Fiducia_ put in a position to resume her voyage. This was done until spoken by the Italian cruiser _Ercole_, which assisted the schooner to her destination.

In October, 1896, the French barque _Prosper Corue_ was lying becalmed off Alhucemas, a place fortified by the Spaniards to keep the pirates in check, when several boats full of armed Moors seized the vessel and made the crew prisoners. They then completely pillaged the ship, removing almost everything of any use or value. While the miscreants were thus busily engaged a Spanish merchant steamship, named the _Sevilla_, happened to come along, and was in time to capture one boat and rescue several of the prisoners. The _Sevilla_ then made towards the barque, but the pirates opened fire on the steamer, killing and wounding some of the crew. The Spaniard was compelled to retire, leaving the captain of the barque in the hands of the Moors. Subsequently the barque was picked up in an abandoned condition by the British steamship _Oswin_, and towed into Almeria. An arrangement was afterwards made with the pirates to release the captains of the _Fiducia_ and the Portuguese barque _Rosita Faro_--a much earlier capture--and some members of both crews, in exchange for the Riffians captured by the Spanish steamer _Sevilla_ and a ransom of 3,000 dollars. It was only after prolonged negotiations and a large sum of money that a French warship succeeded in obtaining the freedom of the captain of the _Prosper Corue_ and a few other Frenchmen. For some reason or other, the pirates seemed very much disinclined to part with these prisoners. Only a short time before the attack on the French barque took place, a notice was issued by the British Board of Trade, in which the attention of ship-owners and masters of vessels was called to the dangers attending navigation off the coast of Morocco. The document then proceeded to detail the case of the British schooner _Mayer_, of Gibraltar, which was boarded about 10 miles from the Riff coast by twenty Moors armed with rifles and daggers. As usual, the pirates ransacked the vessel, destroyed the ensign and ship's papers, brutally assaulted the men on board, and then made off in their boat. Scarcely had the foregoing notice been generally circulated than another case of a similar character happened in connection with the Italian schooner _Scatuola_. Again, there is the Spanish cutter _Jacob_. She was running along the Moorish coast one fine summer's evening a few years since, when a boat full of pirates suddenly came alongside, and speedily upset the quietness which had previously reigned on board the _Jacob_. Five of the crew managed to escape in the cutter's boat and were picked up some days later by a passing vessel. Those who remained on board the cutter fared very badly. After the vessel had been pillaged, the rigging and sails destroyed, the men were all securely bound and left to their fate. Fortunately the weather continued fine, and the _Jacob_ drifted towards the Spanish coast, where she was seen and assistance promptly rendered.

The captain of another Spanish vessel had quite a "thrilling" adventure among these pirates in May, 1892. He left Gibraltar in command of the barque _San Antonio_ for Alhucemas, and when about six miles from Penon de la Gomera a boat manned by thirteen Moors was observed to be approaching the vessel. When near enough they opened fire, and ordered the captain to lower his sails, which was done, as the Spaniards were, practically speaking, without arms. The Moors then boarded the _San Antonio_ and took her in tow. When close to the land the captain was rowed ashore, and the pirates spent part of the night in unloading the cargo. Next morning the _San Antonio_ was seen drifting out to sea, and the captain, who was afraid of being put to death, suggested that he should go on board and bring her back to the anchorage. Probably thinking that some of their comrades were on the barque, but unable to set the necessary canvas to return, only two Moors were sent off with the captain, and these remained in the boat when the vessel was reached. Upon gaining the deck of the barque the captain was surprised to find himself alone. Without hesitating for a moment he released the crew, who were confined below, hoisted sail and stood out to sea. The Moors who had been left in the boat were speedily cut adrift, much to their amazement, for it so happened that none of the pirates had stayed on board. No doubt they were eager to find a safe hiding-place for their plunder, and, thinking the barque quite secure till morning, took no further heed of the matter. A few days later the _San Antonio_ arrived at Gibraltar, where full particulars of the outrage were furnished to the authorities. Space will not admit of details being given of the attacks on the Spanish barque _Goleta_, the Portuguese barque _Rosita Faro_, the British felucca _Joven Enrique_, and other vessels. It should be mentioned, however, that several famous British and foreign sailing yachts upon various occasions have had remarkably narrow escapes from being captured by these sea ruffians.

It is sincerely to be hoped that the Sultan of Morocco is carrying out his task in such a manner as will induce the inhabitants of the Riff coast to follow some occupation in future which is more likely to be appreciated by those who have to navigate vessels in the Mediterranean. Previous to stern measures being taken by the Sultan, it was not at all uncommon for his envoys to the native tribes--for the purpose of obtaining the release of captives--to be received with derision. Often, too, they were maltreated to such an extent that they were glad to escape with their lives. Some of the neighboring tribes continually endeavored to purchase captives for the pleasure of killing them, but it is satisfactory to learn that no sales are recorded, as the anticipated ransom was always largely in excess of the sums offered by the bloodthirsty natives.

FOOTNOTES:

[28] From the _Nautical Magazine_.

[29] About twenty years ago.