Raleigh was the incarnation of battle. Passing rapidly from point to point upon the deck of his vessel, he encouraged and urged on his men, exposed himself as freely as the rest; and whenever a man faltered, there he appeared to urge the faint heart on with words of inspiration and hope.

Roar! Roar! Roar! Zoom! Zoom! Crash!

The arquebusses spittled and spat; cannon growled; and iron crashed into solid oak planking.

The orders were not to board until the fly-boats (long, flat-bottomed vessels with high sterns) came up, which were manned by Dutch allies. For three hours the battle raged, but the fly-boats did not arrive. The Earl of Essex—the commander of this expedition—now ordered his flagship to pass through the advance line of vessels, and make the way to the front. Raleigh was chafing with rage because the fly-boats did not come, yet, in spite of the danger of being shot, he jumped into a light skiff, and was rowed over to the galleon of Essex.

"I'll board the Saint Philip," cried he, "if the fly-boats do not soon arrive. Even though it be against the orders of the Admiral. For it is the same loss to burn, or to sink, and I must soon endure one or the other."

"Go ahead!" yelled Essex, over the bow. "I'll second you, upon my honor!"

Raleigh hastened with all speed to the deck of the Water Sprite, where his men were pounding away at the Spanish galleons with all their might and main. No sooner had he mounted the poop, than he saw, with anger, that two vessels of his own squadron had forced themselves into a position in front of his own; for their commanders wanted to win first honors in this battle at sea.

Raleigh, himself, wished to have the honor, just like other sea captains in later battles. But,—that's another story.

So, the gallant seaman ran the Water Sprite between the two other ships and took up his position as leader. Sir Francis Vere of the Rainbow was resolved to keep in front as well as Raleigh.

As the Water Sprite passed him he slyly cast a rope to a sailor, who tied it to her stern, and his own vessel thus kept abreast of the lumbering galley of his chief. "But," writes Sir Walter, "some of my company advising me thereof, I caused the rope to be cast off, and so Vere fell back in his place, where I guarded him—all but his very prow—from the sight of the enemy. I was very sure that none would outstart me again for that day."

The guns of the fort appeared to be silent and the big galleons lay apparently helpless in the face of the valiant enemy. Raleigh moved on, but, as he was about to clutch his splendid prize, it escaped him, for the Spaniards—finding that they would be captured—made haste to run the Saint Philip, and several of her sister ships, aground on the sand.

"Blow them up!" came the order.

The Spanish sailors and soldiers came tumbling out of the ships into the sea in heaps—"as thick as if coals had been poured out of a sack into many pots at once." Then a terrific roar boomed forth. The air was filled with flying splinters, canvas, iron, and lead. The portions of the galleons were now floating upon the waves and the water was alive with the struggling bodies of the Spaniards as they desperately endeavored to save themselves.

The spectacle was lamentable. Many drowned themselves. Many, half burned, leaped into the water; while others hung by the ropes' ends; by the ships' sides; under the sea, even to their lips. "If any man had a desire to see Hell, itself," wrote Sir Walter, "it was there most lively figured!"

Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!

The English sailors were cheering, for victory was theirs, and of all the gallant warriors of that day, Raleigh had been the most persistently daring and heroic.

"The Saint Andrew's still afloat, good Sire!" cried one of his sailors at this moment.

"Then we'll take her!" cried Raleigh.

She was boarded and captured with little difficulty, while yet another galleon—the Saint Matthew—fell into his hands. These were the only vessels of all that proud Spanish fleet which had escaped the flames.

Raleigh, himself, had been severely wounded in the leg, but he refused to release the command of his ship. He gave orders that all lives should be spared, and although these mandates were rigidly obeyed by the English soldiers, the Dutch cruelly slaughtered many of their hapless prisoners, for their hatred of the Spaniards was bitter and savage.

Cadiz had not yet fallen and Raleigh was determined to go on shore with the troops and witness the taking of the town, in spite of his wound. A litter was prepared for him—he was lowered into one of the boats—rowed ashore, carried upon the shoulders of some of his faithful soldiers, and witnessed the furious struggle which now ensued. Cadiz fell. Although the lives of the people were spared; the castle, fortifications and the greater part of the town itself, were burned and demolished. If you go there, to-day, you will still find the marks of this great and stirring strife.

There was nothing left but to put the Spanish prisoners aboard the galleons, collect the plunder, and set sail for England. When the fleet again swung into the little harbor of Plymouth it was received by the people with wildest enthusiasm and delight. All England rang with the praise of the valor and courage of her heroes, for Spain had been stripped of her ability to injure her English rival and England's power was supreme upon the sea. Raleigh and his comrades had done this,—and the descendants of Raleigh and his comrades have continued to uphold the supremacy. Hurrah for Raleigh!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But silent Stukeley did not answer.

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

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

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

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

Raleigh looked around in anger and dismay.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

Nowadays—when a soldier or sailor does something for England—they give him a Hip! Hip! Hurray!

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

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

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

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

Give a tiger and three times three!

THE VANISHED SAILORS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

—Ballads of the Day.



JEAN BART

THE SCOURGE OF THE DUTCH

(1650-1702)

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

JEAN BART

THE SCOURGE OF THE DUTCH

(1650-1702)

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

—Rhymes of The Dutch Channel Fleet.—1676.

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

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

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

Jean Bart obeyed.

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

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

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

He smiled and lurched against the rail.

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

Jean Bart chuckled at the vanity of Monsieur Valbue.

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

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



"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."

"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."