Not many days afterwards he heard the welcome sound of:

"Sail ho! Off the port bow!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"BOMBAY, November 16th, 1720.

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

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

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

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

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



"About four o'clock most of the officers and men posted on the quarter-deck being killed and wounded, the largest ship made up to us with diligence, after giving us a broadside. There now being no hopes of Captain Kirby's coming to our assistance, we endeavored to run ashore; and though we drew four feet of water more than the pirate, it pleased God that he stuck fast on a higher ground than happily we fell in with; so was disappointed a second time from boarding us.

"Here we had a more violent engagement than before. All of my officers and most of my men behaved with unexpected courage; and, as we had a considerable advantage by having a chance to hurl a broadside into his bow, we did him great damage. Had Captain Kirby come in then, I believe we should have taken both the vessels, for we had one of them, sure.

"The other pirate (who was still firing at us) seeing the Greenwich did not offer to assist us, supplied his consort with three boats full of fresh men. About five in the evening the Greenwich stood clear away to sea, leaving us struggling hard for life, in the very jaws of death; which the other pirate that was afloat, seeing, got a hawser out, and began to haul under our stern.

"By this time many of my men were being killed and wounded, and no hopes left us of escaping being all murdered by enraged barbarous conquerors, I ordered all that could to get into the long-boat, under the cover of the smoke from our guns; so that, with what some did in boats, and others by swimming, most of us that were able got ashore by seven o'clock.

"When the pirates came aboard, they cut three of our wounded men to pieces. I, with some of my people, made what haste I could to Kings-town, twenty-five miles from us; where I arrived next day, almost dead with the fatigue and loss of blood, having been sorely wounded in the head by a musket-ball.

"At this town I heard that the pirates had offered ten thousand dollars to the country people to bring me in, which many of them would have accepted, only they knew that the king and all his chief people were in my interest. Meanwhile I caused a report to be circulated that I was dead of my wounds, which much abated their fury.

"We had, in all, thirteen killed and twenty-four wounded; and we were told that we destroyed about ninety, or a hundred, of the pirates. I am persuaded that, had our consort the Greenwich done her duty, we could have destroyed both of them, and got two hundred thousand pounds ($1,000,000.00) for our owners and ourselves."

What say you to this fight? And to think that our own good friend Captain Mackra just missed being a millionaire! Weep for the gallant sea warrior!

At any rate he got safely away, for, at length going aboard one of the piratical vessels,—under a flag of truce—he discovered that several of the wild sea-robbers knew him; some of them—even—had sailed with him in earlier years.

"I found this to be of great advantage," he writes. "For, notwithstanding their promise not to harm me, some of them would have cut me to pieces, had it not been for their chief, Captain Edward England, and some others whom I knew."

And he used his powers of persuasion to such effect that: "They made me a present of the shattered ship—which was Dutch built—called the Fancy, her burden being about three hundred tons.

"With jury-masts, and such other old sails as they left me, I set sail on September 8th, with forty-three of my ship's crew, including two passengers and twelve soldiers. After a passage of forty-eight days I arrived at Bombay on the 26th of October, almost naked and starved, having been reduced to a pint of water a day, and almost in despair of ever seeing land, by reason of the calms we met with between the coast of Arabia and Malabar."

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

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

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

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

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

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

But can a pirate remain happy when not pirating?

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

"Good! Good!" said his mates. "Let's ship aboard another vessel and get away from here."

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

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

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



SONG OF THE PIRATE

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



WOODES ROGERS

THE BRISTOL MARINER

(?-1736)

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

WOODES ROGERS

THE BRISTOL MARINER

(?-1736)

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

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

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

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

The merchants, ship-owners and Quakers nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

And still the Lieutenants grinned.

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

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

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

Then—turning to her captain—he said,

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

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

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

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

This was done immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the Vice-Consul had reckoned without his host.

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

To this there was no reply.

Next day the two English privateers stood in close to shore, and, just as the shot was rammed home, a boat put off, in the stern of which sat Mr. Vanbrugh with a present of wine, grapes, hogs and jelly. The prize which had been captured was sent back to Bristol with a picked crew.

The two sea-rovers bore towards the South—soon crossed the Tropic of Cancer—and there had appropriate ceremonies for the occasion. The tinkers, peddlers, fiddlers, and tailors who made up the crew, were each and all hoisted overboard by a rope. A stick was placed between their legs and they were ducked again and again in the brine.

"If any man wants to get off," spoke Captain Rogers, "he can do so by paying me a half-a-sovereign ($2.50) which must be expended on an entertainment for the rest of the company when England shall be reached. Every man that is ducked is paid in proportion to the number of times that he goes under."

Several accepted this offer. At which a sailor cried out:

"Duck me twelve times, Captain. I want to have a regular orgy when I get back home."

And the sailors did it, laughing uproariously.

Sailing to the Cape Verde Islands, the Duke and the Duchess anchored in the harbor of St. Vincent, where one of the crew, who was a good linguist (Joseph Alexander) was sent in a boat to the Governor, at San Antonio, in order to negotiate for supplies. He seemed to prefer Cape Verde to privateering.

"On October 6th," writes the gallant Rogers, "our boat went to San Antonio to get our linguist, according to appointment. No news of him."

"On October 6th, our boat returned with nothing but limes and tobacco. No news of our linguist."

"On October 7th, no news of our linguist."

"On the 8th, boat sent ashore, but no news of our linguist."

"On the 9th, as the trade-winds are blowing fresh, concluded to leave our good Alexander to practice his linguistic and other accomplishments ashore. Adieu to our linguist."

Thus disappeared the sleek and crafty Joseph.

There was still trouble from insubordination, for Mr. Page—second mate of the Duchess—refused to accompany Mr. Cook (second in command on the Duke). Whereupon the hot-tempered Captain Cook—being the superior officer on board—struck him, and several blows were interchanged.

At last Page was forced into the boat and brought to the Duke, where he was ordered to the forecastle in the bilboes (leg irons sliding upon a long, iron bar). But he jumped overboard—despising the chance of being gobbled up by a shark—and started to swim to his own ship. He was brought back, flogged, and put in irons; and he evidently found a week of this kind of thing sufficient; for he submitted himself humbly to future orders.

Thus Woodes Rogers had already learned that the life of a privateer commander was not a happy one.

Steering southwest, a large French ship was seen and chased, but she got away from the two consorts with surprising ease. On March 6th, when off the coast of Peru, a sail was sighted.

"Let the Duchess bear down on her port and the Duke to starboard," cried Captain Rogers. "Heave a solid shot across her bow, and, if she refuses to capitulate, let her have your broadsides."

Dipping, tossing, rolling; the two privateers swooped down upon their prey, like hawks. She flew the yellow flag of Spain—and—as the first ball of lead cut across her bowsprit, it fluttered to the deck. Up went a white shirt, tied to a rat-line, and the crew from the Duke was soon in charge, and steering her for Lobas: a harbor on the coast.

"She's a tight little barque," said Rogers, when he had landed. "I'll make her into a privateer."

So she was hauled up, cleaned, launched, and christened the Beginning; with a spare topmast from the Duke as a mast, and an odd mizzen-topsail altered for a sail. Four swivel-guns were mounted upon her deck, and, as she pounded out of the bay, loud cheers greeted her from the decks of the Duchess, which was loafing outside, watching for a merchantman to capture and pillage.

Next morn two sails were sighted, and both Duke and Duchess hastened to make another haul. As they neared them, one was seen to be a stout cruiser from Lima; the other a French-built barque from Panama; richly laden, it was thought.

"Broadsides for both," ordered Woodes Rogers. "Broadsides and good treatment when the white flag flutters aloft."

As the Duchess chased the Lima boat, the Duke neared the Frenchman and spanked a shot at her from a bow-gun. The sea ran high and she did not wish to get too close and board, because it would be easier to send her men in pinnaces.

"They're afraid!" cried the Captain of the Duke. "We can take 'em with no exertion." But he was like many an Englishman: despised his foe only to find him a valiant one.

Piling into four boats, the men from the Duke, fully armed, rowed swiftly towards the rolling Frenchman. They approached to within twenty yards. Then

Crash! Crash! Rattle! Crash!

A sheet of flame burst from her sides; muskets and pistols spoke; cannon spat grape and cannister; the Englishmen were frightfully cut up.

"On! On!" shouted young John Rogers—a brother of Woodes—as he waved his cutlass aloft to enliven the sailors. But it was his last cry. A bullet struck him in the forehead, and he fell into the sea without a murmur.

Crash! Crash!

Again roared out a volley. Oars were splintered. One boat was pierced below the water line. She sank, and her men floundered about upon the surface of the oily sea.

"Bear off, and rescue our comrades!" cried the leaders of this futile attack, and, as the French barque drifted away, the remaining boats busied themselves with the swimming sailors. The assault had been a complete failure.

"Curses upon the Frenchman!" cried Captain Rogers when he saw the saucy fighter drawing off. "We'll go after her to-morrow, and catch her, or my blood's not English. What say you, men?"

"Yes. After her and board her amid-ships!" cried all. "Run our own vessel alongside."

"And that I will do," answered Rogers, watching the lumbering merchantman through his glass. "She's entirely too well armed for a trader."

When morning dawned, the Frenchman was still ploughing along the coast in the light breeze, with all sail set. But there was not wind enough to force her ahead of her pursuer. The Duchess now returned from her chase of the Lima boat, and, joining her Duke, bore in upon the able fighter from the open sea.

"Egad! We'll have her yet," shouted Captain Rogers, rubbing his hands.

"She luffs!" cried a lieutenant. "She's coming to!"

Sure enough the Frenchman saw that resistance now was useless. She staggered into the wind, and a white flag beckoned for a prize-crew to come and take her.

"And," writes Captain Rogers, "I found that a Bishop who had been aboard of her, had been put ashore, which gave me much grief. For I always love to catch fat prelates, as they give up a stout sum as their ransom. In truth they are nice pickings."

Things were going well with the wild rovers from Bristol. Plunder there was aplenty and the holds of the Duke and the Duchess bulged with treasure. Yet Woodes Rogers was not satisfied.

"On! On to Guayaquil!" cried he. "We'll capture this wealthy city; demand a great ransom; and sail to England, richer than the Spanish conquerors of the Incas."

"Hurrah!" shouted his staunch followers. "On! On! to Guayaquil!"

So—steering for the coast of Ecuador—the privateers drew near this rich Spanish-American town. A gulf lay before their eyes in which was a small island; with a little, white-housed village (called Puna) on its Eastern shore.

"Take the place!" cried Rogers, as the two ships forged into the sleepy shallows, and rounded to before the peaceful habitation.

With a cheer, the sailors piled into the boats, rowed ashore, and—with cutlass and dirk in hand—pressed through the narrow streets. Shots rang out from a few of the thatched houses; two seamen fell to the ground with mortal wounds; but, cheering wildly, the privateers rushed through the narrow highway; pressed into the court-house; and seized upon the Lieutenant-Governor of the town of Guayaquil, as he was attempting to hide behind an old clothes-press.

"Let no man get away in order to warn the large town of our approach!" shouted Captain Rogers. "Catch all who dash for the canoes upon the beach!"

"Crush the bloomin' canoes!" yelled Cook, as he saw some of the natives running towards them on the sandy shore. "Crush the canoes before the devils can get there!"

"All right!" answered several of his men, as they ran for the clusters of boats. "We'll put holes in them!"

As they hurried forward, several of the natives were ahead. Two jumped into the bark boats and paddled furiously for Guayaquil. The zip, zip of bullets nipped the water around them, but,—with desperate sweeps—they dug their blades into the sea and got safely off. As a result, the city was all ready and prepared for the invaders.

"Ho! Ho!" laughed Rogers, as he thumbed the papers of the Lieutenant-Governor. "What is this?"

"A warning to the townsfolk of Guayaquil," said one of his men, as he peered over his shoulder.

Rogers chuckled.

"Beware, all you people"—he read—"of a squadron from the faraway isles of Great Britain which is coming shortly upon you. There will be full ten great ships, heavily manned and well armed for attack. The arch rogue, William Dampier, will be in control,—he who has plundered Puna before. Be on your guard, citizens! Be prepared! Arm yourselves!"

"Hah! Hah!" laughed the free-booting captain. "They think I'm Dampier. That's good. But we'll have a tough time with them, for they know that we mean to assault their pretty little town."

His followers looked solemn.

"Let's attack, right away," cried several, "before the Spaniards have time to prepare for our charge!"

Rogers, however, would not hear of it.

"We must rest. Equip ourselves. Place cannon in the bows of our boats, and then we will be ready."

His men murmured, but they knew that when Rogers had made up his mind upon a thing, there was no use in endeavoring to dissuade him. So they collected what plunder was to be had and awaited his further orders.

Two days later all was ready for the advance. It was near midnight—upon April 22nd,—when the command was passed around:

"Muffle your oars and take the town!"

With one hundred and ten men in the jolly boats, the privateers neared the sleepy, little seaport. Not a sound broke the silence, save the drip, drip of the sweeps, yet, as they approached the white-washed walls of the lower town,—a bonfire was touched off upon the shore.

"'Tis well," whispered a stout sailor. "Now we can see to shoot!"

As he said this, many lights appeared in the houses of Guayaquil. The townspeople were wide awake.

"What means this, sirrah?" thundered Rogers at a native guide, who was piloting him to the shore.

The fellow had a ready answer.

"'Tis the celebration of All Saints Day," he answered smiling. "The people here are good Christians."

"They know that we are coming," growled the English captain, for, as the native spoke, a Spaniard upon the shore was heard to shout:

"Puna has been captured! The enemy is advancing! Arm! Arm!"

Bells clanged from the steeples of the little churches. Muskets and guns went off. Black masses could be seen surging into the streets. Cannon roared, and a screeching shot spun ahead of the on-coming boats.

"'Tis nothing," said Rogers. "The alarm has only just been given. Preparations are not complete and we can rush them, easily."

But Captain Cook had his own opinion upon the affair.

"The Buccaneers," said he, "never attack any large place after it is alarmed. My advice is to keep away."

"Don't go in," cried several. "Wait and rush them when they are not so well prepared."

Even the men seemed disinclined to advance.

Thus cautious counsel prevailed: the boats dropped down-stream again—about three miles below the town—and were joined by two small barques. They were prizes which had been recently captured. Here the flotilla lay while the cries in the city grew inaudible,—for the inhabitants saw that the attack had been avoided.

When flood-tide came, Captain Rogers once more ordered an advance upon the town.

"No! No!" argued Dover. "They are too well prepared. Night will cloak our movements, so we should then go on. I, myself, advise the sending of a trumpeter with a flag of truce. He shall propose that we make some trades with the people of this place."

"Your measure is half-hearted," said Rogers, with heat. "You are a craven knave. Let's rush the town like Englishmen and heroes!"

Again cautious counsel prevailed. Two prisoners—a Lieutenant from Puna, and the Captain of the Frenchman of recent capture—were sent to parley with the Spaniards.

"The English are afraid!" whispered the inhabitants. "Let us keep them off with braggadocio, and mayhap reinforcements will come to us."

So they bickered and delayed.

"These dogs would palaver forever," said Captain Rogers, when negotiations had proceeded for full two days without result. "I, for one, am for attacking the city right now!"

"Yes! On! On!" cried his men.

Even the cautious Dover was ready to advance; so, landing upon the beach, the one hundred and ten ran towards the town with a wild, exultant whoop!

Zip! Zip! came the bullets from the nearer houses, as the privateers advanced.

Boom! Boom! sounded the guns from the Duchess and the Duke, which had edged up near the wharves and anchored. Shells shrieked and burst; guns roared; and, with a hoarse cheer, the English beat down two lines of Spaniards who opposed them.

Back, back, they crushed the defenders of Guayaquil to the market-place in the centre of the town, where four cannon were drawn up behind a barricade which was flanked by cavalry.

Crash! Crash! they roared at the on-coming privateers, and many a man went down before the exploding grape and cannister. But the blood of the English was now up.

"Take the guns!" shouted Woodes Rogers. "Scale the barricade and spike the pieces!"

With a mighty roar the jack-tars ran for the engines of death; leaping over the wall of the defenses; bayonetting the gunners; turning the spitting war-engines upon the cavalry, which, in confusion and dismay, was driven down a crooked lane. It was the last stand. The English standard soon waved from the flag-pole of the House of Justice.

"And now," cried Captain Rogers, gleefully, "I'll meet the worthy Padres and treat with them for a ransom. We'll make them pay full well to get back the neat little town of Guayaquil."

Crestfallen and abashed, the city fathers were soon brought before the privateer.

"Senor," said they, "your men can fight like devils. Senor, you are the first man to have taken our town, and many a Buccaneer has endeavored to do so!"

Captain Rogers smiled.

"Tut! Tut!" said he. "The English can always battle. But—Fathers—you must pay me well for this affair. I demand thirty thousand pieces of eight ($35,000 or about L6,750) as ransom for your fair city. I will give you two days in which to collect it."

The worthy Padres hung their heads.

"You English," said they, "are cruel extortioners."

Yet—in two day's time—the British marched to their boats with colors flying, bugles blowing, and drums beating a rollicking tattoo. Captain Rogers brought up the rear with a few men. He had secured the ransom and fairly smiled with exuberant joy. "Our sailors," says he, "kept continually dropping their pistols, cutlasses, and pole-axes; which shows they had grown careless and very weak—weary of being soldiers—and it was high time that we should be gone from hence to the shores of Merrie England."

Thus, on April 28th, when the Duke and the Duchess weighed anchor and stood out to sea: guns roared: trumpets blew: the men cheered.

"And so," writes the gallant Rogers, "we took leave of the Spaniards very cheerfully, but not half so well pleased as we should have been if we had taken 'em by surprise; for I was well assured from all hands, that at least we should then have got about two hundred thousand pieces of eight in money (L45,000 or $225,000); and in jewels, diamonds, and wrought and unwrought gold and silver."

* * * * *

The owners of the two privateers: the Duke and the Duchess, sat in solemn meeting at the good town of Bristol. It was the month of October, 1711.

The fat Quakers were smiling, for Captain Rogers had brought them back equally fat moneys.

The rugged merchants laughed, for the venture had been a howling success.

"And you were wounded?" said a stockholder, turning to the bronzed sea-rover who stood before them, giving account and reckoning of his journey to the Spanish Main.

"A scratch," replied the stout sea-dog, smiling. "When we tackled a Manila ship on the way home from Guayaquil, I got a ball through the jaw, and a splinter in the left foot. It laid me up for full three weeks, but, gentlemen, a cat and Woodes Rogers both have nine lives."

And even the sober Quaker fathers laughed at this sally.

"You have done well," they said. "We will reward you with money and a good berth. How would you care to be Governor of the Bahamas?"

"Fine!" said Woodes Rogers, chuckling.

And that is the way the old sea-barnacle spent his declining years, dying at the tropic isle on July 16th, 1732. Hail to this Prince of Privateers!



TWILIGHT AT SEA

The twilight hours like birds flew by, As lightly and as free; Ten thousand stars were in the sky, Ten thousand on the sea; For every wave with dimpled face, That leaped up in the air, Had caught a star in its embrace, And held it trembling there.



FORTUNATUS WRIGHT

THE MOST HATED PRIVATEERSMAN OF THE MEDITERRANEAN SEA

(1715-1765)

"It was a high counsel which I once heard given to a young person: 'Always do what you are afraid to do.'"—EMERSON.

FORTUNATUS WRIGHT

THE MOST HATED PRIVATEERSMAN OF THE MEDITERRANEAN SEA

(1715-1765)

"'Be sure you're right, then go ahead!' was coined by Andrew Jackson, Who was a fighter, tough as nails, and loved to lay the whacks on, He followed out this sage advice, in spite of opposition, While everybody winked and said,—'A Fellow with a Mission!' In other days, in other climes, there lived a seaman daring, Who loved a fight, as well as he,—was just as good at swearing; His name was Wright, and thus in spite of all his foemen said, Old Fortune Wright, was surely right, whene'er he went ahead!"

—Chants of the Eastern Clipper Ships.—1846.

In the year 1744 war was declared between England and France. French privateers harried the coast of her rival, caught her merchantmen whenever they ventured away from stout men-o'-warsmen, and chased them in the blue, shimmering waters of the Mediterranean. It seemed as if there were never gun-boats enough to protect the British shipping, and thus many of the English merchants grew choleric and angry.

Englishmen carried on quite a trade with Italy, Greece, and the countries of Asia Minor, and at Leghorn—upon the Italian coast—they had numerous trading shops and docks for their own vessels. They began to suffer, not only great annoyance, but also great loss, from the depredations of the French privateers which swarmed about the harbor mouth and scurried into every corner of the ragged coast-line. Their trade was hampered, their ships compelled to remain in port, or—if they ventured out—they were inevitably captured. The situation was unbearable.

"My! My!" said one of the red-faced merchants. "My! My! We must have a remedy for this. My! My! We must have our own privateers!"

"Well spoken," cried another. "And I know the very man to help us out. He is living here, now, and his name is Fortunatus Wright. Gentlemen! I tell you he is a true sea-dog! He is the fellow to cripple these saucy, French bushwhackers of the sea."

"Hear! Hear!" cried others.

And thus Mr. Fortunatus Wright was sought for, and was asked:

"Will you take charge of a privateer for the British merchants of Leghorn? Will you chase these rascally Frenchmen? Will you cripple their operations? Will you chastise these sea-robbers?"

To this Mr. Fortunatus Wright, being a true seaman with the love of the salt water tugging at his heart strings, is said to have remarked,

"Whoop-ee!"

Which being interpreted means:

"Gentlemen, I'm dee-lighted!"

As luck would have it, there was a vessel lying in the harbor which was directly available. She was a brigantine called the Fame, and, although we know little about her tonnage and the number of stout sea-dogs whom she could carry, it is apparent that Fortunatus Wright considered her most admirably suited for his venture. At any rate he soon boarded her, swore in a crew of stalwart seamen, and saw that plenty of gunpowder, cutlasses, boarding-pikes and muskets were aboard.

It was September, 1746, and, before the close of the month of December, the Fame had captured eighteen prizes, one of which was a hulking, French privateer with twenty guns and one hundred and fifty men, especially fitted out to put an end to the career of the vessel of Fortunatus Wright. They had met off the port of Messina and had had a roaring, little scrimmage, but—seeing that matters were going ill with him—the French captain had cried:

"Run for the shore! Run our ship aground! We will fix her so that this English hound cannot make a prize of us!"

"Voila! Voila!" his men had shouted. "Oui! We will f-e-e-x th-e-es Eengleesh chien! Oui! Au revoir, Monsieur Wright!"

So saying, the privateer had been run upon the sandy beach, bows on, where her crew took to the brush, yelling derisively at the Fame as she came up within hail,—sails snug down so as to move cautiously.

The Frenchmen had counted without their host.

"We'll float her, my hearties!" cried Wright. "All hands ashore in the small boats. Tie hawsers to her stern and pull her off!"

This they did, while the French captain, far back in the brush, saw it and fairly boiled with disappointment and rage.

"Zees Wright," he blustered. "One cannot outweet heem."

So the privateer was towed into the harbor of Leghorn, where all the English merchants cried:

"Good! Good! Now we have a true man to fight our battles! Huzzah for Fortunatus Wright!"

The French were furious, while at the island of Malta (where were numerous French, Spanish, Austrian and English traders) the feeling grew intense. Here the Austrians sided with the English and several duels were fought by angry officers, as crafty Fortunatus Wright continued to send in his prizes.

Finally the French merchants forwarded a missive to Marseilles, in France, which ran:

"Can the French be further humiliated by this corsair—this robber—Fortunatus Wright? Let our people fit out a privateer sufficiently large to cope with him, and let her defeat and cripple this fellow. Make haste, for he is doing much damage!"

An answer came back.

"Before a month is gone, Monsieur Wright will no more harass your privateers. What we have determined to do, we shall do!"

Word of this was brought to Captain Fortunatus Wright and he only smiled broadly. "There'll be another ship to bring into Malta, care of F. Wright, Esq.," said he. "And it will be labelled Collect on Delivery."

Not three weeks later the French vessel came jauntily into the harbor of Malta. The captain was a man of considerable repute as a seaman and fighter, and he was warmly received by the French. They invited him to many dinners.

"Voila!" said they. "Here is the fellow to do the tr-e-e-k. Tenez! There will soon be one b-e-eg mince pie we-eth Captain Wright eenside. Ha! Ha!"

It is never well to count your chickens before they hatch or to pat a man upon the back before he has won a victory.

Eagerly the French captain cruised outside, continually upon the watch for slippery Skipper Wright. His vessel was superior to the Fame in numbers of both guns and men. He was sure of victory. "If only the hated Englishman would appear!" he grumbled.

Meanwhile the excitement and expectation at Malta became intense. Finally it was noised abroad that the terrible privateer had been sighted about five miles off the harbor. All factions were aroused: the Austrians and English slapping the French and Spaniards upon the back, and saying, "Now there will be a chance to sink bold Captain Wright, Messieurs!"

To which the irritable Frenchmen would answer, "Ah! Yes! He will be gobbled up like Jonah by the whale. Pouff!"

The French privateer sailed out to meet the foe, and soon her white canvas had disappeared from view around a jutting headland. The stranger ran off. The Frenchman pursued, and soon both were lost to the eager gaze of the population of Malta, which crowded every headland, eager and expectant for the bloody battle. The shore was black with people.

Hours passed. Another day came and with it the news that two vessels had been sighted off the entrance to the harbor. Hundreds rushed to the headlands and cliffs in order to see the victor and the vanquished, for two cruisers were approaching, the one towing the other.

"Huzzah!" shouted an enthusiastic Frenchman. "We have won! See—up go the French colors upon the first vessel. The other—poof—eet ees a jelly. Eet ees pounded to ze shreds."

"Huzzah!" shouted all of his compatriots, and they danced about, shaking hands, embracing, and waving their hats and their handkerchiefs.

"Ce cher Wright!" cried they. "He ees een the soup, eh?"

And what of the Englishmen?

They—of course—said nothing, but bit their lips, looked at their Austrian friends, and hung their heads dejectedly.

Here is the most beautiful part of all this story, for Fortunatus Wright, my boys, was a joker—a real, true end man in a minstrel show—and he was having his fun with "the Frenchies." His vessel—indeed—had come off victorious, in spite of the fact that she had been much more shattered than the other contestant. Therefore, Wright had put her in tow of the captured Frenchman, which he, himself, was steering, with the crew of his opponent down in the hold, as prisoners of war.

Seeing the crowded headlands and swarming ramparts in the harbor, he could not resist the temptation of hoisting the flag of France. He chuckled as he saw the effect it produced upon the crowd, then—as the vessels rounded a fort at the entrance to the harbor—down came the colors of France and up went the English flag to the peak, with the French flag below.

And then—well, you can imagine how the Englishmen and Austrians yelled, and how the poor Frenchmen beat a hasty flight for their homes. Fortunatus Wright had had a sweet revenge. He laughed long and hard, while the Frenchmen said, "Curse heem! He ees a devil! A thousand curses upon the head of thees Wright! Sapristi!" And they did not open any more bottles of wine for their supposedly great captain from Marseilles.

As for Fortunatus Wright, he continued to harass the French and get into trouble, as the following anecdote well shows.

Not long after his famous battle, he was travelling in Italy with introductions to many of the nobility, and arrived—one day—before the city gates of Lucca. Here was stationed a guard, and a sentinel scrutinized him with great care and deliberation.

Fortunatus Wright grew impatient.

"Can I not go by?" said he. "My passports are correct!"

"No! No!" answered the soldier. "I no likea zose peestols in your belta. You must deeliver them to me before you can go to ze ceety."

The English sea-captain said nothing, but the color rose in his cheeks. In an instant he raised one of his pistols and pointed it at the head of the astonished sentry.

"The first man that endeavors to take my weapons from me," he yelled, "does so at the cost of his life!"

The guardsman was flabbergasted.

"Corporal of the Guard! Post Number Two!" he shouted, presenting his musket at the same instant, and pointing it at the head of the irascible Captain Wright.

Immediately a dozen soldiers came running to the spot. They surrounded the irate English traveller. He was ordered to "Throw up your hands!"

"You air one mad Englishmana!" said the Officer of the Guard. "Here. Comea weeth usa! We weel feexa youa!"

Seeing that the odds were too much against him, Captain Wright allowed himself to be taken to the guard house, while a soldier was dispatched to the British Ambassador in order to explain that "they had captured an Englishman as mad as a mad dog!"

Things looked bad for the great privateersman. But was his name not Fortunatus? And was not good fortune always with him?

A nobleman to whom the bold mariner had a letter now intervened in his favor, and secured the release of the high-tempered man-of-the-sea. On the morning of the fourth day of his captivity, and at the early hour of four, a soldier waked Captain Fortunatus Wright, who was peacefully sleeping at a military prison. A missive was handed him, and he read:

"SEIGNEUR WRIGHT:—Since you have been so daring as to attempt to enter the town of Lucca by force, it is therefore ordered that you shall now leave the State and never presume to enter it again, without leave from the Republic. Post-horses, with a guard to see you over the border, are now ready for you. We trust that you shall have a safe journey.

"By order of the

"GOVERNOR OF LUCCA."

"These Italians are the most unreasonable people alive," growled Captain Wright. But he pocketed both his pride and his pistols, entered the post-chaise at the door, and was soon rolling forth for other parts. In spite of this order—he continued to reside in Italy, with the true independence of a privateersman.

In December, 1746, the bold seafarer made an exceptionally good capture: a French vessel on a voyage from Marseilles to Naples, with a rich cargo and the servants and luggage of a real potentate,—the Prince of Campo Florida.

When valorous Wright stepped aboard of her, her captain was scraping and bowing near the rail.

"Ah, Seigneur!" said he, "you have taken me, that is true. But you cannot touch my cargo or my men. See,—here is a pass from King George the Second of England. It says, 'All of the cargo, passengers, and crew of La Belle Florence shall be exempt from molestation by English cruisers and privateers.' What say you to that?"

Captain Wright looked sad, but he seized the paper and read it with care. His smile broadened as he perused the document.

"How am I to know that this particular ship is to go free?" said he. "For although you told me that the name of your vessel (La Belle Florence) was mentioned in this document, I do not find that it is mentioned. The paper merely states that 'the vessel' shall not be molested, and, my boy, you may have stolen this from some other skipper. Ah! Ha! You are my prize and shall go with me into Leghorn."

You should have seen the face of the Frenchman!

"I vill haf revenge!" said he. And he had it.

For, when the matter was referred to the British Minister, he turned it over to the Admiral who commanded the English ships at this station, and this high official made Captain Wright give up both vessel and cargo. He did so with the same unwillingness that he had shown when asked to leave the quaint, little town of Lucca. Captain Wright, you see, had that bull-dog stubbornness which is characteristic of men of the British Isles. He believed in hanging on to everything which he took.

A bit later, this trait got him into serious difficulties and into prison.

A number of English merchants were trading with the people of Turkey under the name of "The Company of English Merchants trading to the Levant Sea," and, finding it impossible to ship all of their goods in British vessels, they often sent them in the holds of French ships. True it was that France was at war with England at this time, but, as these were English cargoes, the British naturally thought that they should be allowed to come through, unmolested, even though the French vessels might be captured by English privateers. But they had not reckoned with Fortunatus Wright.

Two French clipper ships were scudding quietly along off the Italian coast, one bright day in June of 1747, when a rakish vessel appeared upon the horizon and speedily bore down upon them. They crowded on sail, but they could not outdistance their pursuer, who was soon near enough to fire a gun across the bow of the foremost, and flaunt the English colors in her face.

"Helas!" growled the French skipper. "Eet ees that devil, ze Captain Wright. Eet is all up with me! Helas!"

So he came to and surrendered; but the other fellow pounded away at the British privateer with a couple of swivel guns and put up a smart, little skirmish before a well-directed shot from the deck of the Englishman, knocked a topmast crashing over the port side. Crippled, she surrendered.

It did not take Captain Wright long to sail into Leghorn harbor with his prizes. The holds were filled with bales of rich goods, marked: "The property of the Company of English Merchants trading to the Levant Sea."

"I'll sell the bloomin' cargoes," cried Wright. "For the vessels were under the French flag and we're at war with that nation. Besides this, one of them put up a fight against me."

Thus—the cargoes were sold—Captain Fortunatus pocketed the money, and went upon his way, rejoicing.

But he did not rejoice very long, for the British merchants were furious with anger, and procured—through some means or other—an order from the English Government to the effect that English cargoes in French vessels were not to be touched—when captured by British privateers. Word was sent to Captain Wright to refund the money which he had secured by the sale of the cargoes captured in the French ships, and the property of "The Company of English Merchants trading to the Levant Sea."

To this Captain Wright answered, "Bah! I have the money. I intend to keep it!"

Orders were sent from England to have this fellow arrested and shipped home; so the Italian police obligingly captured the old sea-dog, locked him up, and kept him in jail for six months, while the attorneys fought over the legality of the affair.

At length the bluff privateersman was allowed to go free, and—he never paid back the money. "These fellows attacked me at law," he wrote, "but I have not acted contrary to it. I am an Englishman. I am acting under a commission from the King of England, and, when we are at war with France, I intend to hold and keep all the cargoes which I capture in French vessels. As for this 'English Company trading to the Levant Sea!' let them learn a lesson and pack their goods in future in English vessels. English oak should be good enough for English cargoes."

The "English Company trading to the Levant Sea" had certainly learned that Fortunatus Wright was as stubborn as a mule, and—in the future—they employed no French vessels to carry their bales of commerce. A wise dog only allows himself to be bitten once.

France and England now came to a peaceable settlement of their difficulties, but in 1755 war broke out afresh. Fortunatus Wright chuckled, for he itched for another brush upon the wide sweep of the ocean, and a chance to take a prize or two. So the Fame not being available, he had a small vessel constructed at Leghorn, and called her the Saint George. She was a fast sailer and was as graceful as a sea-gull. "In this fair ship," said he, as he gazed upon her admiringly, "I shall take many a prize and shall have, I trust, many a sharp adventure. Saint George, I salute you! May you bring me only the best of luck!"

Trouble was in store for the well-hated mariner even before he turned his vessel's prow into the Mediterranean, for—in spite of the fact that the Italians were neutral—their sympathies were strongly with France, and they looked with decided disfavor upon the graceful hull of the Saint George, as she bobbed serenely upon the surface of the bay. Knowing full well the reputation of this famous seaman, they paid particular attention to his little craft, and sent a number of officials to inspect her. In a few days the intrepid Fortunatus received the information that, as his was a merchant vessel, he must carry a crew of only five-and-twenty men, and an armament of four small guns.

At this the old sea-dog only laughed, and exhibited the greatest anxiety to comply with the requirements of the law.

"I would suggest," said he to one of the officials of the town, "that you keep guard-boats rowing around my ship in order to be sure that I do not take on more guns and men than the law permits, before I set sail."

The officer smiled. "We are watching you closely," said he. "For Monsieur Wright, it is said that you are as crafty as a cat!"

The mariner grinned, and, before going to sea, obtained from the Governor, a certificate to the effect that he had complied with all the requirements of the law.

Armed with this, on July 28th, 1756, he put to sea, in company with four merchant vessels laden with valuable cargoes, and bound for the shores of England. Carefully the Saint George had been watched, so carefully, in fact, that the authorities had overlooked the lading of the other vessels, aboard which numerous guns, howitzers, and hand-spikes had been smuggled, besides a number of seamen who were well-experienced in fighting upon the ocean. It is true that Fortunatus Wright was as crafty as a cat, or—as they say in Maine—"You'd have to git up early if yer wanted ter lick him."

Not only had the officials at Leghorn watched every move of this well-known privateersman, but they had sent word to the French that Wright had only a feeble force, that he was accompanying several rich prizes, and that he could be easily beaten and captured by a vessel of any size. So much hated was he, that it is said the French king had promised Knighthood and a handsome life pension to the sailor who could bring Wright to the shores of France dead or alive. The merchants of Marseilles were particularly bitter against him, for he had captured many of their ships, and in the market-place (where all could see it) had been posted a placard, which ran:

"ALL SAILORS AND SEAMEN ATTENTION!

To the person, or persons, who will capture and bring to France, the body of the arch-villain Captain Fortunatus Wright, shall be given

A SUM DOUBLE THE VALUE OF WRIGHT'S VESSEL.

Frenchmen! Catch this Thief! Bring him in Dead or Alive! Do your Duty!

This sum is guaranteed by the Merchants and Ship-owners of Marseilles, and the Chamber of Commerce."

Wright had heard of this, and it sent a grim look into his eyes. He also heard that a vessel was cruising outside the harbor in wait for him, and thus he was not surprised, as he saw a large boat upon his port bow, when only a few hours' sail from the snug harbor of Leghorn.

This vessel—a zebeque—had been waiting for the well-hated privateersman for several days, as her captain had been warned by the Italians that Wright was about to set sail. She had three masts, each carrying a huge, three-cornered sail, sixteen guns of considerable size, and several swivels. Her crew numbered two hundred and eighty men, well armed and eager for a brush with the famous Fortunatus, whose proverbial good fortune seemed now to have deserted him.

Rounding to, Wright signalled to his merchantmen to draw near and hurriedly transported some of the cannon, which he had smuggled, to his own vessel. He also added to his small crew, so that—when the zebeque came pounding down within shooting distance—he had increased his sailors from twenty-five to seventy-five, and his guns, from four to twelve.

"Now let the Frenchie come on!" he cried. "I'm half prepared, but I'll give her a warmer welcome than she ever had in all her career!"

"Huzzah! Huzzah!" shouted his men, who were a motley collection of all nationalities: Italians, English, Portuguese, Dutch, Germans, and a few Arabs. "Huzzah! Huzzah! Wright forever!" The Arabs, of course, didn't say this, but they tried to.

The French were very confident, and, as they came within range of the guns of the little Saint George they began to sing a hymn of victory, while their captain already saw, in his hands, the rich reward offered by the good citizens of Marseilles.

"Poof!" he chuckled. "Monsieur Wright, he soon take dinnaire in my cabin. Poof!"

But Monsieur Wright was a different fellow than he imagined, and his men—although of all nationalities—were so animated by his stirring and martial spirit, that they fought better than they had ever fought in their lives before. You all know how necessary to success "Spirit" is in a foot-ball team, or a base-ball nine. The team which has the do-or-dare spirit, the never-give-up-until-the-last-gun-is-fired determination, is usually the team that wins. And the spirit of the captain is the controlling factor in any contest. If he be no desperate fighter, his followers will not be desperate fighters. If he is weak-kneed in a crisis, his followers will be weak-kneed.

So this motley crew, under Fortunatus Wright, cheered onward by the dauntless navigator, fought as they had never fought before. Arab and German strove as well as Englishman and Italian to battle strenuously beneath the eye of the famous privateersman. They had never been together before, but, animated by the presence of this fearless "cock-of-the-Mediterranean," they now sailed into the Frenchman as if the zebeque were a vessel of equal strength and armament. Cheer after cheer welled into the air as the two antagonists drew near each other, while the puff of white smoke from the sides of the French vessel was followed by the chug! chug! of solid shot, as it cut up the waves near the body of the staunch, little Saint George.

"It's three to one against us, Boys!" shouted the battle-scarred Captain Wright. "Fire for the enemy's rigging and bring down one of her masts, if you can. If you fight hard we can lick her!"

The screech of a shell cut his words short, for a piece of iron passed dangerously near his lips, striking a stout Italian in the neck, and rendering him useless for further conflict.

Around and around in a wide circle floated the two sea-warriors, for the wind was light and just drove them along at the rate of a snail's pace. The rag-tag-and-bob-tail crew on the Saint George stood to their guns like veterans and poured in such a hot fire that the French captain speedily realized that his only chance for victory was to board and overwhelm the English by superior numbers.

"Bring the vessel up on her starboard side!" he commanded. "And get out the boarding-pikes! Now we'll finish Captain Wright!"

The zebeque soon ranged alongside the battered Saint George, threw her grappling hooks into the rigging, and her men were in a hand-to-hand struggle with the motley crew who battled for the veteran Fortunatus. Slash! Slash! Crack! The cutlasses cut and parried, the pistols spat, and the boarding-pikes thrust and struck. Cheering wildly the Frenchmen attempted to climb upon the deck of the privateer, but the followers of old Wright fought like demons. They parried and thrust like fiends; and such was the ferocity of their struggle that the boarders were repulsed with great slaughter.



"Thees Wright ees a very hornet for a fight!" sighed the French captain, as he ordered the grappling hooks cast off, and floated his vessel away.

Poom! Poom!

There was still some fight left in the little Saint George and her dauntless crew kept pounding iron at the sullen zebeque, which, shattered and torn, filled away and made for the open sea. Her captain had been struck by a piece of shell just as the battle closed; two lieutenants were killed, seventy men were wounded, and eighty-eight had been killed by the accurate shooting of the "Never-Say-Dies" under Captain Fortunatus Wright: the invincible. It had been a gallant battle, gallantly fought by both sides, and gallantly won.

Bold navigator Wright followed his crippled adversary for several miles, then—seeing another French gun-boat threatening his convoy—he returned to the merchant-ships which had accompanied him; sent them back into Leghorn harbor; and followed, next day, with the proud, but battered Saint George. It had been a glorious victory.

No sooner had the war-scarred Captain Wright let go his anchor chains in the harbor of Leghorn than he realized that he had only just begun to fight.

"Sapristi!" said an Italian official. "This pirate has deceived us! This fellow was allowed but four guns upon his ship and he had twelve. To the jail with this dog! To the prison with this cut-throat! Sapristi!"

A boat soon rowed to the Saint George and an order was delivered to Captain Wright to the effect that he must bring his vessel into the inner harbor, and, if he did not obey, she would be brought in by Italian gun-boats. Wright—of course—refused. So two big Italian warships sailed up upon either side of the Saint George, ran out their guns, and cast anchor.

"I will not move for the entire Italian Government!" roared Captain Fortunatus. "I will appeal to the British consul for protection, as England is at war with France, not with Italy."

Now was a pretty how-de-do. The Italians were furious with the stubborn privateersman for refusing to obey their orders, but, in truth, the way that he had deceived them in smuggling the extra cannon aboard—when under their own eyes—is what had roused their quick, Tuscan tempers. They thought that they had been sharp—well—here was a man who was even sharper than they, themselves. "Sapristi!" they cried. "To the jail weeth heem!"

There was a terrific war of words between the British consul and the officials of that snug, little town. Then, the problem was suddenly solved, for, two powerful, English men-of-war dropped into the harbor: the Jersey of sixty guns, and the Isis mounting fifty. The authorities of Leghorn were told that they had orders from the Admiral of the British, Mediterranean fleet, to convoy any English merchantmen which might be there, and to release the Saint George immediately. Wright threw up his cap and cheered, but the officials of Leghorn said things which cannot be printed. Thus the Saint George sailed upon her way, unmolested, and was soon taking more prizes upon the broad waters of the Mediterranean.

The path of the privateer is not strewn with roses. Captain Fortunatus found that his reputation had gone abroad and it had not been to his credit, for, when he put in at Malta he was not allowed to buy provisions for his ship.

"You are a beastly pirate!" said an official. "You cannot purchase anything here for your nefarious business."

"I am a privateer!" answered Wright, with anger.

"A privateer looks just the same to me as a pirate," sarcastically sneered the official. And Captain Fortunatus had to look elsewhere for provisions.

As he cruised along, a big, French cruiser of thirty-eight guns chased the little Saint George as if to gobble her up alive.

"Boys! We shall now have some fun!" said Captain Wright. "I can sail faster than this Frenchy. Just watch me!"

So, when the great beast of a French vessel came lumbering by, Wright played with her like a cat with a mouse; sailed around her in circles; shot guns at her rigging—just to aggravate the men from the sunny land—and then dipped his ensign and went careening away as if nothing had happened. No wonder that the French hated and despised this valiant mariner! Wouldn't you have done so if you had been a Frenchman?

Thus Captain Fortunatus Wright continued upon his privateering, his fighting, and his cruising; bearing terror to his enemies but satisfaction to his friends. His name was as well known among those who sailed the Mediterranean as was that of the great Napoleon in later years, and it was just as cordially hated by those who opposed him. "The Ogre from Leghorn" was one of his titles, while some applied to him the choice epithet of "The Red Demon from Italy." At any rate this did not seem to worry the veteran sea-dog, who continued to take prizes and make money until the year 1757. Then he disappears from history, for the body of brave, resolute, stubborn, and valiant Captain Fortunatus Wright mysteriously and suddenly vanished from this earth.

What was his end?

Perhaps he perished while boarding the deck of some craft which was manned by men as gallant as his own. Perhaps he fell while stemming the advance of a crew of wild Frenchmen, eager for his blood and remembering the many victories which he had won over their countrymen. Perhaps, in the wild, wind-tossed wastes of the Mediterranean, his vessel—unable to cope with the elements—was hurled upon some jagged rock and sunk in the sobbing waters of the frothing sea. Perhaps he was captured, hurried to some dark prison, and died in one of those many dungeons which disgrace the cities of the Italian coast. Perhaps he was hanged for privateering.

At any rate, nothing is known of the last days of this dauntless navigator save what can be gathered from an old grave in St. Peter's churchyard, in Liverpool.

Here is the tombstone of the father of Fortunatus Wright, an inscription upon which, tells us that he was a master-mariner of Liverpool; that he defended his ship—on one occasion—most gallantly against two vessels of superior force; and that he died, not by the stroke of a boarding-pike, but safely in his own home. To this is added the information that:

"Fortunatus Wright, his son, was always victorious, and humane to the vanquished. He was a constant terror to the enemies of his king and his country." That is all.



THE DEEP

There's beauty in the deep: The wave is bluer than the sky; And though the lights shine bright on high, More softly do the sea-gems glow That sparkle in the depths below; The rainbow tints are only made When on the waters they are laid. And sea and moon most sweetly shine Upon the ocean's level brine. There's beauty in the deep.

There's quiet in the deep. Above, let tide and tempest rave, And earth-born whirlwinds wake the wave; Above, let care and fear contend With sin and sorrow to the end: Here, far beneath the tainted foam That frets above our peaceful home, We dream in joy, and walk in love, Nor know the rage that yells above. There's quiet in the deep.



GEORGE WALKER

WINNER OF THE GAMEST SEA FIGHT OF THE ENGLISH CHANNEL

(1727-1777)

"'War is Hell,' said General William T. Sherman. But,—better have war than bow to an inferior nation."—Doctrines of the Strenuous Life.

GEORGE WALKER

WINNER OF THE GAMEST SEA FIGHT OF THE ENGLISH CHANNEL

(1727-1777)

"If Britain can but breed th' men, Who are like Walker made, She'll have no fear of danger, When th' foe starts to invade. When th' foe starts to invade, my boys, An' creep along th' shore, Where th' curling breakers wash th' cliffs, Where th' breeching combers roar. Then, lift a glass to Walker, Of Glorioso fame, May we ne'er forget his deed lads, May we ne'er forget his name."

—Chants from The Channel.—1769.

It was the year 1739, and the good people of Charleston, South Carolina, were in a great state of agitation. Little knots of merchants, sailors, clerks, and dock-hands clustered about each other in the narrow streets. And, above the hub-bub of many voices, could be heard the solemn sentence, oft repeated:

"The pirate is off the narrows! The pirate will soon be here!"

Then all would gaze seaward with startled faces, and would murmur:

"The pirate—the Spanish pirate will be here."

As they thus stood irresolutely, a strongly-knit fellow came walking towards the dock-end. He was clad in gray; his face was deeply seamed by long exposure to the elements; and high top-boots of leather encased his lower limbs.

"What ho! Good citizens," said he. "Do I understand that a Spaniard has frightened you all? Why, where's your courage?"

"Courage?" answered a rotund-bodied merchant. "Of that we have a plenty. But we have no ship with which to combat this fellow—or fellows—for some of my skippers tell me that there are two of them off the coast, and that they've captured twenty trading vessels."

The newcomer smiled.

"I've got a staunch craft here," said he. "My name is Walker, and I hail from Bristol, England. My ship—the Duke William—mounts but twenty guns, and my crew is but of thirty-two, yet, I know that many of you gentlemen will volunteer your services, particularly if there is to be a nice little battle."

"Hear! Hear!" came from all sides. "You're the boy for us! You're the chap we've been looking for! Hear! Hear!"

It did not take long to increase the crew of the Duke William. Several of the wealthy colonists volunteered their services; many sailors were there who had been fighting on the Spanish Main. They were eager and anxious to join. So, before three days were out, the Duke William spread her canvas for the open sea, carrying one hundred men and an additional twenty guns. Now—you see—she could put up an excellent fight with the average pirate-ship which cruised about the low-lying and sandy coast.

Out into the broad expanse of the Atlantic glided the little barque and eagerly the mariners scanned the horizon for some signs of the pirate.

"She's been hereabouts!" cried one stout seaman. "For several of my mess-mates saw her sails down near the channel islands. And her flag was surely black with th' skull an' cross-bones."

"Must have heard that we were coming, then," growled Captain Walker, "for there's nothing in view."

In an hour's time he thought differently, for, "Sail ho!" sounded from the forward deck, and there, far off to leeward, was the outline of a long, blackish vessel, bearing no flag at her mizzen or stern.

Crowding on all canvas—for the breeze was light—the Duke William bore away towards her. "It must be the pirate!" said all, for, also crowding on all sail, the vessel headed up the coast, and did her utmost to get away.

On, on, went pursuer and pursued; on, on, and the Duke William began to draw dangerously close to the fleeing vessel, which now could be easily seen. She was a brigantine, carrying about eighteen guns, with a high stern and graceful lines. No flags waved from her mast-heads.

Suddenly the scudding sea-warrior pointed her nose in-shore, ran around the corner of a sandy island, and bore away into a seemingly large lagoon upon the other side. The Duke William followed, and, as she rounded a jutting sand-spit, there before her lay a little schooner, on the deck of which were seen several sailors, waving and gesticulating frantically. Behind, and on the shore, was an earth-work, from which several cannon pointed their black muzzles. On a flag-pole in the centre, waved a Spanish flag, and, beneath it, a black ensign upon which was the skull-and-cross-bones.

"It's the pirate stronghold!" cried several, at once. "We're in for a tight skirmish!"

But Captain Walker only smiled.

The brigantine, which he had been following, now rounded-to, opened her port-holes, and fired a couple of shots toward the pursuing craft. At the same time an English flag was hoisted on the schooner, and a fellow on her deck sang out through a speaking trumpet.

"Thank Heaven you have come! We were only captured two days ago! Hurrah for the English flag!"

The Duke William kept on after the brigantine, her mixed crew yelling with joy, now that they were to have an action.

Bang! Bang!

Her two forward guns spoke, and a shot went ripping through one of the foresails of the pirate.

This was enough for the fighting spirit of those who sailed the Spanish Main. For, putting about, the brigantine scudded through a narrow channel, known only to her skipper (for no one else could have followed without grounding upon a sand-spit), and was soon running away upon the opposite side of a low-lying island, now flaunting the pirate-flag from her halyards.

"She's gone!" sadly remarked the gallant Captain Walker, "but we can capture the gun-battery. Make ready to go ashore, if needed!"

Steering for the coast, the guns of the Duke William opened upon the sandy barricade, and shot after shot was soon making the dirt and gravel fly in every direction:

Poom! Poom! Cu-poom!

The cannon in the earth-work next began to speak, and, it was apparent, from the strange noises which some of them made, that they were full of rust.

Cu-Poom! Cu-Pow! Chuck-chuck-cu-swash! they roared, and a few balls began to whistle about the spars of the Duke William.

There were some accurate marksmen upon the deck of the British vessel, and, as she lay broadside to the fortification, one well-aimed shot struck a cannon and dismounted it; while another shattered the flag-pole and brought down the flag with a crash.

"Hurrah!" shouted the men from Charleston. "Now we'll even up with these cursed pirates for all the damage that they've done us. Now, we'll teach them not to ravage our coasts and catch our merchant ships!"

Cu-whow! barked the rust-caked guns of the barricade. "Go-slow! Go-back! Go-home!"

To this a full broadside roared, and the balls tore the top of the earth-work to shreds.

"Now let thirty men take to the boats!" commanded Captain Walker. "Steer for the beach and rush the barricade with pistols and cutlasses. I don't believe that there are more than a dozen men inside the earth-work."

"Huzzah!" was the cheerful answer to this order, and, in a few moments, several boats were racing for the beach, each eager to be the first ashore.

As they approached, the antiquated guns on the sand-spit became strangely silent, and, as the eager raiders rushed valiantly upon the pirate fortress, no shots were fired at them to impede their progress. With a wild yell they leaped over the side of the barricade, only to find it deserted; for whatever had been the force that had fired these cannon, it had taken to the brush as the English seamen drew near. Only a few charges of ammunition were there, so it was plainly evident that the pirates (whatever their strength might have been) could only have held out for a few more rounds.

"Hurrah! Hurrah!" shouted the raiders. "The fort is ours!"

"And it's a sorry victory," said one of the crew, "for there's nothing here worth the having, except the cannon, and they couldn't stand more than two more shots without blowing up. I call it a pretty hollow success."

In spite of this the men of Charleston were well pleased. They had dispersed the pirates; taken their fort; and had re-captured a schooner which had recently been taken only a few miles from the harbor-mouth of that fair, southern city.

When they sailed into their home port they received a tremendous ovation. The bells were rung in all the churches; shots were fired; trumpets were blown.

"We could fall in with nothing that would stay for us upon the seas," said Captain Walker, modestly; but, in spite of this, he was treated like a great hero. All the influential persons in the Colony offered to sign a request that he might be given the command of a king's ship; but this he declined. So they tendered him an immense tract of land if he would remain in that country and drive off the pirates when next they became too bold and daring; but this he also declined, and stuck to his ship. In a few weeks he sailed for the Barbadoes, and then to England, in company with three unarmed trading-vessels which placed themselves under his convoy. The good people of Charleston bade him a sad and affectionate farewell.

George Walker sailed forth smiling, but he was now to have far more trouble than his little affair with the pirates.

When half way to England, a terrific gale struck the Duke William and her convoys, which separated them by many miles, and made this good vessel (which had dispersed the pirates) leak like a sieve. The gale continued in its violence, while Captain Walker was so ill that the ship's surgeon despaired of his life. But note how grit and nerve pulled him through!

On the second day of the tempest, a sailor rushed into his cabin, crying:

"Captain! Captain! We'll founder, for the water is pouring into our bottom by the hogshead. We're gone for unless we take to the boats!"

Captain Walker was not the man to leave his ship in such a crisis.

"Throw all of the guns overboard, but two!" he ordered. "We need those in order to signal for help if a vessel comes near us. That will lighten us so that we can still float awhile."

This was done, but, as the last cannon shot into the waves, a sailor burst into his cabin with the intelligence that the men had prepared to desert in the tenders.

"Carry me on deck!" roared the resolute captain. "I'll give these cowards a piece of my mind."

Three sailors seized him and bore him aloft, where he remonstrated with his men in the strongest language possible. In spite of this, many clustered about one of the boats.

"The ship's a-sinking," cried one. "She won't stand up for an hour."

As he spoke, the welcome sound of, "Sail ho!" arose, above the wash and roar of the angry water.

Sure enough, a ship was bearing down upon them, but, to the dismay of all, she hastily hauled off again.

Captain Walker was astonished. "She thinks us an armed enemy," said he. "Fire a gun, men, and cut the mizzen-mast in two, so that it falls overboard. That will show the stranger that we're a friend in distress."

His orders were immediately obeyed and the mast came ripping and tearing over the side. A gun also roared, and the stranger, now convinced that the ship was a friend, and not a foe, came bearing down upon the crippled Duke William, to the rescue.

"She's one of our own convoy!" shouted a seaman, waving his hand joyfully. And such she proved to be. Captain Walker had saved his crew by his foresight and quickness of decision. Had he thrown all of his cannon overboard he would have had no gun with which to hail the stranger, and, had he not cut away his own mast, she would have gone away, fearful that he was an enemy. Three cheers for the brave and thoughtful Captain Walker! He reached England, at last, but he and his men were in a sorry plight, for the vessel which had rescued them was almost as unseaworthy as their own, which sank in a great whirl of eddying foam, not half an hour after they had left her. Thus ended the career of the good ship which had chased all of the pirates away from the harbor of Charleston. A sad fate, indeed, for such a gallant craft.

Captain Walker was not long idle, for he soon took charge of a brigantine trading to the Baltic Sea, in spite of the fact that war had been declared with France, and the privateers and gun-boats of that nation hovered in his path, eager and anxious to secure some English merchant vessel, as a prize.

"I see that these fellows mean to catch me, if they can," said the keen-witted mariner. "So I intend to be ready for them if I do not happen to be near an English man-of-warsman when they come sailing by."

He therefore shipped a number of wooden guns, which were painted black, so that, at a distance, they looked exactly like the real thing. Upon his vessel were only six cannon, so when—a short time afterwards—he was chased by a French privateer off the coast of Scotland—he had an excellent opportunity to "bluff" the bold marauder.

As the Frenchman drew near, the vessel which Captain Walker was on kept steadily upon her way, and, through his glass, the cautious mariner saw that his pursuer carried fully twenty guns.

"Run out our dummy cannon!" he ordered.

Out were thrust the black, wooden muzzles, twenty-five in number, and—as the Frenchman was now within shooting distance—the English boat was luffed into the wind. In a second the British jack, ensign, and man-of-war's pendant were hoisted, and a gun was fired across the bow of the arrogant privateer.

"Come on!" shouted bold Walker. "I am waiting for you!"

But the enemy did not come on. Instead of this, she turned tail in a hurry, filled away, and made off as fast as a freshening breeze would drive her.

"Ha! Ha! Ha!" laughed the genial, English skipper. "Bluffed by a lot of wooden guns. Ha! Ha! Ha!"

And all of his sailors gave a rousing cheer.

This was indeed good fortune, but Captain Walker was soon to meet with some fortune which was quite the reverse.

It was the year 1744 and the doughty sailor had accepted the command of the privateer Mars, of twenty-six guns and one hundred and thirty men, which sailed from London for a cruise in the English channel. With her was the Boscawen, another privateer with about the same number of guns, but with a crew of fully one hundred and eighty. They soon had an adventure which was not all to the liking of bold George Walker.

At midnight, late in December, the two privateers were running near the coast of France. There was a heavy mist and rain, also a fresh breeze, so the steersmen could not well see what way they were going. Suddenly the hulls of two large vessels loomed up in the blackness, and the twinkling lights from their port-holes shone upon the dripping sides of the British privateers. Voices came through the mist—French voices—so it was apparent that the ships were not friends.

"Those fellows are showing much alarm," said Captain Walker, a few moments later. "I therefore believe that the vessels are full of treasure. We'll hang on until daylight, at any rate, and see whether or no we cannot capture a rich cargo."

Next morning, at eight o'clock, the fog suddenly lifted, disclosing—not two treasure ships—but two French men-of-war; one bearing seventy-four guns, the other sixty-four.

"Egad!" ejaculated the startled Walker. "We're in a hornet's nest! I guess we'd better run for it!"

The Frenchmen, however, were both treasure-ships, as well as men-of-war; both bound from the West Indies, with cargoes worth about four millions sterling ($20,000,000), which they were carrying into the harbor of Brest. They were not in good fighting trim, as their heavy cargoes made them low in the water, and very unwieldy. It is probable that they would not have attacked the two Englishmen, had not the captain of the Boscawen turned tail and fled, leaving the Mars all alone.

"Did you ever see such a coward?" cried Captain Walker, with heat. "Boys! We're in for it now!"

Sure enough, they were: for the Frenchmen saw that only one enemy was left, and immediately sent the sixty-four gun ship—the Fleuron—in pursuit.

Walker turned his vessel about and clapped on all sail, but the large gun-boat quickly overhauled him.

"Gentlemen!" said Captain Walker, as she rapidly approached. "I do not mean to be so rash as to attempt a regular engagement with so superior a force; all I ask of you is to confide in me and my orders, to get away—if possible—without striking our flag; and, be assured, I shall not call upon you to fight unless there is excellent opportunity for success. The ship which pursues us is certainly the better sailer of the two French men-of-war; yet, if we have good fortune with our shots, we may bring down a topmast or yard; or hurt her rigging so as to retard her pursuit. We may yet get entirely clear. So, my hearties, do not lose your nerve!"

These wise remarks were greeted with a "Hip! Hip! Hooray!"

Now was a lively chase. The Mars hoisted the English flag, opened with her stern guns, and put on all available canvas. But she was not a fast sailer, and gradually but surely, the Fleuron crept up on one side, and the other French man-of-war upon the other. She, too, had entered the chase.

Finally the French vessels had the British privateer directly between them.

"The jig is up!" cried Captain Walker, sadly. "Gentlemen, we do not strike to one ship only. Haul down the colors!"

Down came the proud ensign, the sails were lowered, and the gallant Walker entered a boat, in order that he might be put aboard the Fleuron and give up his sword. When he arrived on the deck he found the French captain by no means in the politest of humors.

After receiving the weapon of the vanquished privateersman, the Frenchman thundered in very good English:

"How dare you fire against a force like mine in so small a ship? Sirrah, you must be stark mad. I compliment you upon your lack of judgment."

Captain Walker was nettled.

"Sir," he replied, with warmth, "if you will look at my commission you will find that I had as good a right to fight as you, yourself, had. Furthermore, if my force had not been so inferior to yours, I would have shown you more civil treatment on board my own ship, after I had captured you."

The Frenchman winced.

"How many of your bushwhackers have I killed?" said he.

"None at all, sir!" replied the Englishman.

"Then, sir, you should be well ashamed of your scurvy fighting. For you have killed six of my brave men and have wounded several with pieces of glass. Pray, when, sir, did the rules of war allow glass to be used as ammunition?"

"You lie," cried Captain Walker. "No glass was used by my men."

The Frenchman curbed his anger.

"Then what was it?" said he.

Here a British seaman interrupted.

"If it would please your French Majesty," he said, with a bow, "I reckon I know what it was that you took for glass. The captain of one of our stern guns, when he found out that we must surrender, sir, took about sixteen shillings from his pocket, saying: 'Sooner than let these French rascals plunder me of all I've got in the world, I'll see what a bribe can do!' So he wrapped the money up in a bag, sir, crammed it into a gun, and let fly at your deck. Faith, your men were lucky to be struck by good, British coin!"

At this all had a good laugh, and the unpleasantness between the French captain and George Walker was at an end. The privateersman was treated with the greatest courtesy and was made as comfortable as could be.

The action took place on Friday and the ships were headed for Brest, about three days' sail away. At daybreak on Sunday morning, four large boats were sighted astern, and it did not take long to realize that they were coming up pretty fast and were flying the English colors.

"Hurray!" shouted Captain Walker. "No French prison for me. Hurray!"

The English squadron gained steadily. The boats grew nearer and nearer, while Walker's hopes soared higher and higher. Finally, the French officer, who was in charge of his own boat—the Mars—put his helm up and ran to leeward, hoping to draw one of the British vessels after him. He was successful, for a seventy-gun ship made after him, chased him for several miles, and finally re-captured the English privateer. The other ships kept on and drew closer and closer.

Seeing that an action would soon take place, the French captain politely requested Walker and his officers to go below.

"Messieurs!" said he. "There will soon be a leetle affair in which the balls will fly. You will be better off in the hold, where they cannot reach you so easily as up here."

"Sir!" replied the English privateer-captain. "I go below with the greatest of pleasure, for I am now certain of my liberty. Au revoir!"

"Do not count your chickens before they hatch!" cried the Frenchman, after his retreating form.

The British vessels were the Hampton Court of seventy guns, and the Sunderland and Dreadnought of sixty each; so, being three to two, they should have had a fairly easy victory over the Frenchmen. But the Sunderland lost a spar overboard, and dropped astern; so it left but two to two: an even affair.

Alas for gallant Captain Walker! Although the Englishmen came near the two French men-of-war, they hung about without firing a shot; allowed the Frenchmen to sail on unmolested, and thus carry their astonishingly rich treasure into Brest, amid wild and enthusiastic cheering of their crews, and groans of disappointment from the English prisoners.

Yet these same prisoners had little cause to complain of their treatment when they arrived at Brest; for they were landed at once, and the captain and officers were liberated on parole. The French also treated them very well and invited the valorous George Walker to many a repast, where they laughed at the narrow shave that he had had from death,—for they had left the Fleuron none too soon.

On the day following the landing, Captain Walker was seated in the office of a counting-house, near the dock-end, and was writing a letter to the captain of the Fleuron, requesting him to send him his letter-of-credit, which was in a tin box in a cabin of the French man-of-war, when a terrible Boom! sounded upon his ears.

A sailor came running past the open window.

"The Fleuron has blown up!" he cried. "The Fleuron is a total loss!"

Captain Walker dashed into the street; to the end of the quay; and there a sad spectacle greeted his eager gaze. Strewn about upon the surface of the water were broken spars; pieces of sail; and the debris of a once gallant man-of-war. The remnants of the Fleuron were burning brightly.

The captain of the French ship came running by. "Helas!" he wailed. "A careless gunner has destroyed my gallant vessel. Helas! Helas!"

It was too true. Four or five powder barrels had been left in the magazine for saluting purposes, and quite a little loose powder had been allowed to lie upon the floor. Some careless seamen had gone down into the hold with a decrepit, old lantern. The handle broke, the flame set fire to the loose powder,—and that was the end of the gallant ship Fleuron. She burned to the water's edge and then went down to the bottom with a dull, sizzling hiss; while the treasure also disappeared. Later on, divers secured a part of it, but much that was of value was never recovered.

Captain Walker did not long grieve over the loss of his letter-of-credit, left on board the ill-starred Fleuron, for he was exchanged, after a few weeks, and was sent back to England with his crew. This was in 1745. He lost no time in reporting to the owners of the Mars, and so well did they think of him, that in a short while they sent him upon another privateering venture aboard the Boscawen, which, as you remember, had run away from the Mars, after she had fallen in with the two French men-of-war. Now occurred his greatest sea-fight.

The Boscawen had been built in France and had been a prize, taken at sea. She mounted twenty-eight guns (nine-pounders), but Walker added two more, and shipped a crew of three hundred and fourteen men. Without waiting for the Mars, the stout sea-dog put out to sea on April 19th, 1745, steering for the shores of France where cruised the prize-laden clipper ships, and the unwelcome men-of-warsmen. The British privateersman cruised about for a whole month without any luck, and, falling in with the privateer Sheerness, joined with her in a little run in search of inoffensive merchantmen. At daybreak a cry came from the forward watch,—

"Sails ho! Sails ho! Off the starboard quarter! There're eight o' them an' heading no' east."

Both the privateers started in pursuit, but the Sheerness was left far astern, as the Boscawen was a speedy sailer. The latter drew near the eight scudding sail, which suddenly veered about and formed a line, awaiting an attack. The Sheerness was way astern. Would Captain Walker advance?

It was eight against one, and there was no certainty what was the armament of the vessels now standing in a row, all ready for action. The faces of the officers on the Boscawen showed anxiety and suspense, but there was no shadow of fear upon the countenance of Captain Walker, who now addressed them in the following words:

"Gentlemen, I hope that you do not think the number of prizes before us too many. Be assured, my good friends, that by their being armed, they have something on board of them that is worth defending. I take them to be merchantmen with letters of marque (privateers), and homeward bound. Without doubt we shall meet with some opposition, in which I know that you will exhibit your usual courage. We must conquer these superior numbers by superior skill. Be cool. Be careful that you aim correctly, for, as we shall be pressed on all sides, let every man do his best to engage the enemy that he sees before him.

"In a word, Gentlemen, if you will put full confidence in me for leading you on, I will pawn my life upon the fact that I will bring you off victorious."

"Hurray! Hurray for Walker!" came the reassuring response.

"Then go to your quarters, my hearties! Fight like Britishers of old, and all will be well!" cried the brave mariner.

Like a hornet among a group of snap-dragons, the Boscawen now sailed into the centre of the enemy's line.

"Do not fire until I give the word!" cried Captain Walker, as the salt spray kicked and splashed about the bow of the on-coming Boscawen. "Then hammer away like anvils on a sledge!"

Sixty men were ill on board the stout little English privateer, but all save three crawled on deck in order to render what assistance they could in pointing and handling the guns.

Now was a glorious fight.

Bang! Crash! Z-i-i-p!

The French privateers were hammering away as the Englishman approached and their balls cut and tore through the rigging, damaging the mizzen topsail, and splitting a topmast. Steering straight for the largest vessel, Walker waited until he was within close range and then gave the order:

"Fire, and hull her if you can."

Poof! Cr-a-a-sh!

A blinding broadside rolled from the port of the Boscawen, and the solid shot bit and tore the stranger like a terrier mouthing a rat.

The valiant little privateer was now in the midst of the enemy. Two were to right of her; two to the left of her; one across her bow; and one across her stern. Two of the eight decamped, at this juncture; making the odds six, instead of eight, to one.

"Pow! Pow! Cu-boom!"

The vessel astern was banging away like a Banshee, but a sudden crash from the stern guns so badly damaged her that she hauled off. It was now five to one.

"Keep it up, boys!" cried Walker, above the roar and rattle of the fray. "You're doing splendidly. You all deserve statues in the temple of fame."

"Huzzah!" shouted his men. "Hurray for the Boscawen. Down with the Frenchmen!"

"Cu-pow! Boom! Boom!" roared the cannon, while the broadsides from the Boscawen were delivered without either confusion or disorder. The five were sparring gamely, but they were lightly armed, with only a few guns to each, so the thirty nine-pounders on board the English privateer were about an equal match for the greater numbers of the foe.

Thus the fight raged for an hour, when, suddenly, the ensign upon the mast of the French flagship was seen to flutter to the deck. Ten minutes later a cry arose from a sailor aboard the Boscawen: