The soldier laughed.

"Major Talbot," said he, "you are a true fighting man. I'll have a crew for you within twenty-four hours and we'll take the good sloop Jasamine, lying off of Hell Gate. Ahoy for the capture of the Englishman!"

In two days' time, all was ready for the expedition. The sloop Jasamine slowly drifted into the harbor of New York, an anchor spliced to her bowsprit, a crew of sturdy adventurers aboard; and, filling away in a stout sou'wester, rolled down the coast in the direction of Rhode Island. Reaching the vicinity of Newport, she lay to behind a sheltering peninsula, waiting for the night to come, so that she could drop down upon the Englishman under the cloak of darkness.

Blackness settled upon the still and waveless water. With muffled oars the sloop now glided towards the dark hull of the British gun-boat; her men armed to the teeth, with fuses alight, and ready to touch off the cannon at the slightest sign of discovery. All was still upon the towering deck of the war-vessel and the little lights twinkled at her bow.

But what was that?

Suddenly a voice came through the darkness.

"Who goes there?"

No answer came but the dip of the oars in unison.

"Who goes there? Answer, or I fire!"

Again the slow beat of the oars and nothing more.

Crash!

A musket spoke from the jutting bow in front of the sloop and a bullet struck in the foremast of the staunch attacker, with a resounding z-i-n-n-g!

"We're discovered," whispered Talbot. "Pull for your lives, men, and punch her like a battering-ram. When we've cut through the netting, let every fellow dash upon her decks, and fight for every inch you can."

As he ceased speaking, the bow of the sloop struck the roping stretched around the man-o'-warsman, and a ripping and tearing was plainly heard above the crash of small arms, the shouts of men, and the rumble of hawsers. Two cannon spoke from the side of the Englishman, and, as their roar echoed across the still ocean, the guns of the Jasamine belched forth their answer.



The anchor attached to the bowsprit had done what was desired. It tore a great hole in the stout netting, ripped open a breach sufficiently wide for entrance to the deck, and, as the cannon grumbled and spat at the sloop,—the bowsprit was black with jack-tars scrambling for an opportunity to board the Britisher.

"Now, men," shouted Major Talbot, above the din. "Swing our craft sideways! Let go the port guns, and then let every mother's son rush the foe! And your cry must be, 'Death and no quarter!'"

As he ceased, the good Jasamine was forced sideways into the man-o'-warsman, and, propelled by the current, drifted against her with tremendous force, crushing the remaining nets as she did so. A few of the Americans were already on the deck in a terrific struggle with the half-sleepy English seamen, but—in a moment—Talbot, himself, at the head of his entire crew, came leaping across the side.

Now was a scene of carnage. The cutlasses of both Yankee tar and British, were doing awful execution, and pistols were cracking like hail upon the roof. Back, back, went the English before the vigorous assault of the stormers, and, as the deck was now piled with the dead and dying, the commander of the man-o'-warsman cried out,

"I surrender! Cease, you Yankee sea-dogs. You're too smart for me!"

So saying, he held up a handkerchief tied to his cutlass, and the battle ceased.

The story of the fight of Silas Talbot's was now on every lip, and all praised the daring and courage of this valorous Major, who was as bold as a lion, and as courageous as any seaman who sailed upon the sea.

Promotion came rapidly to the soldier-sailor. In 1779 he became a colonel and was placed in command of the Argo, a sloop of about one hundred tons, armed with twelve six-pounders, and carrying but sixty men. 'Tis said that she looked like a "clumsy Albany trader," with one great, rakish mast, an immense mainsail, and a lean boom. Her tiller was very lengthy, she had high bulwarks and a wide stern—but, in spite of her raw appearance, she could sail fast and could show a clean pair of heels to most vessels of twice her size.

Shortly after taking charge of this privateer, word was brought that Captain Hazard of the privateer King George was off the coast of Rhode Island.

"That's what I want," cried Captain Talbot, slapping his knee. "This fellow Hazard is an American. He was born in Rhode Island, and, instead of joining in our righteous cause against the Mother Country, he has elected to fight against us. For the base purpose of plundering his old neighbors and friends, he has fitted out the King George and has already done great damage on the coast. Let me but catch the old fox and I'll give him a taste of American lead. I'll put a stop to the depredations of this renegade."

The King George had fourteen guns and eighty men, but this did not worry staunch and nervy Silas Talbot. He started in pursuit of her, as soon as he learned of her whereabouts, and, before many days, sighted a sail just off the New York coast, which was hoped to be the vessel of the renegade.

Mile after mile was passed. Hour by hour the Argo ploughed after the silvery sails, until, late in the afternoon, the stranger hovered near a shallow harbor on the coast, and seemed to await the on-coming privateer with full confidence.

The Argo boomed along under a spanking sou'wester and, sailing near the stranger, to the keen eyes of Talbot came the welcome sight of King George painted upon the stern of the rakish privateer.

"All hands man the guns," cried he. "We'll sink th' rascally Hazard with all his crew, unless he strikes. She's got more men and guns, but what care we for that. Take hold, my Hearties, and we'll soon make her know her master."

The King George seemed to welcome the coming fight; she luffed; lay to; and her men could be seen standing ready at the polished cannon. Now was one of the strangest battles of American sea history.

The King George cruised along under a full spread of canvas, jibbed, came about upon the port quarter of the stranger, and ran up to within shooting distance, when a broadside was poured into the deck of the rolling Argo. She replied with her own fourteen guns, and, before they could be reloaded, the King George struck her alongside; the American seaman swarmed across the rail; and—if we are to believe a historian of the period—"drove the crew of King George from their quarters, taking possession of her, without a man on either side being killed." Hats off to the doughty Silas Talbot for this brave adventure! Did you ever hear of such a fight with no man ever being slaughtered?

Again rang the fame of Silas Talbot, but he was not to rest long upon laurels won. The British privateer Dragon—of three hundred tons and eighty men—was hovering near Providence, Rhode Island, hungry and eager for unprotected merchantmen.

"I'll have to strike her," said Captain Talbot.

It was a beautiful day in June. As the Dragon drowsed along listlessly a dozen miles off the shore, her topsails barely filling in the gentle southerly breeze, the watch suddenly stirred, and sang out in no gentle tones,

"Sail ho, off the starboard! Looks like Captain Talbot of the Argo!"

The captain came bounding from his cabin, glass in hand.

"Sure enough," said he, scanning the white sails upon the horizon. "It's Talbot and we're in for a tight affair. All hands prepare for action!"

There was noise and confusion upon the deck of the privateer as the guns were sponged, charges were rammed home, and all prepared for battle. Meanwhile, the stranger came nearer, and rounding to within striking distance, crashed a broadside into the slumbering Dragon, who had not yet shown her fangs.

Crackle! Crackle! Boom!

The small arms from the Britisher began to spit at the advancing privateer, and seven of her fourteen guns rang out a welcome to the sailors of Rhode Island. The solid shot ploughed through the rigging, cutting ropes and spars with knife-like precision.

"Round her to on the port quarter!" shouted Captain Talbot, "and get near enough for boarding!"

But, as the Argo swung near her antagonist, the Dragon dropped away—keeping just at pistol-shot distance.

"Run her down!" yelled the stout Rhode Islander, as he saw this manoeuvre of his wily foe. Then he uttered an exclamation of disgust, for, as he spoke, a bullet struck his speaking trumpet; knocking it to the deck, and piercing it with a jagged hole.

"Never mind!" cried he, little disconcerted at the mishap. "Give it to her, boys!"

Then he again uttered an exclamation, for a bounding cannon ball—ricochetting from the deck—took off the end of his coat-tail.[1]

[1] A true incident vouched for by two historians.

"I'll settle with you for that," yelled the old sea-dog, leaping to a cannon, and, pointing it himself, he touched the fuse to the vent. A puff of smoke, a roar, and a ball ploughed into the mainmast of the rocking Dragon.

Talbot smiled with good humor.

"Play for that, my brave fellows," he called out, above the din of battle. "Once get the mainmast overside, and we can board her."

With a cheer, his sailors redoubled their efforts to sink the Dragon, and solid shot fairly rained into her hull, as the two antagonists bobbed around the rolling ocean in this death grapple. Thus they sparred and clashed for four and a half hours, when, with a great splitting of sails and wreck of rigging, the mainmast of the Dragon trembled, wavered, and fell to leeward with a sickening thud.

"She's ours!" yelled Captain Talbot, through his dented speaking trumpet.

Sure enough, the Dragon had had enough. Her wings had been clipped, and, in a moment more, a white flag flew from her rigging.

"The Argo is sinking! The Argo is sinking!" came a cry, at this moment.

"Inspect the sides of our sloop," cried Talbot.

This was done, immediately, and it was found that there were numerous shot-holes between wind and water, which were speedily plugged up. Then, bearing down upon the crippled Dragon, she was boarded; a prize-crew was put aboard; and the Argo steered for home, her men singing,

"Talk about your gay, old cocks, Yankee, Doodle, Dandy, 'Si' Talbot he can heave the blocks, And stick like pepp'mint candy.

"Yankee—Doodle—Shoot and kill, Yankee—Doodle—Dandy, Yankee—Doodle—Back an' fill, Yankee—Doodle—Dandy."

Silas Talbot, in fact, had done extremely well, but, not content with his laurels already won, he soon put out again upon the Argo, in company with another privateer from Providence, Rhode Island, called the Saratoga; which sailed under a Captain Munro. They were not off the coast more than two days when they came across the Dublin; a smart, English privateer-cutter of fourteen guns, coming out of Sandy Hook. Instead of running away, she ploughed onward, and cleared for action.

The Argo and the Saratoga ran in upon the windward quarter and banged away with audacity. The fight lasted for an hour. Then—as the Argo tacked in closer in order to grapple and board—the Saratoga was headed for the privateer. But—instead of coming in—she began to run off in the wind.

"Hard a-weather! Hard up there with the helm!" cried Captain Munro.

"It is hard up!" cried the steersman.

"You lie, you blackguard!" cried Munro. "She goes away lasking! Hard a-weather I say again!"

"It is hard a-weather, I say again, captain," cried the fellow at the tiller.

"Captain Talbot thinks that I am running away when I want to join him," cried Munro. "What the deuce is the matter anyway?"

"Why, I can tell you," cried a young Lieutenant. "You've got an iron tiller in place of the wooden one, and she's loose in the rudder head, so your boat won't steer correctly."

"Egad, you're right," said Munro, as he examined the top of the tiller. "Now, jam her over and we'll catch this Dublin of old Ireland, or else I'm no sailor. We'll give her a broadside, too, when we come up."

The Argo, meanwhile, was hammering the Englishman in good fashion, and, as the Saratoga pumped a broadside into her—raking her from bow to stern—the Dublin struck her colors.

"Two to one, is too much odds," cried the English captain, as a boat neared the side of his vessel. "I could have licked either of you, alone."

And, at this, both of the American privateersmen chuckled.

Old "Si" Talbot was soon in another fight. Three days later he chased another sail, and coming up with her, found his antagonist to be the Betsy: an English privateer of twelve guns and fifty-eight men, commanded by an honest Scotchman.

The Argo ranged up alongside and Talbot hailed the stranger. After a bit of talk he hoisted the Stars and Stripes, crying,

"You must haul down those British colors, my friend!"

To which the Scot replied:

"Notwithstanding I find you an enemy, as I suspected, yet, sir, I believe that I shall let them hang a little longer, with your permission. So fire away, Flanagan!"

"And that I'll do," yelled Talbot. "Flanagan will be O'Toole and O'Grady before the morning's over. For I'll beat you like an Irish constable from Cork."

So it turned out. Before an hour was past, the Betsy had struck, the captain was killed, and all of his officers were wounded.

"Old Si"—you see—had had good luck. So well, indeed, had he fought, that in 1780 he was put in command of a good-sized vessel, the General Washington. In her he cruised about Sandy Hook in search of spoil.

One hazy day in August, the watch sang out,

"Several sail astern, Sir! Looks like a whole squadron!"

Talbot seized the glass and gazed intently at the specks of white.

"Egad! It is a squadron," said he, at length. "And they're after me. Crowd on every stitch of canvas and we'll run for it."

So all sail was hoisted, and the General Washington stood out to sea.

But the sails of the pursuers grew strangely clear. They came closer, ever closer, and Talbot paced the deck impatiently.

"Gad Zooks!" cried he, "I wish that I could fly like a bird."

He could not fly, and, in two hours' time the red flag on the foremast of a British brig was clear to the eyes of the crew of the privateer. When—an hour later—a solid shot spun across his bow, "Old Si" Talbot hove to, and ran up the white flag. He was surrounded by six vessels of the English and he felt, for once, that discretion was the better part of valor.

* * * * *

"Old Si" was now thrown into a prison ship off Long Island and then was taken to England aboard the Yarmouth. Imprisoned at Dartmoor, he made four desperate attempts to escape. All failed.

In the summer of 1781 he was liberated; found his way home to Rhode Island; and died "with his boots on" in New York, June 30th, 1813. The old sea-dogs of his native state still cherish the memory of "Capting Si;" singing a little song, which runs:

"He could take 'er brig or sloop, my boy, An' fight her like 'er man. He could steer 'er barque or barquentine, An' make her act jest gran! 'Ole Si' wuz 'er rip-dazzler, His flag wuz never struck, Until 'er British squadroon, Jest catched him in th' ruck.

"So drink 'er drop ter 'Ole Si,' Sky-high, Oh my! Drink 'er glass ter 'Ole Si,' th' skipper from our kentry. Give three cheers fer 'Ole Si,' Sky-high, Oh my! Give three cheers fer 'Ole Si,' th' pride o' Newport's gentry."



CAPTAIN "JOSH" BARNEY

THE IRREPRESSIBLE YANKEE

(1759-1818)

"Never strike your flag until you have to. And if you have to, why let it come down easy-like, with one, last gun,—fer luck."—Maxims of 1812.

CAPTAIN "JOSH" BARNEY

THE IRREPRESSIBLE YANKEE

(1759-1818)

If you would hear of fighting brave, Of war's alarms and prisons dark, Then, listen to the tale I tell, Of Yankee pluck—and cruising barque, Which, battling on the rolling sea, There fought and won,—Can such things be?

It was about eight o'clock in the evening. The moon was bright, and as the privateer Pomona swung along in the fresh breeze, her Captain, Isaiah Robinson of New York, laid his hand softly upon the shoulder of his first officer, Joshua Barney, saying,

"A ship off the lee-quarter, Barney, she's an Englishman, or else my name's not Robinson."

Barney raised his glass.

"A British brig, and after us, too. She's a fast sailer and is overhauling us. But we'll let her have a broadside from our twelve guns and I believe that we can stop her."

The Pomona carried thirty-five men. Laden with tobacco for Bordeaux, France, she was headed for that sunny land,—but all ready for a fight, if one should come to her. And for this she carried twelve guns, as her first officer had said.

The British boat came nearer and nearer. Finally she was close enough for a voice to be heard from her deck, and she ran up her colors. A cry came from the black body,

"What ship is that?"

There was no reply, but the Stars and Stripes were soon floating from the mainmast of the American.

"Haul down those colors!" came from the Britisher.

There was no answer, but the Pomona swung around so that her port guns could bear, and a clashing broadside plunged into the pursuer. Down came her fore-topsail, the rigging cut and torn in many places, and, as the American again showed her heels, the British captain cried out,

"All sail aloft and catch the saucy and insolent privateer!"

Then commenced one of the most interesting running actions of American naval history.

"The cursed American has no stern-gun ports," said the British sea-captain. "So keep the ship abaft, and on th' port quarter, where we can let loose our bow-guns and get little in return."

This was done, but—if we are to believe an old chronicler of the period—"The British crew had been thrown into such confusion by the Pomona's first broadside that they were able to fire only one or two shots every half hour."

"By Gad," cried Joshua Barney to Captain Robinson, about this time, "let's cut a hole in our stern, shove a cannon through it, and whale the British landlubber as he nears us for another shot with her bow-chasers."

The captain grinned.

"A good idea, Barney, a good idea," he chuckled. "Now we can teach her to keep clear of us."

So a three-pounder soon poked her nose through the stern, and, when the proud Britisher again came up for one of her leisurely discharges, she received a dose of grape which made her captain haul off precipitously. Nor did he venture near again for another shot at the saucy fugitive.

When daylight came, sixteen guns were counted upon the British brig.

"By George!" shouted Barney. "See those officers in the rigging. She's a gun-ship—a regular ship-of-war."

But Captain Robinson laughed.

"That's an old game," said he. "They're tryin' to fool us into the belief that she's a real gun-boat, so's we'll surrender immediately. But see—she's drawin' near again—and seems as if she's about to board us from the looks of her crew."

Barney gazed intently at the stranger.

"You're right," said he. "Load the three-pounder with grape-shot."

"And here's a crow-bar as'll top it off nice," put in a sailor.

Captain Robinson laughed.

"Yes, spike her in, too. She'll plunk a hole clear through th' rascal," he cried. "I'll touch her off myself."

The British gun-boat drew nearer and nearer. Just as she was within striking distance—about ten yards—the three-pounder was touched off with a deaf'ning roar.

"So accurate was the aim," says an old historian, "that the British were completely baffled in their attempt; their foresails and all their weather foreshrouds being cut away."

"Give her a broadside!" called out Captain Robinson, as the brig sheered off in order to support its foremast, which tottered with its own weight; the rigging which supported it, being half cut away. And, as he spoke—the crew let drive a shower of balls and grape-shot. It was the last volley.

The Pomona kept upon her course, while the white sails of the attacker grew fainter and fainter upon the horizon.

"I saw her name as she ranged in close to us," said Joshua Barney, slapping Captain Robinson on the back. "And it was the Rosebud."

"I reckon that Rosebud has no thorns left," chuckled Captain Robinson, and he was still chuckling when the little Pomona safely sailed into the harbor of Bordeaux in France. The voyage had been a success.

Here a store of guns, powder and shot was purchased, and, having shipped a cargo of brandy, and raised the crew to seventy men, the staunch, little vessel set sail for America.

Not three days from the coast of France the cry of "Sail ho!" startled all on board, and, upon the starboard quarter—loomed a British privateer. Upon nearer view she was seen to have sixteen guns and seventy men.

"All hands for a fight!" cried Robinson. "Don't let th' fellow escape."

Now was a hard battle. It lasted for full two hours, and—in the end—the Britisher struck, with twelve killed and a number wounded, while the American loss was but one killed and two wounded. The Pomona kept upon her course, jubilantly.

But the saucy ship was not to have all smooth sailing. She was soon captured—by whom it is not known—and stout "Josh" Barney became a prisoner of war. In December, 1780, with about seventy American officers, he was placed on board the Yarmouth—a sixty-four-gun brig—and was shipped to England.

Now listen to the treatment given him according to a contemporaneous historian. Did you ever hear of anything more atrocious? Peace—indeed—had more horrors than war in the year 1780.

"From the time these Americans stepped aboard the Yarmouth their captors gave it to be understood, by hints and innuendos, that they were being taken to England 'to be hanged as rebels;' and, indeed the treatment they received aboard the Yarmouth on the passage over, led them to believe that the British officers intended to cheat the gallows of their prey, by causing the prisoners to die before they reached port.

"On coming aboard the ship-of-the-line, these officers were stowed away in the lower hold, next to the keel, under five decks, and many feet below the water-line. Here, in a twelve-by-twenty-foot room, with upcurving floor, and only three feet high, the seventy-one men were kept for fifty-three days, like so much merchandise—without light or good air—unable to stand upright, with no means to get away.

"Their food was of the poorest quality, and was supplied in such insufficient quantities, that, whenever one of the prisoners died, the survivors concealed the fact, in order that the dead man's allowance might be added to theirs. The water which they were served to drink was atrocious.

"From the time the Yarmouth left New York till she reached Plymouth, in a most tempestuous winter passage, these men were kept in this loathsome dungeon. Eleven died in delirium; their wild ravings and piercing shrieks appalling their comrades, and giving them a foretaste of what they, themselves, might expect. Not even a surgeon was permitted to visit them.

"Arriving at Plymouth, the pale, emaciated men were ordered to come on deck. Not one obeyed, for they were unable to stand upright. Consequently they were hoisted up, the ceremony being grimly suggestive of the manner in which they had been treated,—like merchandise. And what were they to do, now that they had been placed on deck?

"The light of the sun, which they had scarcely seen for fifty-three days, fell upon their weak, dilated pupils with blinding force; their limbs were unable to uphold them, their frames wasted by disease and want. Seeking for support, they fell in a helpless mass, one upon the other, waiting and almost hoping for the blow that was to fall upon them next. Captain Silas Talbot was one of these unfortunate prisoners.

"To send them ashore in this condition was 'impracticable,' so the British officers said, and we readily discover that this 'impracticable' served the purpose of diverting the indignation of the land's folk, which sure would be aroused, if they knew that such brutality had been practiced under the cross of St. George (the cross upon the British flag).

"Waiting, then, until the captives could, at least, endure the light of day, and could walk without leaning on one another, or clutching at every object for support, the officers had them removed to the old Mill Prison."

This story has been denied, for the reason that the log of the Yarmouth shows that she was forty-four and not fifty-three days at sea, and the captain writes:

"We had the prisoners 'watched' (divided into port and starboard watch) and set them to the pumps. I found it necessary so to employ them, the ship's company, from their weak and sickly state, being unequal to that duty, and, on that account to order them whole allowance of provisions."

It would have been impossible for men to be in the condition which the first historian describes if they had to man the pumps. It would have been impossible for them to have done an hour's work. Therefore, I, myself, believe the second story. Don't you?

But to return to stout "Josh" Barney, now meditating thoughts of escape in old Mill Prison. Bold and resourceful he was always, and he was now determined to face the difficulties of an exit and the chances of detection. "I must and can get away," he said.

The prisoners were accustomed to play leap-frog, and one day the crafty "Josh" pretended that he had sprained his ankle. Constructing two crutches—out of pieces of boards—he limped around the prison-yard and completely deceived all but a few of his most intimate friends.

One day—it was May the eighteenth, 1781—he passed a sentry near the inner gate. The fellow's name was Sprokett and he had served in the British army in America, where he had received many kindnesses from the country people. For this reason his heart warmed to the stout, young "Josh," who had often engaged him in conversation.

Hopping to the gate upon his crutches, the youthful American whispered,

"Give me a British uniform and I will get away. Can you do it?"

Sprokett smiled.

"Sure," said he.

"To-day?"

"Dinner."

And this meant one o'clock, when the warders dined.

"All right," whispered "Josh," smiling broadly, and he again hobbled around the yard.

After awhile the sentry motioned for him to come nearer. He did so—and as he approached—a large bundle was stealthily shoved into his arms. He hastened to his cell and there put on the undress uniform of an officer of the British army.

Drawing on his great-coat, he went into the yard and hobbled about upon his two sticks until the time drew near for the mid-day mess. Then he drew close to the gate.

One o'clock tolled from the iron bell upon the prison rampart, and, as its deep-toned echoes sounded from its tower, several of Barney's friends engaged the half-dozen sentries in conversation. It was the time for action.

The astute "Josh" suddenly dropped his crutches. Then—walking across the enclosure towards the gate,—he winked to the sentry. A companion was at hand. With a spring he leaped upon his shoulders. One boost—and he was on top of the walk. Another spring, and he had dropped to the other side as softly as a cat.

But the second gate and sentry had to be passed.

Walking up to this red-coated individual he placed four guineas (about $20.00) into his outstretched palm. The soldier smiled grimly, as the great-coat was tossed aside, and the shrewdest privateer in the American Navy walked towards the opening through the outer wall, which was usually left ajar for the convenience of the prison officials. Another sentry stood upon duty at this point.

Barney nodded. The sentry had been "squared" (told of the coming escape) and so he turned his back. Thus—with his heart beating like a trip-hammer—"Josh," the nervy one—walked down the cobbled street outside of the "Old Mill." He was free.

Dodging into a lane, he soon met a friend who had been told of his attempt, and who took him to the house of an old clergyman in Plymouth. In the morning, with two fellow-countrymen, who were also in hiding (for they had been captured as passengers in a merchant vessel), he secured a fishing-smack. "Josh" now covered his uniform. Putting on an old coat with a tarred rope tied around his waist, a pair of torn trousers, and a tarpaulin hat, the disguised Jack-tar ran the little vessel down the River Plym, just as day was dawning. The forts and men-of-war were safely passed, and the little shallop tossed upon the gleaming wavelets of the English channel.

We are told that his escape was not noticed for some time because "a slender youth who was capable of creeping through the window-bars at pleasure crawled into Barney's cell (in the Old Mill Prison) and answered for him." I doubt this, for—if you have ever seen the bars of a prison—it would take a Jack Spratt to get through them, and Jack Spratts are not common. At any rate someone answered to the daily roll-call for Joshua B., so that it was full two weeks before the authorities knew of his escape. Perhaps there was a ventriloquist in the jail.

The tiny boat in which the adventurous American hoped to reach the welcome shores of France, bobbed up and down, as she ambled towards the low-lying coast, under a gentle southerly breeze. But there was trouble in this self-same wind, for the white wings of a British privateer grew nearer and nearer, and a hail soon came:

"What's your name, and where are you bound?"

Barney and his partners in distress did not answer at all. They scowled as a boat was lowered from the side of their pursuer, and quickly splashed towards them. In not many moments, a swearing sea-captain swung himself upon their deck.

"Who are you, you lubbers?" said he. "Where' yer papers, and where' yer bound to?"

"I'm a British officer," replied the astute Joshua, opening his coat and disclosing the uniform of the service. "I am bound for France upon official business."

The Captain snickered.

"An' with two others in er' launch? Aw go tell that to th' marines!"

"It's God's truth. I'm in a state secret."

"Wall—be that as it may be—you must come aboard of my vessel and tell yer state secret to th' authorities in England. Meanwhile, I'll put a skipper of my own aboard yer vessel and we'll travel together—bein' friends."

Barney swore beneath his breath.

Thus the two boats beat towards the coast of Merrie England in company, and upon the day following, came to anchor in a small harbor, six miles from Plymouth. The captain of the privateer went ashore in order to report to Admiral Digby at Plymouth, while most of the crew also hastened to the beach in order to avoid the chance of being seized by the press-gang, which harried incoming vessels for recruits for His Majesty's service.

"Can't I go, too?" asked the cautious "Josh."

"No, you must remain on board until we come for you," said the captain, as he jumped into his boat en route for the shore. "Mister Officer, I want to search your record." Then he laughed brutishly.

But Barney's thinking cap was working like a mill race. There was a jolly-boat tied to the stern of the privateer, and, when all were safe ashore, he gently slipped into this, purposely skinning his leg as he did so. Then he sculled to the beach; where a group of idlers stood looking out to sea.

"Here," he cried, as he neared them. "Help me haul up this boat, will yer? She's awful heavy."

A custom's officer was among these loiterers and he was inquisitive.

"Who are you?" said he. "What regiment and where stationed, pray?"

"That I cannot answer, my friend," calmly replied the acute "Josh," pointing to the blood as it trickled through his stocking. "I am badly injured, you see, and must go away in order to get my leg tied up. Prithee, kind sir, can you tell me where the crew from my vessel have gone to?"

"They are at the Red Lion at the end of the village," replied the official of the law. "You are, indeed, badly hurt."

"Wall, I reckon," replied the American, and, stumbling up the beach, he was soon headed for the end of the little village.

But things were not to go too well with him. He found that he was obliged to pass the Red Lion, and he had almost succeeded in doing so unmolested, when one of the sailors who was loitering outside, cried out after him,

"Ho, friend! I would speak with you!"

"Josh" had to stop although sorely tempted to run for it.

"I've got some idee of shippin' in th' Navy," said the fellow, as he approached. "Now, friend, you can tell me somethin' of th' pay an' service, as you're an officer of th' army."

Barney's eyes shone with pleasure, as he saw that his disguise had deceived the fellow.

"Walk along with me towards Plymouth," said he, "and I'll explain everything to you. I have business there which will not wait and I must get on to it."

So they jogged along together, talking vigorously about the Navy, but, in the course of half an hour the jack-tar seemed to think better of his plan for entering "a service noted for its cruelty to seamen," and turned back, saying,

"Thank'ee my fine friend. Thank'ee. I'll stick to privateerin'. It's easier an' there's less cat-o'-nine-tails to it."

As soon as his burly form disappeared down the winding road, Barney began to grow anxious about his safety. Perhaps a guard would be sent after him? Perhaps—even now—men had discovered his absence and were hurrying to intercept him? So—with these thoughts upon his mind—he jumped over a stiff hedge into the grounds of Lord Mount-Edgecumbe.

"Egad! it's touch and go with me," said he, as he walked down one of the gravelled paths. "I'm in for it now for here comes the gardener."

Sure enough, towards him ambled a middle-aged fellow, smiling as he pushed along a wheel-barrow filled with bulbs.

Joshua walked up to him, extending his right hand.

"My friend," said he, "I am an officer escaping from some seamen who wish my life because of a duel in which I recently engaged over the hand of a fair lady. Here is a guinea. It is all that I possess. And—if you could but pilot me to the waterside and will not tell of my whereabouts—I will bless you to my dying day."

The good-humored man-of-the-soil smiled benignly.

"Prithee, but follow me," said he, "and we'll soon see that you pass by the way of the water gate. Your money is most welcome, sir, for my wife is just now ill and doctors must be paid, sir. That you know right well."

Barney breathed easier as they walked towards the sea; for out of the corner of his eye he saw a guard—sent to capture him—tramping along the other side of the hedge over which he had leaped.

"Good-bye and good luck!" cried the kind-hearted servant as he closed the private gate which led to the waterside. And, with a wave of the hand, the fleeing American was soon hastening to the winding river, over which he must cross in order to get on to Plymouth.

Luck was still with him. A butcher who was ferrying some beeves by water, took him in his boat, and, as night fell, the keen-witted privateersman crept through the back door of the old clergyman's house at Plymouth—from which he had started. For the time being, he was safe.

Strange to relate, the two friends of the fishing-smack adventure here joined him once more, for they, also, had run away from the crew of the privateer, and—as they sat around the supper-table—the town-crier went by the house, bawling in harsh and discordant tones:

"Five guineas reward for the capture of Joshua Barney; a rebel deserter from Mill Prison! Five guineas reward for this deserter! Five guineas! Five guineas!"

But Barney stuffed his napkin into his mouth in order to stop his laughter.

Three days later a clean-shaven, bright-cheeked, young dandy stepped into a post chaise, at midnight, and drove off to Exeter. At Plymouth gate the conveyance was stopped; a lantern was thrust into the black interior; and the keen eyes of the guard scanned the visages of those within:

"He's not here," growled the watchman, lowering the light. "Drive on!"

Thus Joshua Barney rolled on to home and freedom, while the stout-bodied soldier little guessed that the artful privateersman had slipped through his fingers like water through a sieve.

Two months later—in the autumn of 1781—Joshua Barney: fighter, privateer, liar and fugitive, walked down the quiet streets of Beverly, Massachusetts, and a little fish-monger's son whispered to his companions,

"Say, Boys! That feller is a Jim Dandy. He's been through more'n we'll ever see. Say! He's a regular Scorcher!"

* * * * *

Many months later—when the Revolutionary War had ended—the good ship General Washington lay in Plymouth Harbor on the south coast of England. Her commander—Captain Joshua Barney—gazed contentedly at the Stars and Stripes as they flew jauntily from the mizzen-mast, and then walked to the rail, as a group of British officers came over the side. But there was one among these guests who was not an officer. He was bent, old, weather-beaten; and his dress showed him to be a tiller and worker of the soil. It was the aged and faithful gardener of Lord Mount-Edgecumbe.

"You remember me?" cried the genial American, grasping the honest servant by the hand.

The gardener's eyes were alight with pleasure.

"You are the feller who jumped over the hedge—many years ago—when the sea-dogs were hot upon your trail."

Joshua Barney chuckled.

"The same," said he. "And here is a purse of gold to reward my kind and worthy helpmeet."

So saying, he placed a heavy, chamois bag of glittering eagles into the trembling hands of the ancient retainer.



THE DERELICT

Unmoored, unmanned, unheeded on the deep— Tossed by the restless billow and the breeze, It drifts o'er sultry leagues of tropic seas. Where long Pacific surges swell and sweep, When pale-faced stars their silent watches keep, From their far rhythmic spheres, the Pleiades, In calm beatitude and tranquil ease, Smile sweetly down upon its cradled sleep. Erewhile, with anchor housed and sails unfurled, We saw the stout ship breast the open main, To round the stormy Cape, and span the World, In search of ventures which betoken gain. To-day, somewhere, on some far sea we know Her battered hulk is heaving to and fro.



ROBERT SURCOUF

THE "SEA HOUND" FROM ST. MALO

(1773-1827)

"If you would be known never to have done anything, never do it."—EMERSON.

ROBERT SURCOUF

THE "SEA HOUND" FROM ST. MALO

(1773-1827)

Parlez-vous Francais? Yes, Monsieur, I can speak like a native,—sure. Then, take off your cap to the lilies of France, Throw it up high, and hasten the dance. For "Bobbie" Surcouf has just come to town, Tenez! He's worthy of wearing a crown.

It was a sweltering, hot day in July and the good ship Aurora swung lazily in the torpid waters of the Indian Ocean. Her decks fairly sizzled in the sun, and her sails flopped like huge planks of wood. She was becalmed on a sheet of molten brass.

"I can't stand this any longer," said a young fellow with black hair and swarthy skin. "I'm going overboard."

From his voice it was easy to see he was a Frenchman.

Hastily stripping himself, he went to the gangway, and standing upon the steps, took a header into the oily brine. He did not come up.

"Sacre nom de Dieu!" cried a sailor. "Young Surcouf be no risen. Ah! He has been down ze long time. Ah! Let us lower ze boat and find heem."

"Voila! Voila!" cried another. "He ees drowned!"

Plunkety, plunk, splash! went a boat over the side, and in a moment more, a half dozen sailors were eagerly looking into the deep, blue wash of the ocean.

"He no there. I will dive for heem," cried out the fellow who had first spoken, and, leaping from the boat, he disappeared from view.

In a few moments he re-appeared, drawing the body of the first diver with him. It was apparently helpless. The prostrate sailor was lifted to the deck; rubbed, worked over, scrubbed,—but no signs of life were there.

Meanwhile, a Portuguese Lieutenant, who was pacing the poop, appeared to be much pleased at what took place.

"The fellow's dead! The beggar's done for,—sure. Overboard with the rascal! To the waves with the dead 'un!"

"Give us a few more moments," cried the sailors. "He will come to!"

But the Lieutenant smiled satirically.

"To the waves with the corpse! To the sharks with the man from St. Malo!" cried he.

And all of this the senseless seaman heard—for—he was in a cataleptic fit, where he could hear, but could not move. The Portuguese Lieutenant and he were bitter enemies.

"Oh, I tell you, Boys, the fellow's dead!" again cried the Portuguese. "Over with him!"

So saying, he seized the inert body with his hands; dragged it to the ship's side; and started to lift it to the rail.

Conscious of all that went on around him, the paralyzed Surcouf realized that, unless he could make some sign, he had only a few seconds to live. So, with a tremendous effort—he made a movement of his limbs. It was noticed.

"Voila! Voila!" cried a French sailor. "He ees alife. No! No! You cannot kill heem!"

Running forward, he grabbed the prostrate form of Robert Surcouf, pulled it back upon the deck, and—as the Portuguese Lieutenant went off cursing—he rubbed the cold hands of the half-senseless man. In a moment the supposed corpse had opened its eyes.

"Ah!" he whispered. "I had a close call. A thousand thanks to all!"

In five more moments he could stand upon the deck, and—believe me—he did not forget the Portuguese Lieutenant!

Robert Surcouf was born at St. Malo—just one hundred years after Du Guay-Trouin, to whom he was related. And like his famous relative he had been intended for the Church,—but he was always fighting; was insubordinate, and could not be made to study. In fact, he was what is known as a "holy terror."

Finally good Mamma Surcouf sent him to the Seminary of St. Dinan, saying:

"Now, Robert, be a good boy and study hard thy lessons!"

And Robert said, "Oui, Madame!" But he would not work.

One day the master in arithmetic did not like the method in which young "Bobbie" answered him, and raising a cane, he ran towards the youthful scholar. But Robert had learned a kind of "Jiu-Jitsu" practiced by the youths of France, and he tackled his irate master like an end-rush upon the foot-ball team, when he dives for a runner. Both fell to the ground with a thud. And all the other boys yelled "Fine!" in unison.

Now was a fierce battle, but weight told, and "Bobbie" was soon underneath, with his teeth in the leg of his tutor. They scratched and rolled until "Bobbie" freed himself, and, running to the window, jumped outside—for he was on the ground floor—scaled the garden fence, and made off. Home was twenty miles away.

"I must get there, somehow," said young "Bobbie." "I can never go back. I will be spanked so that I cannot seat myself."

So little "Bob" trudged onward in the snow, for it was winter. It grew dark. It was bitterly cold, and he had no hat. At length—worn out with cold and hunger—he sank senseless to the roadside.

Luck pursues those destined for greatness.

Some fish-merchants happened that way, and, seeing the poor, helpless, little boy, they picked him up; placed him upon a tiny dog-cart; and carried him to St. Malo, where he had a severe attack of pneumonia. But his good mother nursed him through, saying:

"Ta donc! He will never be a scholar. Ta donc! Young Robbie must go to sea!"

So when "Bobbie" was well he was shipped aboard the brig Heron, bound for Cadiz, Spain—and he was only just thirteen. But he threw up his cap crying,

"This is just what I've always wanted. Hurrah for the salty brine!"

At about twenty years of age we find him upon the good ship Aurora from which his dive into the Indian Ocean came near being his last splash. And the Portuguese Lieutenant did not forget.

Upon the next visit of the cruiser Aurora to the coast of Africa an epidemic of malarial fever struck the crew. Among those who succumbed to the disease was the Portuguese Lieutenant. He was dangerously ill.

The ship arrived at the island of Mauritius, and, Lieutenant Robert Surcouf was just going ashore, when he received a message which said:

"Come and see me. I am very ill." It was from his enemy,—the Portuguese.

Surcouf did not like the idea, but after thinking the matter over, he went. But note this,—he had a pair of loaded pistols in his pocket. Dead men—you know—tell no tales.

As he entered the sick man's cabin, a servant was there. The Portuguese made a sign to him to retire.

"I wish to speak to you with a sincere heart," said he, turning his face to young Surcouf. "Before I pass from this world I want to relieve my conscience, and ask your forgiveness for all the evil which I have wished you during our voyages together."

"I bear you no malice," said Surcouf. "Let by-gones be by-gones."

As he spoke a spasm seemed to contort the body of the dying man. One arm stretched out towards a pillow nearby, and Robert had a sudden, but excellent thought. Stepping forward, he seized the hand of his old enemy, lifted the pillow, and, then started back with an exclamation of astonishment.

"Ye Gods!" cried he. "You would murder me!"

There, before him, were two cocked and loaded pistols.

Leaping forward he grabbed the weapons, pointing one at the forehead of the rascally sailor.

"You miserable beast!" cried he. "I can now shoot you like a dog, or squash you like an insect; but I despise you too much. I will leave you to die like a coward."

"And," says a historian, "this is what the wretched man did,—blaspheming in despairing rage."

In October, 1794, Lieutenant Surcouf saw his first big battle, for, the English being at war with the French, two British men-of-war hovered off the island of Mauritius, blockading the port of St. Thomas. They were the Centurion of fifty-four guns, and the Diomede, also of fifty-four cannon, but with fewer tars. The French had four ships of war: the Prudente, forty guns; the Cybele, forty-four guns; the Jean Bart, twenty guns; and the Courier, fourteen guns. Surcouf was junior Lieutenant aboard the Cybele.

It was a beautiful, clear day, as the French vessels ploughed out to battle; their sails aquiver with the soft breeze; their pennons fluttering; guns flashing; and eager sailors crowding to the rails with cutlasses newly sharpened and pistols in their sashes.

Boom!

The first gun spoke. The first shell spun across the bow of the British bull-dog Diomede, and the battle was on.

Have you ever seen a school of pollock chasing a school of smaller fry? Have you ever seen them jump and splash, and thud upon the surface of the water?

Well—that is the way that the shells looked and sounded—as they plumped and slushed into the surface of the southern sea; and every now and then there was a punk, and a crash, and a chug, as a big, iron ball bit into the side of a man-of-war.

Around and around sailed the sparring assailants, each looking for a chance to board. Crash! Roar! Crash! growled the broadsides. Shrill screams sounded from the wounded; the harsh voices of the officers echoed above the din of the conflict; and, the whining bugle squealed ominously between the roaring crush of grape and chain-shot.

But the French got nearer and nearer. Great gaps showed in the bulwarks of the Diomede; one mast was tottering. Beaten and outnumbered she stood out to sea, her sailors crowding into the rigging like monkeys, and spreading every stitch of white canvas.

"She runs! Egad, she runs!" cried the Commander of the other British vessel. "Faith, I cannot stand off four Frenchmen alone. I must after her to save my scalp."

So—putting his helm hard over—he threw his vessel before the wind, and she spun off, pursued by bouncing shells and shrieking grapnel.

"Voila!" cried the French. "Ze great battaile, eet belongs to us!" But there were many dead and wounded upon the decks of the proud French warships.

Soon after this smart, little affair the soldiers and sailors who had been in this fight were discharged,—and—looking about for employment, young Robert took the first position that presented itself: the command of the brig Creole,—engaged in the slave trade. He made several successful voyages, but orders were issued to—

"Arrest the Slave Hunter and all his crew, When they arrive at the Mauritius."

One of those little birds which sometimes carry needed information, both on sea and land, whispered this ill news to the gallant, young sea-dog. So he steered for the isle of Bourbon, and there landed his human freight in a small bay. At daybreak he lay at anchor in the Harbor of St. Paul in that self-same island.

About eight in the morning a boat was seen approaching, and to the hail,—"Who goes there?" came the reply—

"Public Health Committee from St. Denis. We wish to come on board and to inspect your ship."

Surcouf was much annoyed.

"You can climb aboard," said he, stifling an exclamation of disgust. "I am at your service."

In a few moments the commissioners were upon the deck, and, in a few moments more, they had discovered that the ship was a slaver.

Turning to the youthful captain, one of the committee said:

"You, sir, are engaged in illegal traffic. You must suffer for this, and must come with us at once to the city to answer an indictment drawn up against you."

Surcouf smiled benignly.

"I am at your service," said he, with a polite bow. "But do not go—I pray thee—until you have given me the great pleasure of partaking of the breakfast which my cook has hastily prepared."

The Committee-men smiled.

"You are very kind," said one. "We accept with pleasure."

The hasty efforts of the cook proved to be most attractive. And, as the Commissioners smacked their lips over the good Madeira wine, the mate of the Creole dismissed the boat which had brought the stolid Commissioners to the side.

"The tender of our brig will take your people ashore," said he to the coxswain.

No sooner had this tender neared the shore, than the cable of the Creole was slipped; she left her anchorage; and quickly drew out to sea in a fresh sou'westerly breeze.

The unaccustomed rallying soon warned the Commissioners that the vessel was no longer at anchor, and, rushing to the deck, they saw—with dismay—that a full half mile of foam-flecked ocean lay between them and the island.

"Ye Gods!" cried one, turning to Surcouf. "What mean you by this, sir?"

The crafty Captain was smiling like the Cheshire cat.

"You are now in my power," said he—very slowly and deliberately. "I am going to take you to the coast of Africa among your friends—the negroes. You seem to prefer them to the whites, so why not, pray? Meanwhile,—my kind sirs,—come below and take my orders."

The Commissioners were flabbergasted.

"Pirate!" cried one.

"Thief!" cried another.

"Scamp!" shouted the third.

But they went below,—mumbling many an imprecation upon the head of the crafty Robert Surcouf.

That night the wind freshened, the waves rose, and the good ship Creole pitched and tossed upon them, like a leaf. The Committee-men were very ill, for they were landsmen, and Surcouf's smile expanded.

"Take us ashore! Take us ashore!" cried one. "We must get upon land."

Surcouf even laughed. Everything was as he wished.

"I will land you upon one condition only," said he. "Destroy the indictment against me and my ship. Write a document to the effect that you have found no traces of slaves upon my staunch craft. Say that my boat was driven from her anchor by a tidal wave—and you can put your feet upon solid ground."

The three Commissioners scowled, but he had them. Besides they were sea-sick.

In an hour's time, the desired paper had been drawn up. The Creole was headed for the Mauritius,—and, in eight days, the sad but wiser Commissioners were brooding over the smartness of Robert Surcouf when seated in their own snug little homes. "He is a rascal," said one. "He's a slick and wily cur."

So much reputation came to the young mariner—at this exploit—that he was soon offered the command of the Emilie: a privateer of one hundred and eighty tons and four guns. He accepted with glee, but when about to go to sea, the Governor refused him Letters of Marque.

"What shall I do?" asked the crest-fallen Robert, approaching the owners of the trim and able craft.

"Sail for the Seychelles (Islands off the east coast of Africa) for a cargo of turtles," said they. "If you fail to find these; fill up with corn, cotton and fruit. Fight shy of all English cruisers, and battle if you have to."

Surcouf bowed.

"I am not a regular privateer," he answered. "For I have no Letters of Marque. But I can defend myself if fired upon, and am an armed vessel in war-time. I may yet see some fighting."

He was not to be disappointed.

While at anchor at the Seychelles, two large and fat English men-of-war appeared in the offing. Surcouf had to run for it.

Steering in among the many little islets, which here abound, he navigated the dangerous channels and got safely off, his men crying,

"Voila! Here is a genius. We did well to ship with such a master!"

But the gallant Surcouf soon turned from privateer to pirate.

South of the Bay of Bengal, a cyclone struck the Emilie and she was steered for Rangoon, where—

"The flying fishes play, An' the dawn comes up like thunder, Outer China across the Bay."

And here a British vessel steered for her: white-winged, saucy, vindictive-looking.

She came on valiantly, and, when within a hundred yards, pumped a shot across the bow of the drowsing Emilie. It meant "Show your colors."

Hoisting the red, white and blue of France, Surcouf replied with three scorching shots. One struck the Britisher amid-ships, and pumped a hole in her black boarding.

Like a timid girl, the Englishman veered off, hoisted her topsail, and tried to get away. She saw that she had caught a tartar.

The blood was up of the "Man from St. Malo." "I consider the shot across my bows as an attack," said he, and he slapped on every stitch of canvas, so that the Emilie was soon abreast of the Britisher. Boom! A broadside roared into her and she struck her colors. Bold Robert Surcouf had passed the Rubicon,—he had seen the English flag lowered to him, for the first time; and his heart swelled with patriotic pride, in spite of the fact that this was an act of piracy, for which he could be hanged to the yard-arm.

"On! On!" cried Surcouf. "More captures! More prizes!"

Three days later three vessels carrying rice fell into his hands,—one of which,—a pilot-brig—was appropriated in place of the Emilie, which had a foul, barnacled bottom and had lost her speed. The Diana, another rice-carrier—was also captured—and Robert Surcouf headed for the Mauritius: pleased and happy.

A few days later, as the vessels pottered along off the river Hooghly, the cry came:

"A large sail standing into Balasore Roads!"

In a moment Surcouf had clapped his glass to his keen and searching eye.

"An East Indiaman," said he. "And rich, I'll warrant. Ready about and make after her. She's too strong for us,—that I see—but we may outwit her."

The vessel, in fact, was the Triton, with six-and-twenty guns and a strong crew. Surcouf had but nineteen men aboard, including the surgeon and himself, and a few Lascars,—natives. The odds were heavily against him, but his nerve was as adamant.

"My own boat has been a pilot-brig. Up with the pilot flag!" he cried.

As the little piece of bunting fluttered in the breeze, the Triton hove to, and waited for him, as unsuspecting as could be. Surcouf chuckled.

Nearer and nearer came his own vessel to the lolling Indiaman, and, as she rolled within hailing distance, the bold French sea-dog saw "beaucoup de monde"—a great crowd of people—upon the deck of the Englishman.

"My lads!" cried he, turning to his crew. "This Triton is very strong. We are only nineteen. Shall we try to take her by surprise and thus acquire both gain and glory? Or, do you prefer to rot in a beastly English prison-ship?"

"Death or victory!" cried the Frenchmen.

Surcouf smiled.

"This ship shall either be our tomb, or the cradle of our glory," said he. "It is well!"

The crew and passengers of the Triton saw only a pilot-brig approaching, as these did habitually (to within twenty or thirty feet) in order to transfer the pilot. Suddenly a few uttered exclamations of surprise and dismay. The French colors rose to the mast of the sorrowful-looking pilot-boat, and with a flash and a roar, a heavy dose of canister and grape ploughed into the unsuspecting persons upon the deck of the Indiaman. Many sought shelter from the hail of iron.

A moment more, and the brig was alongside. A crunching: a splitting of timber as the privateer struck and ground into the bulwarks of the Triton, and, with a wild yell—Surcouf leaped upon the deck of his adversary—followed by his eighteen men, with cutlass, dirks and pistols.

There was but little resistance. The Captain of the Triton seized a sword and made a vain attempt to stem the onslaught of the boarders, but he was immediately cut down. The rest were driven below, and the hatches clapped tight above them. In five minutes the affair was over, with five killed and six wounded upon the side of the English: one killed and one wounded among the French. Surcouf had made a master stroke. The Triton was his own.

The many prisoners were placed on board the Diana and allowed to make their way to Calcutta, but the Triton was triumphantly steered to the Mauritius, where Surcouf received a tremendous ovation.

"Hurrah for Robert Surcouf: the sea-hound from St. Malo!" shrieked the townsfolk.

"Your captures are all condemned," said the Governor of the island, a few days after his triumphant arrival. "For you sailed and fought not under a Letter of Marque, so you are a pirate and not a privateer. Those who go a-pirating must pay the piper. Your prizes belong to the Government of France, and its representative. I hereby seize them."

Surcouf was nonplussed.

"We will take this matter to France, itself," cried he. "And we shall see whether or no all my exertions shall go for nought."

So the case was referred to the French courts, where Robert appeared in person to plead his cause. And the verdict was:

"The captures of Captain Robert Surcouf of St. Malo are all declared 'good prize' and belong to him and the owners of his vessel."

So the wild man from St. Malo was very happy, and he and his owners pocketed a good, round sum of money. But he really was a pirate and not a privateer. Tenez! He had the money, at any rate, so why should he care?

The remaining days of Robert's life were full of battle, and, just a little love, for he returned to his native town during the progress of the law-suit—in order to see his family and his friends, and there became engaged to Mlle. Marie Blaize, who was as good as she was pretty. But the sea sang a song which ran:

"For men must work and women must weep, The home of a hero is on the deep."

which the stout sea-dog could not resist. So he left the charming demoiselle without being married, and 'tis said that she wept bitterly.

Now came his greatest exploit.

On October 7th, 1800, the hardy mariner—in command of the Confiance; a new vessel with one hundred and thirty souls aboard—was cruising off the Indian coast. He had a Letter of Marque this time, so all would go well with him if he took a prize. The opportunity soon came. A sail was sighted early that day, and Surcouf scanned her carefully through his glass.



"She's a rich prize," said he. "An Indiaman. All hands on deck. Make sail! Drinks all round for the men! Clear for action!"

He spoke this to himself, for he was aloft, and, climbing to the deck, ordered everybody aft to listen to a speech. When they had collected there, he said, with feeling:

"I suppose each one of you is more than equal to one Englishman? Very good—be armed and ready for boarding—and, as it is going to be hot work, I'll give you one hour for pillage. You can fight, and, behind me, you should be invincible! Strike, and strike hard; and you will be rich."

The Kent had four hundred and thirty-seven souls aboard, says an old chronicler, for she had picked up a great part of the crew of the Queen: an East Indiaman which had been destroyed off the coast of Brazil. Her Captain's name was Rivington and he was a fellow of heroic courage.

As the Confiance drew near, the crew of the Englishman gave her a fair broadside and pumped gun after gun into her hull. But the Frenchman held her fire, and bore in close, in order to grapple. Hoarse shouts sounded above the roar of the guns and the splitting of timber, as the two war-dogs closed for action. The crew of the Kent were poorly armed and undisciplined: they had never fought together. With Surcouf it was far different. His sailors were veterans—they had boarded many a merchantman and privateer before—and, they were well used to this gallant pastime. Besides, each had a boarding-axe, a cutlass,—pistol and a dagger—to say nothing of a blunderbuss loaded with six bullets, pikes fifteen feet long, and enormous clubs—all of this with "drinks all round" and the promise of pillage. No wonder they could fight!

With a wild, ear-splitting whoop the wild men of the French privateer finally leaped over the rail—upon the deck of the Englishman—and there was fierce struggling for possession of her. At the head of his men, Rivington fought like a true Briton,—cutlass in hand, teeth clinched, eyes to the front. He was magnificent.

But what could one man do against many?

Back, back, the French forced the valiant lion, while his crew fell all about in tiers, and, at length, they drove him to the poop. He was bleeding from many a wound. He was fast sinking.

"Don't give up the ship!" he cried, casting his eye aloft at the red ensign of his country.

Then he fell upon his face, and the maddened followers of Surcouf swept over the decking like followers of Attila, the terrible Hun.

"Spare the women!" shouted the French Captain above the din—and roar of battle. "Pillage; but spare the women!"

It was well that he had spoken, for his cut-throats were wild with the heat of battle. In twenty minutes the Kent was helpless; her crew were prisoners; and the saucy pennon of France fluttered where once had waved the proud ensign of Great Britain.

Surcouf was happy. Landing the English prisoners in an Arab vessel, he arrived at the Mauritius with his prize in November, and soon took his doughty Confiance to the low shores of France, catching a Portuguese merchant en route, and anchoring at La Rochelle, on April 13th, 1801.

Rich, famous, respected; he now married the good Mlle. Marie Blaize, and became the owner of privateers and a respected citizen of the Fatherland. Fortune had favored this brave fellow.

As a prosperous ship-owner and ship-builder of his native village—"the Sea-Hound of St. Malo"—closed his adventurous life in the year 1827. And when he quietly passed away, the good housewives used to mutter:

"Look you! Here was a man who fought the English as well as they themselves could fight. He was a true son of William the Conqueror. Look you! This was a King of the Ocean!"

And the gulls wheeled over the grave of the doughty sea-warrior, shrieking,

"He-did-it! He-did-it! He-did-it!"



THE CRY FROM THE SHORE

Come down, ye greyhound mariners, Unto the wasting shore! The morning winds are up,—the Gods Bid me to dream no more. Come, tell me whither I must sail, What peril there may be, Before I take my life in hand And venture out to sea!

We may not tell thee where to sail, Nor what the dangers are; Each sailor soundeth for himself, Each hath a separate star; Each sailor soundeth for himself, And on the awful sea, What we have learned is ours alone; We may not tell it thee.

Come back, O ghostly mariners, Ye who have gone before! I dread the dark, tempestuous tides; I dread the farthest shore. Tell me the secret of the waves; Say what my fate shall be,— Quick! for the mighty winds are up, And will not wait for me.

Hail and farewell, O voyager! Thyself must read the waves; What we have learned of sun and storm Lies with us in our graves; What we have learned of sun and storm Is ours alone to know. The winds are blowing out to sea, Take up thy life and go!



LAFITTE

PRIVATEER, PIRATE, AND TERROR OF THE GULF OF MEXICO

(1780-1826)

"For it's fourteen men on a dead man's chest, Yo, ho, ho, and a bottle of rum."

—STEVENSON.

LAFITTE

PRIVATEER, PIRATE, AND TERROR OF THE GULF OF MEXICO

(1780-1826)

"He was the mildest mannered man, That ever scuttled ship or cut a throat; With such true breeding of a gentleman, That you could ne'er discern his proper thought. Pity he loved an adventurous life's variety, He was so great a loss to good society."

—Old Ballad.—1810.

"Captain, we can't live much longer unless we have food. We've got enough to last us for two weeks' time, and then—if we do not get fresh provisions—we'll have to eat the sails."

The fellow who spoke was a rough-looking sea-dog, with a yellow face—parched and wrinkled by many years of exposure—a square figure; a red handkerchief tied about his black hair; a sash about his waist in which was stuck a brace of evil-barrelled pistols. He looked grimly at the big-boned man before him.

"Yes. You are right, as usual, Gascon. We've got to strike a foreign sail before the week is out, and capture her. And I, Lafitte, must turn from privateer to pirate. May my good mother at St. Malo have mercy on my soul."

And, so saying, he turned to pace restlessly upon the sloping deck of the two-hundred-ton barque which boiled along under a spread of bellying canvas, and was guided by the keen eye of this youthful mariner. He came from the same little town in France which sheltered the good mother of Du Guay-Trouin, the great French "blue." His name was Jean Lafitte.

This sea-rover had been born in 1781, and had taken to the ocean at the age of thirteen, when most boys are going to boarding-school. After several voyages in Europe, and to the coast of Africa, he was appointed mate of a French East Indiaman, bound to Madras in India. But things did not go any too well with the sturdy ship; a heavy gale struck her off the Cape of Good Hope; she sprung her mainmast, and—flopping along like a huge sea-turtle—staggered into the port of St. Thomas in the island of Mauritius, off the east coast of Africa.

"Here," said young Lafitte to his Captain, "is where I leave you, for you are a bully, a braggart, and a knave."

And, so saying, he cut for shore in the jolly-boat, but—if the truth must be known—Lafitte and the Captain were too much alike to get on together. They both wished to "be boss." Like magnets do not attract, but repel.

Luck was with the young deserter. Several privateers were being fitted out at the safe port of St. Thomas and he was appointed Captain of one of them. Letters of Marque were granted by the Governor of the Mauritius.

"Ah ha!" cried the youthful adventurer. "Now I can run things to suit myself. And I'll grow rich."

This he speedily succeeded in doing, for, in the course of his cruise, he robbed several vessels which came in his path, and, stopping at the Seychelles (Islands off the eastern coast of Africa), took on a load of slaves for the port of St. Thomas. Thus he had descended—not only to piracy—but also to slave catching; the lowest depths to which a seaman could come down.

When four days out from the curiously named islands, a cry went up from the watch,

"Sail ho! Off the port bow! A British frigate, by much that's good, and she's after us with all speed!"

To which bold Lafitte answered, "Then, we must run for it!" But he hoisted every bit of canvas which he had about and headed for the Bay of Bengal. "And," said he, "if she does not catch us and we get away, we'll take an English merchantman and burn her." Then he laughed satirically.

The British frigate plodded along after the lighter vessel of Lafitte's until the Equator was reached, and then she disappeared,—disgruntled at not being able to catch the saucy tartar. But the privateersman headed for the blue Bay of Bengal; there fell in with an English armed schooner with a numerous crew; and—although he only had two guns and twenty-six men aboard his own vessel—he tackled the sailors from the chilly isle like a terrier shaking a rat. There was a stiff little fight upon the shimmering waves of the Indian Ocean. When night descended the Britisher had struck and nineteen blood-stained ruffians from the privateer took possession of the battered hulk, singing a song which ran:

"For it's fourteen men on a dead man's chest, Yo-Ho-Ho and a bottle of rum."

Lafitte was now feeling better; his men had been fed; he had good plunder; and he possessed two staunch, little craft.

"Let's bear away for India, my Hearties," cried he, "and we'll hit another Englishman and take her."

What he had said soon came to pass, for, when off the hazy, low-lying coast of Bengal, a rakish East Indiaman came lolling by, armed with twenty-six twelve-pounders and manned with one hundred and fifty men. A bright boarding upon her stern-posts flaunted the truly Eastern name: the Pagoda.

The dull-witted Britishers had no suspicions of the weak, Puritan-looking, little two-'undred tonner of Lafitte's, as she glided in close; luffed; and bobbed about, as a voice came:

"Sa-a-y! Want a pilot fer the Ganges?"

There was no reply for a while. Then a voice shrilled back,

"Come up on th' port quarter. That's just what we've been lookin' for."

The fat Pagoda ploughed listlessly onward, as the unsuspicious-looking pilot plodded up on the port side; in fact, most of the crew were dozing comfortably under awnings on the deck, when a shot rang out. Another and another followed, and, with a wild, ear-splitting whoop, the followers of Lafitte clambered across the rail; dirks in their mouths; pistols in their right hands, and cutlasses in their left.

Now was a short and bloodless fight. Taken completely by surprise, the Englishmen threw up their hands and gave in only too willingly. With smiles of satisfaction upon their faces, the seamen of the bad man from St. Malo soon hauled two kegs of spirits upon the decks, and held high revel upon the clean boarding of the rich and valuable prize. The Pagoda was re-christened The Pride of St. Malo, and soon went off privateering upon her own hook; while Lafitte headed back for St. Thomas: well-fed—even sleek with good living—and loaded down with the treasure which he had taken. "Ah-ha!" cried the black-haired navigator. "I am going to be King of the Indian waters."

Now came the most bloody and successful of his battles upon the broad highway of the gleaming, southern ocean.

Taking command of the La Confidence of twenty-six guns and two hundred and fifty men, whom he found at the port of St. Thomas, he again headed for the coast of British India; keen in the expectation of striking a valuable prize. And his expectations were well fulfilled.

In October, 1807, the welcome cry of "Sail Ho!" sounded from the forward watch, when off the Sand Heads, and there upon the starboard bow was a spot of white, which proved to be a Queen's East Indiaman, with a crew of near four hundred. She carried forty guns.

There were double the number of cannon, there were double the number of men, but Lafitte cried out:

"I came out to fight and I'm going to do it, comrades! You see before you a vessel which is stronger than our own, but, with courage and nerve, we can beat her. I will run our own ship close to the enemy. You must lie down behind the protecting sides of our vessel until we touch the stranger. Then—when I give the signal to board—let each man seize a cutlass, a dirk, and two pistols, and strike down all that oppose him. We must and can win!"

These stirring words were greeted by a wild and hilarious cheer.

Now, running upon the port tack, the La Confidence bore down upon the Britisher with the water boiling under her bows; while the stranger luffed, and prepared for action. Shrill cries sounded from her huge carcass as her guns were loaded and trained upon the on-coming foe, while her masts began to swarm with sharpshooters eager to pick off the ravenous sea-dogs from the Mauritius.

Suddenly a terrific roar sounded above the rattle of ropes and creak of hawsers—and a broadside cut into the La Confidence with keen accuracy.

"Lie flat upon the deck," cried Lafitte, "and dodge the iron boys if you can see 'em."

His men obeyed, and, as the missiles pounded into the broad sides of their ship, the steersman ran her afoul of the Queen's East Indiaman. When he did so, many sailors swarmed into the rigging, and from the yards and tops threw bombs and grenades into the forecastle of the enemy, so that death and terror made the Britishers abandon the portion of their vessel near the mizzen-mast.

"Forty of the crew will now board," cried Lafitte. "And let every mother's son strike home!"

With pistols in their hands and daggers held between their teeth, the wild sea-rovers rollicked across the gunwales like a swarm of rats. Dancing up the deck of the Britisher they beat back all who opposed them, driving them below into the steerage. Shots rang out like spitting cats; dirks gleamed; and cutlasses did awful execution. But the Captain of the Indiaman was rallying his men about him on the poop, and, with a wild cheer, these precipitated themselves upon the victorious privateers.

"Board! Board!" cried Lafitte, at this propitious moment, and, cutlass in hand, he leaped from his own vessel upon the deck of the East Indiaman. His crew followed with a yelp of defiant hatred, and beat the Captain's party back again upon the poop, where they stood stolidly, cursing at the rough sea-riders from St. Thomas.

But Lafitte was a general not to be outdone by such a show of force. He ordered a gun to be loaded with grape-shot; had it pointed towards the place where the crowd was assembled; and cried—

"If you don't give in now, I'll exterminate all of you at one discharge of my piece."

It was the last blow. Seeing that it was useless to continue the unequal struggle, the British Captain held up his long cutlass, to which was bound a white handkerchief, and the great sea battle was over. Lafitte and his terrible crew had captured a boat of double the size of his own, and with twice his numbers.

Says an old chronicler of the period: "This exploit, hitherto unparalleled, resounded through India, and the name of Lafitte became the terror of English commerce in these latitudes. The British vessels now traversed the Indian Ocean under strong convoys, in order to beat off this harpy of South Africa."

"Egad," said Lafitte about this time, "these fellows are too smart for me. I'll have to look for other pickings. I'm off for France."

So he doubled the Cape of Good Hope, coasted up the Gulf of Guinea, and, in the Bight of Benin, took two valuable prizes loaded down with gold dust, ivory, and palm oil. With these he ran to St. Malo, where the people said:

"Tenez! Here is a brave fellow, but would you care to have his reputation, Monsieur?" And they shook their heads, shrugged their shoulders, and looked the other way when they saw him coming.

The privateersman, slaver, and pirate was not going to be long with them, however, for he soon fitted out a brigantine, mounted twenty guns on her, and with one hundred and fifty men, sailed for Guadaloupe, among the West Indies. He took several valuable prizes, but, during his absence upon a cruise, the island was captured by the British, so he started for a more congenial clime. He roved about for some months, to settle at last at Barrataria, near New Orleans, Louisiana. He was rich; he had amassed great quantities of booty; and he was a man of property. Lafitte, in fact, was a potentate.

"Now," said the privateer and pirate, "I will settle down and found a colony."

But can a man of action keep still?

It is true that Lafitte was not as bold and audacious as before, for he was now obliged to have dealings with merchants of the United States and the West Indies who frequently owed him large sums of money, and the cautious transactions necessary to found and to conduct a colony of pirates and smugglers in the very teeth of civilization, made the black-haired Frenchman cloak his real character under a veneer of supposed gentility. Hundreds of privateers, pirates, and smugglers gathered around the banner of this robber of the high seas.

But what is Barrataria?

Part of the coast of Louisiana is called by that name: that part lying between Bastien Bay on the east, and the mouth of the wide river, or bayou of La Fourche, on the west. Not far from the rolling, sun-baked Atlantic are the lakes of Barrataria, connecting with one another by several large bayous and a great number of branches. In one of these is the Island of Barrataria, while this sweet-sounding name is also given to a large basin which extends the entire length of the cypress swamps, from the Gulf of Mexico, to a point three miles above New Orleans. The waters from this lake slowly empty into the Gulf by two passages through the Bayou Barrataria, between which lies an island called Grand Terre: six miles in length, and three in breadth, running parallel with the coast. To the West of this is the great pass of Barrataria, where is about nine to ten feet of water: enough to float the ordinary pirate or privateersman's vessel. Within this pass—about two miles from the open sea—lies the only safe harbor upon the coast, and this is where the cut-throats, pirates, and smugglers gathered under Lafitte. They called themselves Barratarians, and they were a godless crew.

At a place called Grand Terre, the privateers would often make public sale of their cargoes and prizes by auction. And the most respectable inhabitants of the State were accustomed to journey there in order to purchase the goods which the Barratarians had to offer. They would smile, and say,

"We are going to get some of the treasure of Captain Kidd."

But the Government of the United States did not take so kindly to the idea of a privateer and pirate colony within its borders. And—with malice aforethought—one Commodore Patterson was sent to disperse these marauders at Barrataria, who, confident of their strength and fighting ability, defiantly flaunted their flag in the faces of the officers of the Government. "We can lick the whole earth," chuckled the piratical followers of Lafitte.

Patterson was a good fighter. On June the eleventh he departed from New Orleans with seventy members of the 44th regiment of infantry. On the sixteenth he made for the Island of Barrataria, with some six gun-boats, a launch mounting one twelve pound carronade; the Sea Horse (a tender carrying one six-pounder) and the schooner Carolina.

"We must fight, Boys," cried Lafitte to his ill-assorted mates. "Come, take to our schooners and show these officers that the followers of Lafitte can battle like Trojans."

A cheer greeted these noble sentiments.

"Lead on!" yelled his cut-throats. "Lead on and we'll sink these cocky soldiers as we've done to many an East Indiaman!"

So, about two o'clock in the afternoon, the privateers and pirates formed their vessels, ten in number (including their prizes) near the entrance of the harbor.

Crash!

A shell from the forward gun of the leading gun-boat spun across the bows of Lafitte's flagship and buried itself in the gray water with a dull sob.

Up went a huge white flag upon the foremost mast-head of the king pirate and these words could be plainly seen:

"Pardon for all Deserters."

"Ah, ha," chuckled Patterson. "The arch ruffian has heard that some of my men are ashore and this is the way he would hire them."

Crash!

Another shell ricochetted across the still surface of the harbor and sunk itself in the side of a piratical brig.

"Hello!" cried a Lieutenant, running up to the United States Commander. "They're giving up already. See! The beggars are hastening ashore in order to skip into the woods."

"I'm afraid so," answered the disappointed Commodore. "All my pains for nothing. The fellows are getting away."

Sure enough—afraid to remain and fight it out—the craven followers of Lafitte now turned their schooners to the shore—ran their bows into the sand, and, leaping overboard, made into the forest as fast as their legs could carry them. Thus—without firing a shot—the cowardly pirates of Barrataria "took to the bush."

"The enemy had mounted on their vessels, twenty pieces of cannon of different calibre," wrote Patterson, after this tame affair. "And, as I have since learnt, they had from eight hundred to one thousand men of all nations and colors. When I perceived the pirates forming their vessels into a line of battle I felt confident, from their fleet and very advantageous position, and their number of men, that they would have fought me. Their not doing so I regret; for had they, I should have been enabled more effectually to destroy or make prisoners of them and their leaders; but it is a subject of great satisfaction to me, to have effected the object of my enterprise, without the loss of a man. On the afternoon of the 23rd, I got under way with my whole squadron, in all seventeen vessels, but during the night one escaped and the next day I arrived at New Orleans with my entire command."

Thus ended the magnificent (?) attempt of the vainglorious Lafitte to stem the advance of the Government of the United States. In the parlance of the camp, "He was a fust-class quitter."

But he did not show himself to be a "quitter" in the battle of New Orleans.

The English and Americans, in fact, were soon at each other's throats in the ungentle game of war. At different times the British had sought to attack the pirates of Barrataria, in the hope of taking their prizes and armed vessels. On June 23rd, 1813, while two of Lafitte's privateers were lying to off of Cat Island, an English sloop-of-war came to anchor at the entrance of the pass, and sent out two boats in the endeavor to capture the rakish sea-robbers. But they were repulsed with severe and galling loss.

On the 2nd of September, 1814, an armed brig appeared on the coast, opposite the famous pass to the home of the rangers of the sea. She fired a gun at a smuggler, about to enter, and forced her to poke her nose into a sand-bar; she then jibed over and came to anchor at the entrance to the shallows.

"That vessel means business, sure," said one of the pirates to Lafitte. "She has spouted one gun, but now she's lyin' to. Better see what's up."

"You're right," answered the famous sea-rover. "We'll go off in a boat and look out for what's going to happen."

So, starting from the shore, he was soon on his way to the brig, from which a pinnace was lowered, in which could be seen two officers, one of whom had a flag of truce. The two boats rapidly neared each other.

"Where is Mr. Lafitte?" cried one of the Britishers, as the pinnace neared the shore. "I would speak with the Laird of Barrataria."

But Lafitte was not anxious to make himself known.

"He's ashore," said he. "But, if you have communications for him, these I can deliver."

"Pray, give him these packages, my good man," spoke the English tar, handing him a bundle of letters, tied up in tarpaulin.

Lafitte smiled.

"I would be delighted to do so," he replied. "But, pray come ashore and there I will return you your answer after I have seen the great Captain, who is camping about a league inland."

The Britishers readily assented, and both rowed towards the sandy beach, where a great number of pirates of Barrataria had collected.

As soon as the boats were in shallow water, Lafitte made himself known to the English, saying:

"Do not let my men know upon what business you come, for it will go ill with you. My followers know that war is now on between Great Britain and the United States, and, if they hear you are making overtures with me, they will wish to hang you."

It was as he had said. When the Englishmen landed, a great cry went up amongst the privateers, pirates and smugglers:

"Hang the spies! Kill the dirty dogs! To the yard-arm with the rascally Englishmen! Send the hounds to New Orleans and to jail!"

But Lafitte dissuaded the multitude from their intent and led the officers in safety to his dwelling, where he opened the package, finding a proclamation addressed to the inhabitants of Louisiana, by Col. Edward Nichalls—British commander of the land forces in this state—requesting them to come under the sheltering arm of the British Government. There were also two letters to himself, asking him to join and fight with the English.

"If you will but battle with us," said Captain Lockyer—one of the British officers—"we will give you command of a forty-four gun frigate, and will make you a Post Captain. You will also receive thirty thousand dollars,—payable at Pensacola."

Lafitte looked dubiously at him.

"I will give answer in a few days," he replied, with courtesy.

"You are a Frenchman," continued the British Captain. "You are not in the service of the United States, nor likely to be. Come—man—give us a reply at once."

Captain Lafitte was obdurate, for—strange as it may seem—he wished to inform the officers of the State Government of this project of the English. So he withdrew to his own hut.

As he did this, the pirates seized the British officers, dragged them to a cabin, and thrust them inside. A guard was stationed at the door, while cries went up from every quarter:

"To New Orleans with the scoundrels! A yard-arm for the butchers! A rope's end for the scurvy tars!"

Lafitte was furious when he learned of this, and, after haranguing the crowd, had the Britishers released.

"If you treat men under a flag of truce as prisoners," he cried, "you break one of the first rules of warfare. You will get the same treatment if you, yourselves, are captured, and you will lose the opportunity of discovering what are the projects of the British upon Louisiana."

His men saw the good sense of these words of advice, and acted accordingly.

Early the next morning the officers were escorted to their pinnace with many apologies from Lafitte, who now wrote a letter to Captain Lockyer, which shows him to have been a man of considerable cultivation, and not a mere "rough and tumble" pirate—without education or refinement. He said:

"BARRATARIA, 4th Sept., 1814.

"TO CAPTAIN LOCKYER,

"SIR:—The confusion which prevailed in our camp yesterday and this morning, and of which you have a complete knowledge, has prevented me from answering in a precise manner to the object of your mission; nor even at this moment can I give you all the satisfaction that you desire. However, if you could grant me a fortnight, I would be entirely at your disposal at the end of that time.

"This delay is indispensable to enable me to put my affairs in order. You may communicate with me by sending a boat to the Eastern point of the pass, where I will be found. You have inspired me with more confidence than the Admiral—your superior officer—could have done, himself. With you alone I wish to deal, and from you, also, I will claim in due time, the reward of the services which I may render you.

"Your very respectful servant,

"J. LAFITTE."

His object in writing this letter—you see—was, by appearing to accede to the proposals, to give time to communicate the affair to the officers of the State Government of Louisiana and to receive from them instructions how to act, under circumstances so critical and important to his own country: that is, the country of his adoption.

He, therefore, addressed the following epistle to the Governor of Louisiana. Do you think that you, yourself, could write as well as did this pirate?

"BARRATARIA, Sept. 4th, 1814.

"TO GOVERNOR CLAIBORNE:

"SIR:—In the firm persuasion that the choice made of you to fill the office of first magistrate of this State, was dictated by the esteem of your fellow citizens, and was conferred on merit, I confidently address you on an affair on which may depend the safety of this country.

"I offer to you to restore to this State several citizens, who perhaps, in your eyes, have lost that sacred title. I offer you them, however, such as you could wish to find them, ready to exert their utmost efforts in the defence of the country.

"This point of Louisiana, which I occupy, is of great importance in the present crisis. I tender my services to defend it; and the only reward I ask is that a stop be put to the proscription against me and my adherents, by an act of oblivion, for all that has been done heretofore.

"I am the stray sheep wishing to return to the fold.

"If you are thoroughly acquainted with the nature of my offences, I should appear to you much less guilty, and still worthy to discharge the duties of a good citizen. I have never sailed under any flag but the republic of Carthagena, and my vessels were perfectly regular in that respect.

"If I could have brought my lawful prizes into the ports of this State, I should not have employed illicit means that have caused me to be proscribed (hounded by the State authorities).

"I decline to say more upon this subject until I have your Excellency's answer, which I am persuaded can be dictated only by wisdom. Should your answer not be favorable to my ardent desire, I declare to you that I will instantly leave the country, to avoid the imputation of having cooperated towards an invasion on this point, which cannot fail to take place, and to rest secure in the acquittal of my conscience.