Part 35

"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."