Part 77

"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!"