Part 78

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