Say, sailors, what’s happened to young Bill Jones?Jones of Yarmouth; the bright-cheeked boy?Jones who could handle a boat like a man,Jones, who would grapple a smack like a toy?“Fell o’er the sea-end with Raleigh. Ahoy!”Well, sea-dogs, where’s Thompson of Yarmouthport dock?The chap who could outwit old Hawkins, they say,The man with th’ knowledge of charts and of reefs,There wasn’t his equal from Prawle to Torquay.“Fell o’er the sea-end with Raleigh, to-day!”Where’s Rixey of Hampton; Smith of Rexhill?Who’d coasted and traded from London to Ryde,Huggins and Muggins, all seamen of worth,Who could jibe and could sail, sir, when combers were wide?“Fell o’er the sea-end with Raleigh. Last tide!”Well, seamen, when that day shall come near,When the salt sea is moved from its bed,Some will there be, who can give us the news,Of all that brave band, whom Adventure has ledTo“Fall o’er the sea-end with Raleigh, ’tis said!”
Say, sailors, what’s happened to young Bill Jones?Jones of Yarmouth; the bright-cheeked boy?Jones who could handle a boat like a man,Jones, who would grapple a smack like a toy?
“Fell o’er the sea-end with Raleigh. Ahoy!”
Well, sea-dogs, where’s Thompson of Yarmouthport dock?The chap who could outwit old Hawkins, they say,The man with th’ knowledge of charts and of reefs,There wasn’t his equal from Prawle to Torquay.
“Fell o’er the sea-end with Raleigh, to-day!”
Where’s Rixey of Hampton; Smith of Rexhill?Who’d coasted and traded from London to Ryde,Huggins and Muggins, all seamen of worth,Who could jibe and could sail, sir, when combers were wide?
“Fell o’er the sea-end with Raleigh. Last tide!”
Well, seamen, when that day shall come near,When the salt sea is moved from its bed,Some will there be, who can give us the news,Of all that brave band, whom Adventure has ledTo
“Fall o’er the sea-end with Raleigh, ’tis said!”
“Such is the man,Whom neither shape nor danger can dismay,Nor thought of tender happiness betray;Who, not content that worth stands fast,Looks forward, persevering to the last,From good to better, daily self-surpassed.”
“Such is the man,Whom neither shape nor danger can dismay,Nor thought of tender happiness betray;Who, not content that worth stands fast,Looks forward, persevering to the last,From good to better, daily self-surpassed.”
—Ballads of the Day.
As long as selfishness remains a Human Passion,—Warfare will continue.
As long as selfishness remains a Human Passion,—Warfare will continue.
JEAN BARTTHE SCOURGE OF THE DUTCH(1650-1702)
“‘What means that canvas, Skipper? It’s bearing down to port,And it drives a blackish barquentine, with every topsail taut,There’re guns upon her poop deck. There’re cannon near her bow,And the bugler’s bloomin’ clarion, it shrills a how-de-row?’The skipper took a peep at her, his face turned ashen pale,His jaw began to tremble, and his knees began to fail,As the flag of France swung to the breeze and fluttered without check,‘Jean Bart!’ he gurgled weakly, and fainted on the deck.”
“‘What means that canvas, Skipper? It’s bearing down to port,And it drives a blackish barquentine, with every topsail taut,There’re guns upon her poop deck. There’re cannon near her bow,And the bugler’s bloomin’ clarion, it shrills a how-de-row?’The skipper took a peep at her, his face turned ashen pale,His jaw began to tremble, and his knees began to fail,As the flag of France swung to the breeze and fluttered without check,‘Jean Bart!’ he gurgled weakly, and fainted on the deck.”
—Rhymes of The Dutch Channel Fleet.—1676.
THE good shipCochon Grasboiled along off the coast of Normandy under a full spread of canvas, for the breeze was light, and was from the southward. A boy of sixteen stood at the helm. He was well bronzed by exposure to the elements; was sturdy and strong. His dark hair waved luxuriantly about a face in which keenness and shrewdness were easily to be seen. His name was Jean Bart and he had been born at Dunkirk in France.
The Captain of theCochon Grasstrode about upon the deck below. He was in an evil mood and his voice showed his ill feeling.
“Put the helm over!” he shouted to the steersman.“Don’t you see that your sails aren’t half full! Boy, will you never learn!”
Jean Bart obeyed.
“Very good, my Captain!” said he. “Very good, my Monsieur Valbué.”
And, at this, the captain scowled, for he was in a beastly temper.
“I am glad that you act quickly,” said he. “You know nothing. By acting quickly you will learn a thing or two.Tiens!Be speedy! Be very quick! Be like the Bishop of Oléron!”
He smiled and lurched against the rail.
“Ah, this good prelate was a true seaman,” said he. “He knew the tides like a mackerel. He knew as much as I do, myself, and that is saying a good deal.”
Jean Bart chuckled at the vanity of Monsieur Valbué.
“The good Bishop was standing on the rocks upon a stormy evening,” continued the captain, “when he saw some fisher boats making for the harbor. One of them was bearing too close to the shore. One of them was going to go upon the rocks. One of them was steered by a poor fellow who knew neither the reefs nor the shoals. ‘Voilà!’ cried the good bishop. ‘Voilà! I will save this dull-witted sailor.’ And, forthwith, what do you think that he did,—?”
A small knot of seamen had, by this time, collected around the talkative captain. They all shook their heads.
JEAN BART.
“Fools,” cried Captain Valbué. “Fools! Why, he strode into the sea, of course. Being a pure manof God and a member of the true church, he walked upon the surface of the water. The boat coming in was manned by Huguenots, by unbelievers, mark you! By fellows who had neither the sense nor the grace to be members of the true church.Theycould not walk upon the water. Oh! No! But the good Bishophewalked as easily as a stormy petrel, for he was a man of God. And, as he reached the boat he made the sign of the cross, saying, ‘Beware of the rocks which you sail down upon! Bear off to the left! When you see the red buoy, bear to the right, and then come home by keeping your bow pointed for the spire of the big church!’ And they did so. They were saved by the good Bishop, whom I know well. As for me. I would have let the foolish Huguenots get their just deserts. It would have been one heretic less and good riddance.”
At this one of the seamen was plainly angered.
“Piff!” said he. “Piff!” That was all. But Monsieur Valbué had noticed it and Monsieur Valbué grew angry in a moment. Seizing a half-empty cider mug, from which he had been drinking, he hurled it at the head of the fellow who had made the remark.
“You dog of a Huguenot!” he roared.
The seaman dodged, and the cider mug spun into the planks of a jolly boat. Then he stepped forward and said,
“Captain Valbué, the Laws of Oléron, under which we sail, say that you cannot and must not strike a seaman with any missile. I, Lanoix, will strike back if you hit me.”
But Monsieur Valbué was like a bubbling tea-pot. Seizing a hand-spike, he shot it out at the man who knew the law.
“The Laws of Oléron allow me just one blow,” blubbered Captain Valbué. “Just as the laws of England allow each dog one bite.”
As luck would have it, he missed his shot.
Lanoix leaped over the iron rail which separated the forecastle from the after part of the vessel. Then he turned around.
“Follow me here, you coward!” he shouted to the captain, “and I will have the right to crack you through the middle. Consult the Laws of Oléron under which we sail and see if they do not back me up!”
“The laws be blowed!” yelled Monsieur Valbué, now beside himself with rage. And, leaping across the rail he struck the Huguenot two sturdy blows in the face.
Jean Bart, meanwhile, steered the ship: looked on; and said nothing.
R-i-i-p! There was a flash, a blow, and a cry of pain. A large, keen knife was clenched in the strong right hand of Lanoix, and the captain was running red, with a deep gash in his shoulder.
“Down with the Mutineer! Down with the dog!” came from the throats of the members of the crew who had clustered about the two enraged men, smiling at the little affair.
With a rush they were upon the Huguenot; had forced him to the deck; and wrested the knife from his hand. But, before it was wrenched from his fist,the blade had pierced the body of a seaman and had felled him to the boarding.
“Bring up the Laws of Oléron,” cried Captain Valbué, when the Huguenot had been secured. “Bring up the Laws of Oléron from my cabin, and let us see whether or no I was right, when I struck this prating Lanoix!”
The cabin-boy dove below and was soon again upon the deck.
“The law shall be read,” cried the captain. “Out with it!”
Now, aboard the vessel was one Antoine Sauret—a good, old boatswain—a friend of the father of Jean Bart, and a courageous man.
“The law shows you to be in the wrong,” said he.
“Yes,” cried Jean Bart from the wheel, which he had not left. “You were, and are, in the wrong.” Monsieur Valbué glowered at them.
“I am the law,” said he. “Is this not my vessel?”
“But the right is on his side,” interrupted the good Antoine Sauret.
“You wait and see what I do to this cur of a Huguenot,” snarled Captain Valbué. “And no more talk from either you or Jean Bart. Hear! Six out of eight of the crew agree that this Lanoix has wounded me and has slain one of his ship-mates—without proper provocation—I will now fix him.”
And this he did in the most approved manner.
Lashing his victim’s arm to a sharp sword tied to the windlass, he knocked the unfortunate Lanoix upon the deck with a hand-spike. Then, tying him—stillalive—to the dead sailor whom the Huguenot had killed when the crew rushed upon him,—he cried out:
“Throw ’em both to the fishes!”
They were seized.
“One! Two! Three! Heave Away!” sounded from the throats of the Frenchmen.
Lanoix and the dead sailor spun out above the blue water. A splash. A gurgle of white foam, and the Atlantic closed above them.
Seamen—you witness—were brutes, in these merry days of privateering. But hear the sequel of the gruesome story!
Jean Bart and the good boatswain Sauret had, from that moment, no high opinion of the Laws of Oléron. So, when the vessel touched at Calais, upon the coast of France, they walked up to the captain, saying:
“Sir. We wish to leave you! We cannot sail any longer beneath your orders.”
The brutal Valbué scowled.
“Go!” said he. “And good riddance.”
But when the circumstances of the death of the two men were reported to the authorities, the captain was tried.
“The Law of Oléron,” said the Judge to him, “acquits you, for the Huguenot sailor was in the wrong to draw his knife, when you struck him only with your fists. But it is a bad law and must be changed.”
Here he turned to young Jean Bart and the good Sauret.
“As for you two,” said he, “I most highly commend you for protesting against the brutality of this captain. Would that all the sailors of France were as good as both of you. If they were, there would be less trouble aboard ship. Again I commend you!”
So—feeling very happy, indeed—young Jean Bart went out into the street. Though only sixteen he had been right in his attempt to save the life of poor Lanoix. Good for young Bart! Hats off to the sailor lad of sixteen who was more merciful than the cruel Law of Oléron! And this brutal set of rules was soon changed to the Maritime Code of France, which gave seamen some right to defend themselves against the attacks of rough and overbearing captains. Thus Jean Bart had started the ball rolling in the right direction. Again hats off to the doughty, young Frenchman!
Not long after this event the Dutch fell out with the English and began a smart little war. Jean Bart hastened to the scene of action, enrolled in the Dutch cause, and fought with them for five full years. Then the Dutch began to make war upon the French (in 1672), but this was too much for the patriotic sentiments of the youthful volunteer.
“Ah!” said he. “When my own people are attacked, I must hasten to their assistance. The Dutch have paid me well ’tis true, but now I scorn their gold. Vive la France!”
So saying, he returned to Dunkirk, speedily found employment, and went to sea again—not in a man-of-war, but in a privateer. He was now four-and-twenty;was wiry, tough, and well used to battling both with men and with the elements. The boat he sailed in mounted only two guns and had a crew of thirty-six. She was named after a famous personage of Biblical history:King David, and she conducted herself as skilfully as did that ancient monarch, for was not Jean Bart at the helm?
Cruising out upon the treacherous waters of the North Sea, it was not long before a vessel was sighted that was of such small tonnage that Bart was not afraid to give chase. He slapped on all canvas, put his helm hard over, and steered for the dancing bit of canvas. TheKing Davidwas a swift sailer, and soon the bow-gun spoke from the deck of the French privateer, sending a challenging shot whistling close to the stern of the stranger, who flew the flag of the States General (the Dutch Republic) with which the French were now at war.
The stranger did not relish the challenge, and came to in a hurry, while her flag fluttered weakly to the deck.
“She’s ours!” cried Jean Bart, gleefully. “And without a fight. Hurray for the life of a privateer!”
Quickly ranging alongside, the stranger was seen to be a valuable prize, laden with tea, spices, and cotton. She was manned by a small crew and sent to port.
“Now off for other luck!” cried Jean Bart.
Luck was with him, too. In four months cruising in the English Channel, near the Belgian coast, he captured six prizes; all without any fighting. The Dutchtrading vessels of those days must have been without guns and poorly manned, for it should have been easy to stand off a crew of but thirty-six, with only two cannon aboard. Jean Bart—you may be sure—was well satisfied. He was now rich, quite famous, and keen for further adventure.
So well did the owners of the privateerKing Davidthink of him, that they now put him in charge of a larger vessel namedLa Royale, carrying about eighty men and ten guns.
“Go out and win!” cried the chief owner of this privateer. “Jean Bart, you are followed by the best blood of France. Your men are all from Dunkirk!”
And Jean Bart smiled.
“Watch me!” said he.
Cruising near the coast of Holland in company with a small French gun-boat, he fell in with a man-of-war—theEsperance—carrying twelve guns and about one hundred and twenty men.
“Now we’ll have a real fight!” cried the youthful French commander as he cleared decks for action. “Men, see to it that your swords are sharpened for there may be some boarding!”
Then he signalled to the little French gun-boat to follow him and give battle. This ally carried about a hundred men and six cannon.
“Poof! Poof!”
The heavy guns of the Dutchman were the first to speak and they barked away like fat Newfoundland watch-dogs.
“Poof! Poof! B-o-o-m!”
Jean Bart reserved his fire until within about seventy-five yards and then he gave the command,
“Fire away! Aim low! And try to hull her!”
A sheet of flame sprang from the ten guns ofLa Royaleand a splitting of boards and crackling of splinters showed that the iron missiles had punctured the stout sides of theEsperance.
“Pop! Pop! Crash!”
The other French vessel now threw her lead into the stern of the defender of the flag of the States General and her mizzen-mast was seen to rock like an unfastened May pole.
“Whow!”
TheEsperancewas not slow in answering back and her twelve guns spat like leopards in the brush. She filled away and bore towards the land, but the French gun-boat saw this move and checkmated it.
Sailing across her bow, the Frenchman raked her fore and aft, while the rub-a-dub-dub of Jean Bart’s guns went drumming against her starboard side. Crash! Crash! Crash! Her boards were split, her mizzen-mast was swaying, and her rigging was near cut in two. Men were falling fast and two of her guns had blown up and were rendered useless.
“Surrender!” came a sharp hail from the lusty throat of Jean Bart, and, as he spoke, a perfect hail of grape came from his French ally, now creeping up to port for a chance to grapple and board.
“What can I do?” sighed the stout, Dutch commander, turning to one of his lieutenants. “Boy, haul down our flag!”
So down came the emblem of the States General amidst ringing cheers from the throats of the followers of Jean Bart. They had won a notable victory.
When theEsperancewas towed and half-sailed into Dunkirk harbor, old Antoine Sauret was there.
“Ah, my friends,” said he, “I always told you that my boy, Jean Bart, would make a great name for himself. Three times three for the great privateer of Dunkirk!”
And all the bystanders joined in right willingly.
Not long after this event, our hero’s ship was lying in the harbor of Bergen in Sweden. The captain of an English vessel met him on shore, and, after having a chat with him, remarked:
“I hear that you have quite a reputation for fighting your ship. I, too, am a sea warrior and would like to have a little affair with you. My own vessel is of about the same tonnage as yours, so that we could meet upon even terms. Will you join me?”
“I would be delighted,” answered the war-like Jean Bart. “If you wait two days I will be ready for you and will fight you three miles off the coast. Meanwhile I must lie here and take on some stores which are much needed by both men and guns.”
The Englishman smiled.
“You are a man after my own heart,” said he. “Good-by until we meet in battle.”
Three days after this, Jean Bart sent a boy to the English vessel with a note for the captain. It ran:
“I am ready to fight you to-morrow. Meet me three miles beyond the breakwater and may the best man win. Until then—good luck.“Yours for battle,“Jean Bart.”
“I am ready to fight you to-morrow. Meet me three miles beyond the breakwater and may the best man win. Until then—good luck.
“Yours for battle,“Jean Bart.”
The boy came back bearing a return missive from the Englishman, who wrote:
“Monsieur Bart: I am delighted to learn that you want to fight me, and will do so. You are indeed a brave man. But—before we go for each other’s throats—pray let us breakfast together. Will you therefore take your morning meal with me, to-morrow, in my own cabin, aboard my ship? I shall expect you.“Yours to count on,“Middleton.”
“Monsieur Bart: I am delighted to learn that you want to fight me, and will do so. You are indeed a brave man. But—before we go for each other’s throats—pray let us breakfast together. Will you therefore take your morning meal with me, to-morrow, in my own cabin, aboard my ship? I shall expect you.
“Yours to count on,“Middleton.”
“I do not want to accept, but I will,” mused Captain Bart. “These English fellows are far too polite.”
So, next morning, he was rowed to the British vessel and was soon breakfasting with his red-faced opponent.
After the meal the Frenchman lighted his pipe, took a few puffs, and said:
“Monsieur, I have greatly enjoyed this peaceful repast. But it is now time for me to go and sharpen my boarding-pike. I must bid you adieu.”
The Englishman smiled.
“No,” said he. “You cannot go. You are my prisoner!”
Jean Bart still smoked.
“You are too quick!” he answered, slowly. “There you are wrong. I am not your prisoner, for I see a barrel of gunpowder on the deck, and, if you do not release me immediately, I will blow up your ship!”
The Englishman turned pale.
“Watch me!” cried Jean Bart.
Leaping from his seat, he rushed to the deck, lighted a match from his pipe, and held it directly over the mouth of a barrel of gunpowder, from which someone had pried the head.
“Lay on! You cowards!” he yelled. “Lay on, and we’ll all go to the Land of the Hereafter together.”
His cry was heard upon his own vessel, which—with sails up—lay waiting for him.
In a moment her bow was turned towards the British ship which was still at anchor, with sails unhoisted. In a moment she dropped down alongside—and—in less time than it takes to tell—the Frenchmen had brought her upon the port quarter, and were swarming across the deck to rescue their bold captain.
Taken by surprise, the English put up a plucky fight, but they were no match for the infuriated men of Dunkirk. They were soon overpowered. The captain was taken prisoner, and the vessel was considered a legitimate prize of war, because of the trick which Middleton had attempted to play upon Jean Bart.When—in a few days—the prize was sailed into Dunkirk harbor—the Englishman well wished that he had not attempted to capture the most able privateersman of all France.
The fame of this exploit spread over the land, and gave rise to a ditty, which ran:
“If you want to catch Jean Bart, sir,A slippery, slimy chap,Don’t bait him with gunpowder,For he’s sure to miss the trap.You must splice him down with chains, sir;You must nail him to the deck.Put a belt around his middle,And a collar ’round his neck.Even then you cannot hold him,For he’s certain to get through,While his sailors sing a song, sir,With aCock-a-doodle-doo!”
“If you want to catch Jean Bart, sir,A slippery, slimy chap,Don’t bait him with gunpowder,For he’s sure to miss the trap.You must splice him down with chains, sir;You must nail him to the deck.Put a belt around his middle,And a collar ’round his neck.Even then you cannot hold him,For he’s certain to get through,While his sailors sing a song, sir,With aCock-a-doodle-doo!”
In July, 1675, Jean Bart was married, but he did not remain long on shore. Three weeks after this auspicious event he once more put to sea and captured a number of Dutch fishing boats, which he allowed the captains to ransom for large sums of money.
This was a very convenient arrangement, for it saved him the trouble of putting part of his own crew on board and sending the boats to port. But the owners ofLa Royale, upon which he sailed, did not care for his methods of procedure.
“You cannot do this in future!” said they. “And you must forfeit half of what you took to us!”
Jean Bart obeyed, but he was very angry. It is even said that he uttered “a round seaman’s oath.”
So successful was he, in fact, that he was given a much larger vessel in 1676. This was a frigate—thePalme—with twenty-four guns and a crew of one hundred and fifty men. Sailing into the North Sea with two small French gun-boats, he soon fell in with three Dutch privateers and eight armed whaling vessels. He attacked, and the battle raged for three long, bloody hours.
When the smoke and the fumes of sulphur burned away, Bart had boarded the largest privateer, while his two consorts had taken the eight whalers. The other Dutch privateers found it too hot for their liking and scudded for the coast, firing their stern-guns derisively as they disappeared. It was a great victory, and again the French coast rung with salvos for Jean Bart, while the old sea-dogs shrugged their shoulders, saying:
“Ah! Ha! Did we not tell you that Dunkirk bred men of bone and marrow. Ah! Ha!”
But Jean Bart was not happy.
“Would that I could meet a foe of my own force,” he used to say. “Either a man-of-war or a privateer, I don’t care which. I want to try it on with one of my own size and strength.”
His wish was soon to be gratified.
On September 7th, 1676, he was pointing thePalmetowards the Belgian coast-line, when he sighted a number of sail on the starboard quarter. He headed for them; scanned the white dots through a glass, andsaw that this was a fishing fleet of small, unarmed luggers. But a big, hulking Dutch frigate hovered in their rear, and thirty-two guns pointed their brown muzzles menacingly from her open port-holes. She was theNeptuneand she lazed along like a huge whale: omnipotent and self-satisfied.
“Ah ha!” cried the delighted Jean Bart. “Now I have met an enemy that is worthy of my steel. Up with the flag and sail into yonder Dutchman. We have but twenty-four guns to her thirty-two, but are we to be awed by this show of force? Be ready, my boys, to have the stiffest fight in your careers!”
The Dutchman was equally well pleased when he saw who was coming for him.
“Here is Jean Bart, the pirate and privateer,” he cried. “For three years I’ve been hoping to have a fight with him and now my chance has come at last. I am fortunate, for I can pay him back for all the damage that he has done to Dutch commerce. Shoot low, my hearties, and do not fail to hull our enemy. Let your war-cry be: ‘Down with Jean Bart and his pirate crew!’”
“Hurrah!” shouted his men.
And an answering
“Hurray!” came from thePalme. These opponents were as eager to get at each other as two prize-fighters of modern days.
Crash!roared a broadside from the Dutch frigate as her flag went aloft, and splash, splash, splash, went her shells around the sides of the privateer.
“Sail in close!” yelled Jean Bart. “Hug her toleeward for awhile, then cross her bows, rake her, get her wind, and board.”
“Hurray!” shouted the men of Dunkirk, and a rattle, rattle, roar came from the port guns of thePalme.
Around and around swung the sea gladiators and the little fishing boats luffed and tittered on the waves like inquisitive sparrows.
“Bart cannot win!” said several of their skippers. “For he’s outweighted and outnumbered!”
But Bart was fighting like John Paul Jones.
Around and around went the two opponents, guns growling, men cheering, sails slapping and ripping with the chain and solid shot. Again and again Jean Bart endeavored to get a favorable position for boarding and again and again he was forced to tack away by the quick manœuvres of the Dutchman.
“Fire into her rigging!” he now thundered. “Cripple those topsails and I can bring my boat alongside.”
“Crash! Crash! Crash!”
Volley after volley puffed from the side of the rollingPalme. Volley after volley poured its lead and iron into the swaying rigging of the Dutchman, and, with a great roaring, ripping, and smashing, the mizzen topmast came toppling over the lee rail.
A lusty cheer sounded from the deck of thePalme.
“She’s ours!” cried Jean Bart, smiling.
Instantly he spun over the wheel, luffed, and brought his boat upon the starboard quarter of the Dutchman, who was now part helpless. It took buta moment to run alongside, and, in a moment more, thePalmewas lashed to theNeptunein a deadly embrace. Smoke rolled from the sides of both contestants and the roar of the guns drowned the shrill cries of the wounded. The Dutchmen were now desperate and their guns were spitting fire in rapid, successive volleys; but many of them were silenced, as the great, brown side of thePalmerubbed its planking against the splintered railing of the shatteredNeptune.
As the vessels were securely bound together, Jean Bart seized a boarding-pike, a brace of pistols, and, giving the helm to a sailor, leaped into the waist of his ship.
“Board! Board!” he shouted.
A wild yelp greeted these welcome sounds. As he vaulted over the rail of his own ship to the deck of the stranger, a motley crew of half-wild sea-savages swarmed behind him. They had cutlasses and boarding-pikes, and their faces were blackened with powder. Their eyes were reddened with sulphurous fumes and their clothes torn with splintered planking. They rolled over the gunwales like a huge wave of irresistible fire: pistols spitting, pikes gleaming, cutlasses glistening in the rays of the sun.
The captain of theNeptunelay near his own wheel, grievously wounded.
“Lay on, men!” he shouted. “Don’t let this French privateer beat us. We will be disgraced.”
But his sailors were no match for the onrush of these fiends from Dunkirk. They fell back like foam before a sea squall.
“Then down with our flag,” cried the captain of the Dutchman. “But, ye gods, how it hurts me to give the order.”
A sailor seized the halyards and pulled the ensign to the deck, and, as it fell upon the reddened planking, a wild, frenzied cheer came from the French privateers.
“Jean Bart, forever! France forever! Jean Bart forever!” they cried.
“Up with the French flag!” yelled Jean Bart, laughing like a boy. “Up with the white lilies of France.”
And, as a spare ensign ran aloft, the little fishing luggers scudded for the shore.
“After them, men!” cried Captain Bart. “Our work is not yet over. We must have the lambs as well as the old wolf.”
So, sail was soon clapped on thePalme, she headed for the fleeing boats, and, with a few well directed shots, hove them to. Then they were told to follow behind and head for France, which they did—but, oh! how it did hurt!
It was a proud moment for Jean Bart, and his eyes danced with pleasure when he sailed into Dunkirk with the capturedNeptuneand the fleet of fishing boats.
“Voilà!” cried the townspeople. “Jean Bart is a true hero. Voilà! He shall have the freedom of the city. Voilà!”
The fame of this gallant exploit soon spread abroad and the king showed some desire to see this courageous privateersman.
“I would have him at court,” said he to his minister Colbert. “For I would reward him.”
When news of this was brought to the privateersman he was naturally delighted, and, travelling to Versailles, was ushered into the presence of his Majesty.
“Here is a gold chain for you,” said the king. “I trust that you will keep it in recognition of my appreciation of your gallant conduct. I would be glad, indeed, to have you in the Royal Service. Would you not take a commission?”
“You overwhelm me,” answered the valiant sea-fighter, blushing. “I—I—I—am quite disconcerted. But—if it would please your Majesty, I believe that I would prefer to remain a simple privateer. It is a free life and it suits my roving nature.”
The king chuckled.
“So be it,” said he. “But my good sir, keep yourself in readiness for a commission. I may need you in the Royal Marine!”
“Very good, Sire!” said Jean Bart, and, bowing low, he withdrew.
But he did not get away without an adventure,—quite as exciting as any he had had aboard the rocking decks of one of his privateer ships.
The fame of Jean Bart had stirred up a number of enemies, for, when a man is successful in life, are there not always a hundred unsuccessful fellows who stand about and scoff?
Among these were a few followers of the sea whohad determined to make way with this too fortunate privateer. One—Jules Blanc by name—even decided upon murder, if Jean Bart would not agree to leave the privateering business to himself and his companions.
As the sailor from Dunkirk left the presence of the king he was accosted by one of his old acquaintances.
“Ha, Jean Bart,” said he. “Come with me to the Inn. Have a glass with me, my boy, for I see that the king has richly rewarded you. You deserve it, for you have done well, and you must be tired from your journey. Come, let us dine together?”
Suspecting nothing, the gallant privateer followed his companion quite willingly, and, when he arrived at the Inn, was not surprised to find several other seamen from Dunkirk and the neighboring seaports of France. They greeted him warmly.
“To your health!” cried they, raising their glasses of wine. “To the health of the bravest privateer in all of France.”
Jean Bart was delighted. He smiled like a child, seated himself at their table, and began to drink with these jovial men of the sea.
As he sat there, suddenly a paper was mysteriously shoved into his hand. He did not see from whence it came, and, as he scanned its contents, his face grew strangely pale.
“Beware of these fellows,” he read. “They mean to kill you if you do not do what they wish. Beware!”
Jean Bart soon regained his composure.
“Come! Let us go to the dining-room up-stairs,” said the friend who had first accosted him. “Come, my boys! We will there have far more quiet!”
All moved for the door.
Jean Bart moved, also, but before he went up-stairs, he loosened his sword-belt and cocked two pistols which he carried at his waist. He was not surprised when he saw them lock the stout door as they entered the room upon the second floor.
When they were all seated Jules Blanc arose. His face well exhibited his dislike for the successful privateersman, Jean Bart.
“Now, my friend,” said he, facing the man from Dunkirk, “we have you here with a purpose. We wish you to know that we are determined that you shall no longer go to sea and spoil our own business for us. You have had enough success. We want you to withdraw and give some one else a chance.”
Jean Bart smiled.
“We think that you should retire for we want some pickings for ourselves.”
“And if I refuse?” queried Jean Bart.
Jules Blanc placed his hand instantly upon his sword-hilt.
“Then—there will be trouble!”
“Poof!” said Jean Bart.
As he spoke, all drew their rapiers.
“Again Poof!” said Jean Bart.
As he spoke, a thrust came from his right. Heparried it, leaped upon a chair, and stood there smiling.
Crack! There was the sound of a pistol and a bullet whizzed by his ear.
Then there was a sudden and awfulCrash!The room was filled with dust.
When the startled sea-dogs looked about them Jean Bart no longer stood upon the table. He had disappeared through the window. And broken glass with splintered fastenings was all that remained of the once perfect glazing.
“He has gone,” said Jules Blanc. “Fellow seamen, we are outdone.”
But Jean Bart was a quarter of a mile away, laughing softly to himself, as he sped along the highway which led to quiet Dunkirk.
Things went well with him, also, for his employers—appreciating his past services—now gave him command of a larger ship than thePalme: theDauphin, with thirty guns and two hundred eager and adventurous sailors from the northern coast of France.
Sailing forth from Dunkirk harbor, on June 18th, 1678, Jean Bart eagerly scanned the horizon with his glass. With him were two smaller privateers, so that he felt well able to cope with any adversary from Holland. His keen glance was soon to be rewarded, for when but two days from port he spied a sail upon the starboard bow. It was a Dutch frigate—theSherdam—of forty guns and manned by many stout dogs of the sea. Her captain—André Ranc—was a keen fighter and a man of well-tried courage.
“Bear off to leeward!” signalled Jean Bart to his privateer companion. “Then we will get the stranger between us, fasten to her, and board her from either side.”
The flag of the French privateer dipped back an answering, “All right!” and, as she was nearest to the Dutchman, she attacked at once.
“Poom! Poom!” went the Dutch cannon, like the beating of a churn in that land of canals and cheese-making. Andpiff! piff!answered the little howitzers of the privateer.
But Jean Bart meant to have a quick fight, so he bore down to starboard, wore ship, and ran so close to the enemy, that his grappling irons soon held her fast. In a moment more his own vessel was hauled alongside.
Meanwhile the smaller French privateer had spanked over to larboard; had run up upon the opposite side of the lumbering Dutchman; and had also gripped her. A wild, nerve-wracking cheer went up, as—sword in hand—Jean Bart led his boarders over the side of the Dutch vessel.
Ranc was badly wounded but he led his men to a counter assault with courage born of desperation. Cutlasses crashed together, boarding-pikes smashed and hacked, and pistols growled and spattered in one discordant roar. Back went the Dutch sailors fighting savagely and bluntly with all the stubbornness of their natures, then back they pushed the followers of Jean Bart, while Ranc called to them:
“Drive these French curs into the sea!”
“JEAN BART LED HIS BOARDERS OVER THE SIDE OF THE DUTCH VESSEL.”
But now the other privateer had made fast, and her men came clambering over the rail, with cutlass, dirk, and pistols.
“We’re outnumbered,” Ranc shouted, his face showing extreme suffering. “Haul down the flag! Had Jean Bart been here alone I could have trounced him well.”
Thus reluctantly and sadly the flag of theSherdamcame down. But the French had paid well for their victory.
Jean Bart was badly wounded in the leg; his face was burned by the discharge of a gun, which went off—almost in his eyes—just as he leaped on board theSherdam. Six of his men were killed and thirty-one were wounded, while the little privateer that had fastened to the other flank of the hugeSherdam, was a total wreck. So well, indeed, had the Dutch fighters plied their cannon as she approached, that she was shattered almost beyond repair. With great difficulty she was finally towed to shore.
Of course all France again rang with the fame of Jean Bart, while the crafty sea-dogs who had endeavored to capture the slippery privateersman were furious with envious rage. But Jean Bart hummed a little tune to himself, which ran,