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.”
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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.”
Then—turning to her captain—he said,
“You can go. I am not a pirate—but a privateer—sailing under Letters of Marque. I only seize goods that are contraband.”
Bobbing and courtesying on the waves, the little Swede soon drifted from view.
But the crew grew mutinous,—for had they not come out for plunder? The boatswain even called Rogers a traitor.
“Seize the fellow and flog him,” cried the sturdy captain. “Put ten of these talkative hounds in irons. We’ll do the talking on this boat, and the sailors must do theirs in the fo’castle.”
This was done immediately.
Next day a seaman came aft, with near half the ship’s company in his rear, and cried:
“I demand the boatswain out of his irons, Captain Rogers. He’s done nothing to deserve such a severe punishment.”
“Speak with me privately, on the quarter-deck,” said the bluff commander. “I cannot discuss this matter with you in such a crowd.” And he moved aft.
The grumbler followed, but, no sooner was he alone with stout Woodes, than the captain sprang upon him with the agility of a leopard. He was thrown to the ground, held, and bound by two officers. Then he was stripped and whipped until the blood ran.
“This method,” writes the doughty Woodes, “I deemed best for breaking any unlawful friendship among the mutinous crew. It allayed the tumult, so that they began to submit quietly and those in irons begged my pardon, and promised amendment.”
Thus the captain had won the first round with the mutineers.
Now, know you, that the War of the Spanish Succession was then in progress; a war in which one party was endeavoring to put the Archduke Charles of Austria upon the Spanish throne; another to place Philip, grandson of Louis XIV of France, in the chair of the rulers. And when—a few days later—the two privateers captured a small Spanish vessel, they found that their possession of it was disputed, when they sailed into the Canaries.
“It has been agreed between Queen Anne of England and the Kings of Spain and France,” said the Vice-Consul of that place—an Englishman—“that all vessels trading to the Canary Isles shall be exempt from interference by men-o’-war, or privateers. The prize must be released. If you do not do so, we will keep your agent, Mr. Vanbrugh, who has come ashore, and will throw him into irons.”
But the Vice-Consul had reckoned without his host.
“We are apprehensive that you are obliged to give us this advice in order to gratify the Spaniards,” wrote Captain Rogers. “If you do not allow my agent to come on board my ship, you may expect a visit from my guns at eight o’clock to-morrow morn.”
To this there was no reply.
Next day the two English privateers stood in close to shore, and, just as the shot was rammed home, a boat put off, in the stern of which sat Mr. Vanbrugh with a present of wine, grapes, hogs and jelly. The prize which had been captured was sent back to Bristol with a picked crew.
The two sea-rovers bore towards the South—soon crossed the Tropic of Cancer—and there had appropriate ceremonies for the occasion. The tinkers, peddlers, fiddlers, and tailors who made up the crew, were each and all hoisted overboard by a rope. A stick was placed between their legs and they were ducked again and again in the brine.
“If any man wants to get off,” spoke Captain Rogers, “he can do so by paying me a half-a-sovereign ($2.50) which must be expended on an entertainment for the rest of the company when England shall be reached. Every man that is ducked is paid in proportion to the number of times that he goes under.”
Several accepted this offer. At which a sailor cried out:
“Duck me twelve times, Captain. I want to have a regular orgy when I get back home.”
And the sailors did it, laughing uproariously.
Sailing to the Cape Verde Islands, the Duke and the Duchess anchored in the harbor of St. Vincent, where one of the crew, who was a good linguist (Joseph Alexander) was sent in a boat to the Governor, at San Antonio, in order to negotiate for supplies. He seemed to prefer Cape Verde to privateering.
“On October 6th,” writes the gallant Rogers, “our boat went to San Antonio to get our linguist, according to appointment. No news of him.”
“On October 6th, our boat returned with nothing but limes and tobacco. No news of our linguist.”
“On October 7th, no news of our linguist.”
“On the 8th, boat sent ashore, but no news of our linguist.”
“On the 9th, as the trade-winds are blowing fresh, concluded to leave our good Alexander to practice his linguistic and other accomplishments ashore. Adieu to our linguist.”
Thus disappeared the sleek and crafty Joseph.
There was still trouble from insubordination, for Mr. Page—second mate of the Duchess—refused to accompany Mr. Cook (second in command on the Duke). Whereupon the hot-tempered Captain Cook—being the superior officer on board—struck him, and several blows were interchanged.
At last Page was forced into the boat and brought to the Duke, where he was ordered to the forecastle in the bilboes (leg irons sliding upon a long, iron bar). But he jumped overboard—despising the chance of being gobbled up by a shark—and started to swim to his own ship. He was brought back, flogged, and put in irons; and he evidently found a week of this kind of thing sufficient; for he submitted himself humbly to future orders.
Thus Woodes Rogers had already learned that the life of a privateer commander was not a happy one.
Steering southwest, a large French ship was seen and chased, but she got away from the two consorts with surprising ease. On March 6th, when off the coast of Peru, a sail was sighted.
“Let the Duchess bear down on her port and the Duke to starboard,” cried Captain Rogers. “Heave a solid shot across her bow, and, if she refuses to capitulate, let her have your broadsides.”
Dipping, tossing, rolling; the two privateers swooped down upon their prey, like hawks. She flew the yellow flag of Spain—and—as the first ball of lead cut across her bowsprit, it fluttered to the deck. Up went a white shirt, tied to a rat-line, and the crew from the Duke was soon in charge, and steering her for Lobas: a harbor on the coast.
“She’s a tight little barque,” said Rogers, when he had landed. “I’ll make her into a privateer.”
So she was hauled up, cleaned, launched, and christened the Beginning; with a spare topmast from the Duke as a mast, and an odd mizzen-topsail altered for a sail. Four swivel-guns were mounted upon her deck, and, as she pounded out of the bay, loud cheers greeted her from the decks of the Duchess, which was loafing outside, watching for a merchantman to capture and pillage.
Next morn two sails were sighted, and both Duke and Duchess hastened to make another haul. As they neared them, one was seen to be a stout cruiser from Lima; the other a French-built barque from Panama; richly laden, it was thought.
“Broadsides for both,” ordered Woodes Rogers. “Broadsides and good treatment when the white flag flutters aloft.”
As the Duchess chased the Lima boat, the Duke neared the Frenchman and spanked a shot at her from a bow-gun. The sea ran high and she did not wish to get too close and board, because it would be easier to send her men in pinnaces.
“They’re afraid!” cried the Captain of the Duke. “We can take ’em with no exertion.” But he was like many an Englishman: despised his foe only to find him a valiant one.
Piling into four boats, the men from the Duke, fully armed, rowed swiftly towards the rolling Frenchman. They approached to within twenty yards. Then
Crash! Crash! Rattle! Crash!
A sheet of flame burst from her sides; muskets and pistols spoke; cannon spat grape and cannister; the Englishmen were frightfully cut up.
“On! On!” shouted young John Rogers—a brother of Woodes—as he waved his cutlass aloft to enliven the sailors. But it was his last cry. A bullet struck him in the forehead, and he fell into the sea without a murmur.
Crash! Crash!
Again roared out a volley. Oars were splintered. One boat was pierced below the water line. She sank, and her men floundered about upon the surface of the oily sea.
“Bear off, and rescue our comrades!” cried the leaders of this futile attack, and, as the French barque drifted away, the remaining boats busied themselves with the swimming sailors. The assault had been a complete failure.
“Curses upon the Frenchman!” cried Captain Rogers when he saw the saucy fighter drawing off. “We’ll go after her to-morrow, and catch her, or my blood’s not English. What say you, men?”
“Yes. After her and board her amid-ships!” cried all. “Run our own vessel alongside.”
“And that I will do,” answered Rogers, watching the lumbering merchantman through his glass. “She’s entirely too well armed for a trader.”
When morning dawned, the Frenchman was still ploughing along the coast in the light breeze, with all sail set. But there was not wind enough to force her ahead of her pursuer. The Duchess now returned from her chase of the Lima boat, and, joining her Duke, bore in upon the able fighter from the open sea.
“Egad! We’ll have her yet,” shouted Captain Rogers, rubbing his hands.
“She luffs!” cried a lieutenant. “She’s coming to!”
Sure enough the Frenchman saw that resistance now was useless. She staggered into the wind, and a white flag beckoned for a prize-crew to come and take her.
“And,” writes Captain Rogers, “I found that a Bishop who had been aboard of her, had been put ashore, which gave me much grief. For I always love to catch fat prelates, as they give up a stout sum as their ransom. In truth they are nice pickings.”
Things were going well with the wild rovers from Bristol. Plunder there was aplenty and the holds of the Duke and the Duchess bulged with treasure. Yet Woodes Rogers was not satisfied.
“On! On to Guayaquil!” cried he. “We’ll capture this wealthy city; demand a great ransom; and sail to England, richer than the Spanish conquerors of the Incas.”
“Hurrah!” shouted his staunch followers. “On! On! to Guayaquil!”
So—steering for the coast of Ecuador—the privateers drew near this rich Spanish-American town. A gulf lay before their eyes in which was a small island; with a little, white-housed village (called Puna) on its Eastern shore.
“Take the place!” cried Rogers, as the two ships forged into the sleepy shallows, and rounded to before the peaceful habitation.
With a cheer, the sailors piled into the boats, rowed ashore, and—with cutlass and dirk in hand—pressed through the narrow streets. Shots rang out from a few of the thatched houses; two seamen fell to the ground with mortal wounds; but, cheering wildly, the privateers rushed through the narrow highway; pressed into the court-house; and seized upon the Lieutenant-Governor of the town of Guayaquil, as he was attempting to hide behind an old clothes-press.
“Let no man get away in order to warn the large town of our approach!” shouted Captain Rogers. “Catch all who dash for the canoes upon the beach!”
“Crush the bloomin’ canoes!” yelled Cook, as he saw some of the natives running towards them on the sandy shore. “Crush the canoes before the devils can get there!”
“All right!” answered several of his men, as they ran for the clusters of boats. “We’ll put holes in them!”
As they hurried forward, several of the natives were ahead. Two jumped into the bark boats and paddled furiously for Guayaquil. The zip, zip of bullets nipped the water around them, but,—with desperate sweeps—they dug their blades into the sea and got safely off. As a result, the city was all ready and prepared for the invaders.
“Ho! Ho!” laughed Rogers, as he thumbed the papers of the Lieutenant-Governor. “What is this?”
“A warning to the townsfolk of Guayaquil,” said one of his men, as he peered over his shoulder.
Rogers chuckled.
“Beware, all you people”—he read—“of a squadron from the faraway isles of Great Britain which is coming shortly upon you. There will be full ten great ships, heavily manned and well armed for attack. The arch rogue, William Dampier, will be in control,—he who has plundered Puna before. Be on your guard, citizens! Be prepared! Arm yourselves!”
“Hah! Hah!” laughed the free-booting captain. “They think I’m Dampier. That’s good. But we’ll have a tough time with them, for they know that we mean to assault their pretty little town.”
His followers looked solemn.
“Let’s attack, right away,” cried several, “before the Spaniards have time to prepare for our charge!”
Rogers, however, would not hear of it.
“We must rest. Equip ourselves. Place cannon in the bows of our boats, and then we will be ready.”
His men murmured, but they knew that when Rogers had made up his mind upon a thing, there was no use in endeavoring to dissuade him. So they collected what plunder was to be had and awaited his further orders.
Two days later all was ready for the advance. It was near midnight—upon April 22nd,—when the command was passed around:
“Muffle your oars and take the town!”
With one hundred and ten men in the jolly boats, the privateers neared the sleepy, little seaport. Not a sound broke the silence, save the drip, drip of the sweeps, yet, as they approached the white-washed walls of the lower town,—a bonfire was touched off upon the shore.
“’Tis well,” whispered a stout sailor. “Now we can see to shoot!”
As he said this, many lights appeared in the houses of Guayaquil. The townspeople were wide awake.
“What means this, sirrah?” thundered Rogers at a native guide, who was piloting him to the shore.
The fellow had a ready answer.
“’Tis the celebration of All Saints Day,” he answered smiling. “The people here are good Christians.”
“They know that we are coming,” growled the English captain, for, as the native spoke, a Spaniard upon the shore was heard to shout:
“Puna has been captured! The enemy is advancing! Arm! Arm!”
Bells clanged from the steeples of the little churches. Muskets and guns went off. Black masses could be seen surging into the streets. Cannon roared, and a screeching shot spun ahead of the on-coming boats.
“’Tis nothing,” said Rogers. “The alarm has only just been given. Preparations are not complete and we can rush them, easily.”
But Captain Cook had his own opinion upon the affair.
“The Buccaneers,” said he, “never attack any large place after it is alarmed. My advice is to keep away.”
“Don’t go in,” cried several. “Wait and rush them when they are not so well prepared.”
Even the men seemed disinclined to advance.
Thus cautious counsel prevailed: the boats dropped down-stream again—about three miles below the town—and were joined by two small barques. They were prizes which had been recently captured. Here the flotilla lay while the cries in the city grew inaudible,—for the inhabitants saw that the attack had been avoided.
When flood-tide came, Captain Rogers once more ordered an advance upon the town.
“No! No!” argued Dover. “They are too well prepared. Night will cloak our movements, so we should then go on. I, myself, advise the sending of a trumpeter with a flag of truce. He shall propose that we make some trades with the people of this place.”
“Your measure is half-hearted,” said Rogers, with heat. “You are a craven knave. Let’s rush the town like Englishmen and heroes!”
Again cautious counsel prevailed. Two prisoners—a Lieutenant from Puna, and the Captain of the Frenchman of recent capture—were sent to parley with the Spaniards.
“The English are afraid!” whispered the inhabitants. “Let us keep them off with braggadocio, and mayhap reinforcements will come to us.”
So they bickered and delayed.
“These dogs would palaver forever,” said Captain Rogers, when negotiations had proceeded for full two days without result. “I, for one, am for attacking the city right now!”
“Yes! On! On!” cried his men.
Even the cautious Dover was ready to advance; so, landing upon the beach, the one hundred and ten ran towards the town with a wild, exultant whoop!
Zip! Zip! came the bullets from the nearer houses, as the privateers advanced.
Boom! Boom! sounded the guns from the Duchess and the Duke, which had edged up near the wharves and anchored. Shells shrieked and burst; guns roared; and, with a hoarse cheer, the English beat down two lines of Spaniards who opposed them.
Back, back, they crushed the defenders of Guayaquil to the market-place in the centre of the town, where four cannon were drawn up behind a barricade which was flanked by cavalry.
Crash! Crash! they roared at the on-coming privateers, and many a man went down before the exploding grape and cannister. But the blood of the English was now up.
“Take the guns!” shouted Woodes Rogers. “Scale the barricade and spike the pieces!”
With a mighty roar the jack-tars ran for the engines of death; leaping over the wall of the defenses; bayonetting the gunners; turning the spitting war-engines upon the cavalry, which, in confusion and dismay, was driven down a crooked lane. It was the last stand. The English standard soon waved from the flag-pole of the House of Justice.
“And now,” cried Captain Rogers, gleefully, “I’ll meet the worthy Padres and treat with them for a ransom. We’ll make them pay full well to get back the neat little town of Guayaquil.”
Crestfallen and abashed, the city fathers were soon brought before the privateer.
“Señor,” said they, “your men can fight like devils. Señor, you are the first man to have taken our town, and many a Buccaneer has endeavored to do so!”
Captain Rogers smiled.
“Tut! Tut!” said he. “The English can always battle. But—Fathers—you must pay me well for this affair. I demand thirty thousand pieces of eight ($35,000 or about £6,750) as ransom for your fair city. I will give you two days in which to collect it.”
The worthy Padres hung their heads.
“You English,” said they, “are cruel extortioners.”
Yet—in two day’s time—the British marched to their boats with colors flying, bugles blowing, and drums beating a rollicking tattoo. Captain Rogers brought up the rear with a few men. He had secured the ransom and fairly smiled with exuberant joy. “Our sailors,” says he, “kept continually dropping their pistols, cutlasses, and pole-axes; which shows they had grown careless and very weak—weary of being soldiers—and it was high time that we should be gone from hence to the shores of Merrie England.”
Thus, on April 28th, when the Duke and the Duchess weighed anchor and stood out to sea: guns roared: trumpets blew: the men cheered.
“And so,” writes the gallant Rogers, “we took leave of the Spaniards very cheerfully, but not half so well pleased as we should have been if we had taken ’em by surprise; for I was well assured from all hands, that at least we should then have got about two hundred thousand pieces of eight in money (£45,000 or $225,000); and in jewels, diamonds, and wrought and unwrought gold and silver.”
The owners of the two privateers: the Duke and the Duchess, sat in solemn meeting at the good town of Bristol. It was the month of October, 1711.
The fat Quakers were smiling, for Captain Rogers had brought them back equally fat moneys.
The rugged merchants laughed, for the venture had been a howling success.
“And you were wounded?” said a stockholder, turning to the bronzed sea-rover who stood before them, giving account and reckoning of his journey to the Spanish Main.
“A scratch,” replied the stout sea-dog, smiling. “When we tackled a Manila ship on the way home from Guayaquil, I got a ball through the jaw, and a splinter in the left foot. It laid me up for full three weeks, but, gentlemen, a cat and Woodes Rogers both have nine lives.”
And even the sober Quaker fathers laughed at this sally.
“You have done well,” they said. “We will reward you with money and a good berth. How would you care to be Governor of the Bahamas?”
“Fine!” said Woodes Rogers, chuckling.
And that is the way the old sea-barnacle spent his declining years, dying at the tropic isle on July 16th, 1732. Hail to this Prince of Privateers!