THE DERELICT
Unmoored, unmanned, unheeded on the deep—
Tossed by the restless billow and the breeze,
It drifts o’er sultry leagues of tropic seas.
Where long Pacific surges swell and sweep,
When pale-faced stars their silent watches keep,
From their far rhythmic spheres, the Pleiades,
In calm beatitude and tranquil ease,
Smile sweetly down upon its cradled sleep.
Erewhile, with anchor housed and sails unfurled,
We saw the stout ship breast the open main,
To round the stormy Cape, and span the World,
In search of ventures which betoken gain.
To-day, somewhere, on some far sea we know
Her battered hulk is heaving to and fro.
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ROBERT SURCOUF
THE “SEA HOUND” FROM ST. MALO
(1773-1827)
“If you would be known never to have done anything, never do it.”—Emerson.
ROBERT SURCOUF
THE “SEA HOUND” FROM ST. MALO
(1773-1827)
Parlez-vous Français? Yes, Monsieur,
I can speak like a native,—sure.
Then, take off your cap to the lilies of France,
Throw it up high, and hasten the dance.
For “Bobbie” Surcouf has just come to town,
Tenez! He’s worthy of wearing a crown.
IT was a sweltering, hot day in July and the good ship Aurora swung lazily in the torpid waters of the Indian Ocean. Her decks fairly sizzled in the sun, and her sails flopped like huge planks of wood. She was becalmed on a sheet of molten brass.
“I can’t stand this any longer,” said a young fellow with black hair and swarthy skin. “I’m going overboard.”
From his voice it was easy to see he was a Frenchman.
Hastily stripping himself, he went to the gangway, and standing upon the steps, took a header into the oily brine. He did not come up.
“Sacre nom de Dieu!” cried a sailor. “Young Surcouf be no risen. Ah! He has been down ze long time. Ah! Let us lower ze boat and find heem.”
“Voilà! Voilà!” cried another. “He ees drowned!”
Plunkety, plunk, splash! went a boat over the side, and in a moment more, a half dozen sailors were eagerly looking into the deep, blue wash of the ocean.
“He no there. I will dive for heem,” cried out the fellow who had first spoken, and, leaping from the boat, he disappeared from view.
In a few moments he re-appeared, drawing the body of the first diver with him. It was apparently helpless. The prostrate sailor was lifted to the deck; rubbed, worked over, scrubbed,—but no signs of life were there.
Meanwhile, a Portuguese Lieutenant, who was pacing the poop, appeared to be much pleased at what took place.
“The fellow’s dead! The beggar’s done for,—sure. Overboard with the rascal! To the waves with the dead ’un!”
“Give us a few more moments,” cried the sailors. “He will come to!”
But the Lieutenant smiled satirically.
“To the waves with the corpse! To the sharks with the man from St. Malo!” cried he.
And all of this the senseless seaman heard—for—he was in a cataleptic fit, where he could hear, but could not move. The Portuguese Lieutenant and he were bitter enemies.
“Oh, I tell you, Boys, the fellow’s dead!” again cried the Portuguese. “Over with him!”
So saying, he seized the inert body with his hands; dragged it to the ship’s side; and started to lift it to the rail.
Conscious of all that went on around him, the paralyzed Surcouf realized that, unless he could make some sign, he had only a few seconds to live. So, with a tremendous effort—he made a movement of his limbs. It was noticed.
“Voilà! Voilà!” cried a French sailor. “He ees alife. No! No! You cannot kill heem!”
Running forward, he grabbed the prostrate form of Robert Surcouf, pulled it back upon the deck, and—as the Portuguese Lieutenant went off cursing—he rubbed the cold hands of the half-senseless man. In a moment the supposed corpse had opened its eyes.
“Ah!” he whispered. “I had a close call. A thousand thanks to all!”
In five more moments he could stand upon the deck, and—believe me—he did not forget the Portuguese Lieutenant!
Robert Surcouf was born at St. Malo—just one hundred years after Du Guay-Trouin, to whom he was related. And like his famous relative he had been intended for the Church,—but he was always fighting; was insubordinate, and could not be made to study. In fact, he was what is known as a “holy terror.”
Finally good Mamma Surcouf sent him to the Seminary of St. Dinan, saying:
“Now, Robert, be a good boy and study hard thy lessons!”
And Robert said, “Oui, Madame!” But he would not work.
One day the master in arithmetic did not like the method in which young “Bobbie” answered him, and raising a cane, he ran towards the youthful scholar. But Robert had learned a kind of “Jiu-Jitsu” practiced by the youths of France, and he tackled his irate master like an end-rush upon the foot-ball team, when he dives for a runner. Both fell to the ground with a thud. And all the other boys yelled “Fine!” in unison.
Now was a fierce battle, but weight told, and “Bobbie” was soon underneath, with his teeth in the leg of his tutor. They scratched and rolled until “Bobbie” freed himself, and, running to the window, jumped outside—for he was on the ground floor—scaled the garden fence, and made off. Home was twenty miles away.
“I must get there, somehow,” said young “Bobbie.” “I can never go back. I will be spanked so that I cannot seat myself.”
So little “Bob” trudged onward in the snow, for it was winter. It grew dark. It was bitterly cold, and he had no hat. At length—worn out with cold and hunger—he sank senseless to the roadside.
Luck pursues those destined for greatness.
Some fish-merchants happened that way, and, seeing the poor, helpless, little boy, they picked him up; placed him upon a tiny dog-cart; and carried him to St. Malo, where he had a severe attack of pneumonia. But his good mother nursed him through, saying:
“Ta donc! He will never be a scholar. Ta donc! Young Robbie must go to sea!”
So when “Bobbie” was well he was shipped aboard the brig Heron, bound for Cadiz, Spain—and he was only just thirteen. But he threw up his cap crying,
“This is just what I’ve always wanted. Hurrah for the salty brine!”
At about twenty years of age we find him upon the good ship Aurora from which his dive into the Indian Ocean came near being his last splash. And the Portuguese Lieutenant did not forget.
Upon the next visit of the cruiser Aurora to the coast of Africa an epidemic of malarial fever struck the crew. Among those who succumbed to the disease was the Portuguese Lieutenant. He was dangerously ill.
The ship arrived at the island of Mauritius, and, Lieutenant Robert Surcouf was just going ashore, when he received a message which said:
“Come and see me. I am very ill.” It was from his enemy,—the Portuguese.
Surcouf did not like the idea, but after thinking the matter over, he went. But note this,—he had a pair of loaded pistols in his pocket. Dead men—you know—tell no tales.
As he entered the sick man’s cabin, a servant was there. The Portuguese made a sign to him to retire.
“I wish to speak to you with a sincere heart,” said he, turning his face to young Surcouf. “Before I pass from this world I want to relieve my conscience, and ask your forgiveness for all the evil which I have wished you during our voyages together.”
“I bear you no malice,” said Surcouf. “Let by-gones be by-gones.”
As he spoke a spasm seemed to contort the body of the dying man. One arm stretched out towards a pillow nearby, and Robert had a sudden, but excellent thought. Stepping forward, he seized the hand of his old enemy, lifted the pillow, and, then started back with an exclamation of astonishment.
“Ye Gods!” cried he. “You would murder me!”
There, before him, were two cocked and loaded pistols.
Leaping forward he grabbed the weapons, pointing one at the forehead of the rascally sailor.
“You miserable beast!” cried he. “I can now shoot you like a dog, or squash you like an insect; but I despise you too much. I will leave you to die like a coward.”
“And,” says a historian, “this is what the wretched man did,—blaspheming in despairing rage.”
In October, 1794, Lieutenant Surcouf saw his first big battle, for, the English being at war with the French, two British men-of-war hovered off the island of Mauritius, blockading the port of St. Thomas. They were the Centurion of fifty-four guns, and the Diomede, also of fifty-four cannon, but with fewer tars. The French had four ships of war: the Prudente, forty guns; the Cybele, forty-four guns; the Jean Bart, twenty guns; and the Courier, fourteen guns. Surcouf was junior Lieutenant aboard the Cybele.
It was a beautiful, clear day, as the French vessels ploughed out to battle; their sails aquiver with the soft breeze; their pennons fluttering; guns flashing; and eager sailors crowding to the rails with cutlasses newly sharpened and pistols in their sashes.
Boom!
The first gun spoke. The first shell spun across the bow of the British bull-dog Diomede, and the battle was on.
Have you ever seen a school of pollock chasing a school of smaller fry? Have you ever seen them jump and splash, and thud upon the surface of the water?
Well—that is the way that the shells looked and sounded—as they plumped and slushed into the surface of the southern sea; and every now and then there was a punk, and a crash, and a chug, as a big, iron ball bit into the side of a man-of-war.
Around and around sailed the sparring assailants, each looking for a chance to board. Crash! Roar! Crash! growled the broadsides. Shrill screams sounded from the wounded; the harsh voices of the officers echoed above the din of the conflict; and, the whining bugle squealed ominously between the roaring crush of grape and chain-shot.
But the French got nearer and nearer. Great gaps showed in the bulwarks of the Diomede; one mast was tottering. Beaten and outnumbered she stood out to sea, her sailors crowding into the rigging like monkeys, and spreading every stitch of white canvas.
“She runs! Egad, she runs!” cried the Commander of the other British vessel. “Faith, I cannot stand off four Frenchmen alone. I must after her to save my scalp.”
So—putting his helm hard over—he threw his vessel before the wind, and she spun off, pursued by bouncing shells and shrieking grapnel.
“Voilà!” cried the French. “Ze great battaile, eet belongs to us!” But there were many dead and wounded upon the decks of the proud French warships.
Soon after this smart, little affair the soldiers and sailors who had been in this fight were discharged,—and—looking about for employment, young Robert took the first position that presented itself: the command of the brig Creole,—engaged in the slave trade. He made several successful voyages, but orders were issued to—
“Arrest the Slave Hunter and all his crew,
When they arrive at the Mauritius.”
One of those little birds which sometimes carry needed information, both on sea and land, whispered this ill news to the gallant, young sea-dog. So he steered for the isle of Bourbon, and there landed his human freight in a small bay. At daybreak he lay at anchor in the Harbor of St. Paul in that self-same island.
About eight in the morning a boat was seen approaching, and to the hail,—“Who goes there?” came the reply—
“Public Health Committee from St. Denis. We wish to come on board and to inspect your ship.”
Surcouf was much annoyed.
“You can climb aboard,” said he, stifling an exclamation of disgust. “I am at your service.”
In a few moments the commissioners were upon the deck, and, in a few moments more, they had discovered that the ship was a slaver.
Turning to the youthful captain, one of the committee said:
“You, sir, are engaged in illegal traffic. You must suffer for this, and must come with us at once to the city to answer an indictment drawn up against you.”
Surcouf smiled benignly.
“I am at your service,” said he, with a polite bow. “But do not go—I pray thee—until you have given me the great pleasure of partaking of the breakfast which my cook has hastily prepared.”
The Committee-men smiled.
“You are very kind,” said one. “We accept with pleasure.”
The hasty efforts of the cook proved to be most attractive. And, as the Commissioners smacked their lips over the good Madeira wine, the mate of the Creole dismissed the boat which had brought the stolid Commissioners to the side.
“The tender of our brig will take your people ashore,” said he to the coxswain.
No sooner had this tender neared the shore, than the cable of the Creole was slipped; she left her anchorage; and quickly drew out to sea in a fresh sou’westerly breeze.
The unaccustomed rallying soon warned the Commissioners that the vessel was no longer at anchor, and, rushing to the deck, they saw—with dismay—that a full half mile of foam-flecked ocean lay between them and the island.
“Ye Gods!” cried one, turning to Surcouf. “What mean you by this, sir?”
The crafty Captain was smiling like the Cheshire cat.
“You are now in my power,” said he—very slowly and deliberately. “I am going to take you to the coast of Africa among your friends—the negroes. You seem to prefer them to the whites, so why not, pray? Meanwhile,—my kind sirs,—come below and take my orders.”
The Commissioners were flabbergasted.
“Pirate!” cried one.
“Thief!” cried another.
“Scamp!” shouted the third.
But they went below,—mumbling many an imprecation upon the head of the crafty Robert Surcouf.
That night the wind freshened, the waves rose, and the good ship Creole pitched and tossed upon them, like a leaf. The Committee-men were very ill, for they were landsmen, and Surcouf’s smile expanded.
“Take us ashore! Take us ashore!” cried one. “We must get upon land.”
Surcouf even laughed. Everything was as he wished.
“I will land you upon one condition only,” said he. “Destroy the indictment against me and my ship. Write a document to the effect that you have found no traces of slaves upon my staunch craft. Say that my boat was driven from her anchor by a tidal wave—and you can put your feet upon solid ground.”
The three Commissioners scowled, but he had them. Besides they were sea-sick.
In an hour’s time, the desired paper had been drawn up. The Creole was headed for the Mauritius,—and, in eight days, the sad but wiser Commissioners were brooding over the smartness of Robert Surcouf when seated in their own snug little homes. “He is a rascal,” said one. “He’s a slick and wily cur.”
So much reputation came to the young mariner—at this exploit—that he was soon offered the command of the Emilie: a privateer of one hundred and eighty tons and four guns. He accepted with glee, but when about to go to sea, the Governor refused him Letters of Marque.
“What shall I do?” asked the crest-fallen Robert, approaching the owners of the trim and able craft.
“Sail for the Seychelles (Islands off the east coast of Africa) for a cargo of turtles,” said they. “If you fail to find these; fill up with corn, cotton and fruit. Fight shy of all English cruisers, and battle if you have to.”
Surcouf bowed.
“I am not a regular privateer,” he answered. “For I have no Letters of Marque. But I can defend myself if fired upon, and am an armed vessel in war-time. I may yet see some fighting.”
He was not to be disappointed.
While at anchor at the Seychelles, two large and fat English men-of-war appeared in the offing. Surcouf had to run for it.
Steering in among the many little islets, which here abound, he navigated the dangerous channels and got safely off, his men crying,
“Voilà! Here is a genius. We did well to ship with such a master!”
But the gallant Surcouf soon turned from privateer to pirate.
South of the Bay of Bengal, a cyclone struck the Emilie and she was steered for Rangoon, where—
“The flying fishes play,
An’ the dawn comes up like thunder,
Outer China across the Bay.”
And here a British vessel steered for her: white-winged, saucy, vindictive-looking.
She came on valiantly, and, when within a hundred yards, pumped a shot across the bow of the drowsing Emilie. It meant “Show your colors.”
Hoisting the red, white and blue of France, Surcouf replied with three scorching shots. One struck the Britisher amid-ships, and pumped a hole in her black boarding.
Like a timid girl, the Englishman veered off, hoisted her topsail, and tried to get away. She saw that she had caught a tartar.
The blood was up of the “Man from St. Malo.” “I consider the shot across my bows as an attack,” said he, and he slapped on every stitch of canvas, so that the Emilie was soon abreast of the Britisher. Boom! A broadside roared into her and she struck her colors. Bold Robert Surcouf had passed the Rubicon,—he had seen the English flag lowered to him, for the first time; and his heart swelled with patriotic pride, in spite of the fact that this was an act of piracy, for which he could be hanged to the yard-arm.
“On! On!” cried Surcouf. “More captures! More prizes!”
Three days later three vessels carrying rice fell into his hands,—one of which,—a pilot-brig—was appropriated in place of the Emilie, which had a foul, barnacled bottom and had lost her speed. The Diana, another rice-carrier—was also captured—and Robert Surcouf headed for the Mauritius: pleased and happy.
A few days later, as the vessels pottered along off the river Hooghly, the cry came:
“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.
“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!”
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!”