“The trial was a rank travesty of justice from the beginning. Papers and letters favorable to Kidd were refused as evidence; his erstwhile friends perjured themselves to save their own names; counsel was denied him and only his faithful wife stood by him. In addition to Kidd, nine of his crew were also charged with piracy, these being the men who had remained faithful to their captain, and although all testified in Kidd’s behalf and substantiated his story, Kidd and six of the men were condemned to be hanged in chains. At Execution Dock the maligned, helpless captain and his fellows were strung up without mercy on May 23rd, and their dead bodies suspended in chains along the river side, where, for years, the bones swayed and rattled in the winds as a grim warning to all pirates.
“But the execution was a bungling and awful thing. Kidd, standing with the noose about his neck, was pestered, browbeaten and cajoled to confess, but stoutly maintained his innocence. As he was swung off, the rope broke and the poor, tortured, groaning man was again hoisted to the scaffold [[203]]where, despite his suffering, a minister and others exhorted him to confess his crimes and reveal the hiding places of his treasure. But between pitiful groans and pleas for a speedy death, Kidd still maintained that he had no treasure and had told only the truth. Finally, despairing of wringing a confession from one who had nothing to confess, he was hanged until dead. His entire estate, consisting of less than seven thousand pounds, was confiscated and presented to the Greenwich Hospital, where, by all that was right and just, it should have proved a curse rather than a blessing.
“No one ever knew what became of the Queda or her treasure, but, no doubt, as Kidd claimed, she was scuttled by the mutinous crew and the loot divided between them was scattered to the four winds. Upon that slender mystery of the disappearance of the valuables of the Queda were built all the tales of Captain Kidd’s buried treasure, and upon the farce of a trial and the conviction of the unfortunate seaman for killing a mutinous gunner in self-defense, was reared the undying fame of Captain Kidd.”
“Gee, that was a shame!” declared Jack. “I feel really sorry for poor old Captain Kidd. [[204]]Think of Morgan being knighted and honored after all he did and Kidd being hung for nothing.”
“You must bear in mind that times had changed since Morgan’s day,” said Mr. Bickford. “The romantic, picturesque buccaneers were a thing of the past, and England and her colonies were waging a relentless war on pirates. In a way we must not be too hard on the authorities for their treatment of Kidd. They were intent on discouraging piracy and doubtless felt that, even if there was a question of Kidd’s guilt, his death would be a wholesome warning to any seamen who felt inclined to turn pirates. But it certainly is a wonderful example of the irony of fate to think of Kidd winning undying fame as a bold and ruthless pirate when—even if he were guilty—he could not have been charged with taking more than one ship, while others, who destroyed hundreds and ravaged the seas for years, have been totally forgotten. There was not even anything romantic, daring or appealing to the imagination in Kidd’s career. In contrast, consider the most romantic corsair who ever pirated in the Caribbean, a veritable knight errant of the seas, a scion [[205]]of royalty, known as Prince Rupert of the Rhine.”
“Why, I never ever heard of him!” exclaimed Fred. “What did he do?”
“Of course you never heard of him,” said Mr. Bickford. “That is why I mentioned him, just as an example of how a man who should have been famous remains unknown and forgotten and a man like Kidd, with no claim to fame, lives on forever. Prince Rupert was a most romantic and fascinating character, a real Don Quixote, ever getting into one scrape after another, living a series of incredible adventures that would have put the famous D’Artagnan to shame; a dashing, impetuous gallant young prince who, according to historians, was ‘very sparkish in his dress’ and ‘like a perpetual motion.’ Young, handsome, a dashing cavalier, as ready with his sword as with his purse, he championed every romantic or hopeless cause, threw himself into any wild scheme or fray where a lady was concerned or some one was in distress, and was no sooner out of one trouble than he was head over heels into another. But he was ever resourceful, ever light hearted and ever a great favorite with the ladies. In his youth, he was cast into prison in Linz, but, despite his [[206]]plight, he managed to learn drawing, made love to the governor’s daughter and so won her heart that his escape was made easy.
“Later, he decided that the land held too few opportunities for his restless, romantic spirit, and with a handful of choice companions he took to sea in command of a fleet of three ships. These were the Swallow, his own vessel, the Defiance, under command of his brother, Prince Maurice, and the Honest Seaman.
“Gay with pennants and bunting, the little argosy set sail from Ireland in 1648, and with the gallant young Prince, dressed in his gayest silks, satins and laces, upon the high poop of the Swallow, the three tiny vessels set off on their voyage to do their bit towards championing the cause of their king in the far-off Caribbean.
“For five years they sailed. Battling right nobly with the Dons, escaping annihilation a thousand times, beset by tempest and storm and meeting enough adventures at every turn to satisfy even the Prince’s ardent soul. A book might be written on the romantic, harebrained, reckless deeds performed by that hot-blooded young scion of royalty, but in the end, in a terrific hurricane, Prince Rupert’s fleet was driven on the treacherous [[207]]reefs off Anegada. Prince Maurice in the Defiance was lost, the Honest Seaman was battered to pieces and her few survivors reached the low, desolate land more dead than alive, but the Swallow, by chance or Providence, managed to escape by driving through a narrow entrance in the jagged reef to the sheltered water within. Battered and leaking, badly crippled, the poor Swallow was far from seaworthy when the storm was over and the gay Prince, saddened and sorrowful at the loss of his brother and his men, sailed dolefully for England. He was a changed man thereafter and settled down to a very quiet life in a little house at Spring Gardens. All his brave deeds were forgotten, even his name passed into oblivion and in 1682 he died, almost unknown, in his English home.” [[208]]