“Finally, in March, 1598, he set sail from Plymouth harbor with twenty ships, all his own, for the greatest attack on the Dons in the Caribbean that had ever been organized. His flagship bore the curious name of The Scourge of Malice, and the Earl’s bold scheme was to attack the supposedly impregnable port of San Juan, Puerto Rico. Drake and Hawkins had tried it, but had been driven off, and the reckless devil-may-care ‘man with the glove in his hat’ saw, in a raid on Puerto Rico a fine chance for adventure such as his heart craved.
“Having captured a few prizes in mid-ocean, the fleet arrived at Dominica in May, and the Earl allowed his men shore liberty and a good rest before continuing on his daredevil foray. Being totally [[211]]unexpected by the Dons, the Earl’s ship approached unseen at dead of night, and six hundred men were silently landed about two miles to the east of Morro Castle. Dividing his force into two parties and following the road, Cumberland led his men close to the city walls and at break of day rushed the sleepy sentries and the gates. Shouting and yelling, brandishing cutlasses, firing pistols, the wild horde of Englishmen appeared to the frightened, surprised Spaniards like fiends suddenly sprung from the earth. Terrorized, they retreated to the inmost fastnesses of the town before they rallied and, realizing the dreaded British were upon them, turned to face their foes. But it was too late. The English were in the streets, and although the Dons fought manfully and many fell on both sides, the Earl’s men were victorious, and within two hours the city was in their hands.
“And mightily well pleased was My Lord as, with his own men in charge of the walls and grim old fortress, he strutted about the city appraising the valuables, the rich merchandise, the ships in the harbor, which were his to pick and choose from. Never before had San Juan fallen to an enemy, and the Earl had every reason to be filled with [[212]]pride at his great deed. The city was rich and prosperous, the Morro was one of the strongest fortifications in the New World, and the ‘man with the glove in his hat’ felt that he had mightily added to England’s power by securing this stronghold as a fortified base from which to harass the hated Dons. But he had counted without an enemy that lurked unseen and unsuspected near at hand. He had subdued the Dons, but there was another foe ready to attack him that no bravery, no arms could subdue. The dreaded Yellow Fever crept stealthily among the British, and ere Cumberland realized what had occurred his men were dying by scores daily. Here was an enemy he could not fight, a foe invisible and more deadly than the Spaniards, and in almost no time Cumberland’s force was more than half destroyed. Filled with terror at this dread death stalking among his men, realizing that to remain meant destruction for all, the Earl hurriedly embarked the few remaining Englishmen aboard his ships, and beaten, discouraged and disheartened, sailed away from the town he had so gloriously won. He had not gone empty-handed, however. The city had been thoroughly pillaged, much of it had been burnt, the ships in the harbor had been destroyed [[213]]and Cumberland’s fortune had been increased tremendously. But he had had enough of the corsair’s life. He settled down to pass the remaining years of his life in peace; but we may feel sure that often, as he glanced at the flopping, white-plumed hat with its little red glove, he breathed a sigh of regret that his days of a sea rover were over; that never again would he leap over a galleon’s side with cutlass in one hand and pistol in the other, while men shouted for St. George and San Iago and blood flowed and cannons roared and blade clashed on blade and pistols flashed as Don and Briton battled.”
“Seems to me those old fellows were a lot more picturesque than the real buccaneers,” said Fred. “Why don’t people write more stories about them, Dad? I never read of Prince Rupert or the Earl of Cumberland in any story; but books are full of Morgan and those fellows.”
“Probably because less is known about them,” replied his father. “And partly, too, as they lived and fought before the West Indies and the Spanish Main became as well known as in Morgan’s day. You must remember that we hear very little of L’Ollonois, Brasiliano, Portugues, or the earlier buccaneers. New England, you know, was not [[214]]settled until 1638, and most of the famous buccaneers were those whose deeds were committed after the American colonies were trading extensively with the West Indies. Morgan, you remember, sent to merchants of New England for help in fitting out his fleet, and Davis and his fellows sailed for the South Sea from the Chesapeake. To the inhabitants of New England and Virginia the buccaneers seemed comparative neighbors, and hence the tales of their careers came fresh and vividly to them, whereas it took weeks or months for stories to reach England.
“But don’t imagine that it was only the older pirates who were picturesque. Perhaps the most picturesque and fascinatingly wicked pirate who ever lived—although he hadn’t a redeeming feature—was among the last of the really famous corsairs of the Caribbean. If ever there was a dime-novel, story-book pirate it was he—Blackbeard.”
“Hurrah! I was hoping you’d tell us about him!” cried Jack. “Was he really as bad as the stories make out?”
“A great deal worse,” Mr. Bickford assured him. “No imagination could invent anything to equal Blackbeard’s innate deviltry.
“He combined all the worst traits of every buccaneer [[215]]and pirate who ever lived. He was a double-dyed, out-and-out rascal; a ruffian, a thug and a brutal, inhuman bully. The most despicable buccaneer who ever raided a Spanish town or boarded a galleon would have despised him, for he held no shred of honor or principle; he cheated his friends and his own men and was a veritable monster in human form. Nevertheless, it cannot be denied that he was courageous; that he never shirked danger; that he never asked or expected his men to go where he would not lead, and, moreover, he was a most striking and picturesque rascal.”
“I saw somewhere that he had a castle in St. Thomas,” said Fred, as Mr. Bickford paused to refresh his memory with data from a book on the table. “Did he live there, Uncle Henry?”