“Well spoken,” cried another. “And I know the very man to help us out. He is living here, now, and his name is Fortunatus Wright. Gentlemen! I tell you he is a true sea-dog! He is the fellow to cripple these saucy, French bushwhackers of the sea.”
“Hear! Hear!” cried others.
And thus Mr. Fortunatus Wright was sought for, and was asked:
“Will you take charge of a privateer for the British merchants of Leghorn? Will you chase these rascally Frenchmen? Will you cripple their operations? Will you chastise these sea-robbers?”
To this Mr. Fortunatus Wright, being a true seaman with the love of the salt water tugging at his heart strings, is said to have remarked,
“Whoop-ee!”
Which being interpreted means:
“Gentlemen, I’m dee-lighted!”
As luck would have it, there was a vessel lying in the harbor which was directly available. She was a brigantine called the Fame, and, although we know little about her tonnage and the number of stout sea-dogs whom she could carry, it is apparent that Fortunatus Wright considered her most admirably suited for his venture. At any rate he soon boarded her, swore in a crew of stalwart seamen, and saw that plenty of gunpowder, cutlasses, boarding-pikes and muskets were aboard.
It was September, 1746, and, before the close of the month of December, the Fame had captured eighteen prizes, one of which was a hulking, French privateer with twenty guns and one hundred and fifty men, especially fitted out to put an end to the career of the vessel of Fortunatus Wright. They had met off the port of Messina and had had a roaring, little scrimmage, but—seeing that matters were going ill with him—the French captain had cried: