“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!