“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.”