If the expression had not been used already so many thousand times, one might well say of the following story that truth is indeed stranger than fiction. Had you read the yarn which is here to be related you would, at its conclusion, have remarked that it was certainly most interesting and exciting, but it was too exaggerated, too full of coincidences, too full of narrow escapes ever to have occurred in real life. But I would assure the reader at the outset that Smith’s experiences were actual and not fictional, and that his story was carefully examined at the time by the High Court of Admiralty. The prelude, the climax and the conclusion of this drama with its exciting incidents, its love interest and its happy ending; the romantic atmosphere, the picturesque characters, the colours and the symmetry of the narrative are so much in accord with certain models such as one used to read in mere story-books of one’s boyhood, that it is well the reader should be fully assured that what is here set forth did in very truth happen. In some respects the narrative reads like pages from one of Robert Louis Stevenson’s novels, and yet though I have, by the limits of the space at my disposal, been compelled to omit many of the incidents which centred around Smith and his pirate associates, yet the facts which are set forth have been taken from contemporary data and can be relied upon implicitly.
The story opens in the year 1821, and the hero is an English seaman named Aaron Smith. In the month of June, Smith departed from England and embarked on the merchant ship Harrington, which carried him safely over the Atlantic to the West Indies. Subsequent events induced him to resign his billet on that vessel, and as he found that the West Indian climate was impairing his health, he made arrangements to get back home to England. Being then at Kingston in the island of Jamaica, he interviewed the captain of the British merchant ship Zephyr and was appointed first mate. The Zephyr, like many of the ships of the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, was rigged as a brig, that is to say with square sails on each of her two masts, with triangular headsails and a quadrilateral sail abaft the second mast much like the mainsail of a cutter-rigged craft. Brigs nowadays are practically obsolete, but at the time we are speaking of they were immensely popular in the merchant service and for carrying coals from Newcastle-on-Tyne to London.
The Zephyr, after taking on board her West Indian cargo together with a few passengers, weighed anchor in the month of June 1822—just a year after Smith had left Europe—and set sail for England. From the very first Smith saw that things were not quite as they should be. The pilot who took the ship out into the open sea was a very incapable man, but his duties were soon ended and he left the ship. The name of the Zephyr’s captain was Lumsden, and even he was far from being the capable mariner which one would have expected in a man whose duty it was to take a ship across the broad Atlantic. Presently, before they had left Kingston far astern, a strong breeze sprang up from the north-east, and a heavy easterly swell got up, which made the brig somewhat lively. Most people are aware that the navigation among the islands and in the tricky channels of the West Indies needs both great care and much knowledge, such as ought to have been possessed by a man in Lumsden’s position. Judge of Smith’s surprise, therefore, when the latter found his captain asking his advice as to which passage he ought to take.
Whatever else Smith had in his character, he was certainly extremely shrewd and cautious, and he replied in a non-committal answer to the effect that the “windward” passage might prolong the voyage but that the “leeward” one would expose the ship to the risk of being plundered by the pirates, which in those days were far from rare. Lumsden weighed the pros and cons in his mind, and at last resolved to choose the “leeward” passage. About two o’clock one afternoon Smith was pacing up and down deck when he suddenly espied a schooner of a very suspicious appearance standing out from the land. Not quite happy as to her character, he then went aloft with his telescope and examined her closely. In the case of a man of his sea experience it did not take long for him to realise that the schooner was a pirate-ship. Lumsden was below at the time, so Smith called him on deck and, pointing out the strange vessel, suggested to the captain that it would be best to alter the brig’s course to avoid her. But Lumsden, like most ignorant men, was exceedingly obstinate, and stoutly declined the proffered advice. With characteristic British sentiment he opined that “because he bore the English flag no one would dare to molest him.” The skipper of the schooner, as we shall presently see, did not think of the matter in that way.
Half an hour passed by, the brig held on her original course, and the two ships drawing closer together it was observed that the schooner’s deck was full of men. Clearly, too, she was about to hoist out her boats. This gave cause for alarm even in the stubborn breast of Lumsden, and now he gave orders for the course to be altered a couple of points. But the decision had been arrived at too leisurely, for the stranger was already within gunshot. Before much time had sped on, the sound of voices was heard from the schooner, and short, sharp orders came across the heaving sea, ordering the Zephyr to lower her stern boat and to send the captain aboard the schooner. Lumsden pretended not to understand, but a brisk volley of musketry from the stranger instantly quickened the skipper’s comprehension, and he promptly gave orders to lay the mainyard aback and heave-to.
The boat which had been lowered from the schooner was quickly rowed alongside the brig, and nine or ten men, ferocious of appearance and well-armed with knives, cutlasses and muskets, now leapt aboard. It was obvious before they had left the schooner’s deck that these were desperate pirates, such as had many a dark, cruel deed to their consciences. With no wasting of formality they at once took charge of the brig and ordered Lumsden, Smith, the ship’s carpenter, and also a Captain Cowper who was travelling as a passenger, to proceed on board the schooner without delay. In order to hurry them on, the pirates gave them repeated blows over the back from the flat part of their cutlasses, accompanying these strokes with threats of shooting them. So the company got into the schooner’s boat and were rowed off; Lumsden recollected having left on the cabin table of the Zephyr the ship’s books containing an account of all the money aboard the brig.
Arrived alongside the schooner, the prisoners were ordered on deck. It was the pirate captain who now issued the commands, a man of repulsive appearance with his savage expression, his short, stout stature. His age was not more than about thirty-two, his appearance denoted that in his veins ran Indian blood. Standing not more than five and a half feet high, he had an aquiline nose, high cheek bones, a large mouth, big full eyes, sallow complexion and black hair. The son of a Spanish father and a Yucatan squaw, there was nothing in him that suggested anything but the downright brigand of the sea.
But with all this savage temperament there was nothing in him of the fool, and his wits and eyes were ever on the alert. Already he had observed a cluster of vessels in the distance, and he questioned Lumsden as to what kind of craft they might be. On being informed that probably they were French merchantmen, the pirate captain gave orders for all hands to get the schooner ready to give chase. Meanwhile the Zephyr, with part of the pirate crew on board, made sail and stood in towards the land in the direction of Cape Roman, some eighteen miles away. And as the schooner pushed on, cleaving her way through the warm sea, the pirate applied himself to questioning the skipper of the brig. What was his cargo? Lumsden answered that it consisted of sugars, rum, coffee, arrowroot, and so on. But what money had he on board? Lumsden replied that there was no money. Such an answer only infuriated the pirate. “Don’t imagine I’m a fool, sir,” he roared at him. “I know that all vessels going to Europe have specie on board, and”—he added—“if you will give up what you have, you shall proceed on your voyage without further molestation.” But Lumsden still continued in his protestations that money there was none: to which the pirate remarked that if the money were not forthcoming he would throw the Zephyr’s cargo overboard.
Night was rapidly approaching, and the breeze was certainly dying down, so that although the schooner had done fairly well through the water, yet the pirate despaired of ever coming up with the Frenchmen. Disappointed at his lack of success, he was compelled to abandon the chase, and altered his course to stand in the direction of the Zephyr. When night had fallen the pirates began to prepare supper, and offered spirits to their captives, which the latter declined. The pirate captain now turned his attention to Smith, and observed that as he was in bad health, and none of the schooner’s crew understood navigation, it was his intention to detain Smith to navigate her. We need not attempt to suggest the feelings of dismay with which Smith received this information. To resist forceably was obviously out of the question, though he did his best to be allowed to forego the doubtful honour of being appointed navigating officer to a pirate-ship. Lumsden, too, uneasy at the thought of being bereft of a man indispensable to the safety of his brig, expressed a nervous hope that Smith might not be detained. But the pirate’s reply to the last request came prompt and plain. “If I do not keep him,” he growled at Lumsden, “I shall keep you.” That sufficiently alarmed the brig’s master to subdue him to silence.