Bart, of course, had another ship at his disposal immediately—such an invincible corsair was not allowed to be idle—and he was at sea again in a fortnight, in the Mars, of 32 guns; a few weeks later, however, the war came to an end, and he returned to Dunkirk to have a spell on shore.
And here the career of Jean Bart as a privateer captain comes to an end; in January 1679 he was given a commission as lieutenant in the navy. This was not very much to his taste; besides the comedown from captain to lieutenant, the aristocrats who predominated among French naval officers regarded a privateersman, thus pitchforked in among them, with a very supercilious air, and made things decidedly unpleasant for him.
However, Jean Bart pulled through this all right, and eventually had opportunity of displaying his capacity in the royal ships.
There are, as has been remarked, a number of romantic tales extant about Jean Bart; most of them are quite incredible, and for the others there is no reliable authority. One may be given here as a sample.
At Bergen, in the year 1691, it is said that Bart made the acquaintance of the captain of a large English vessel, who expressed a keen desire to meet him outside. Bart said if he would wait a few days his wish should be gratified, and sent word one day that he would sail on the morrow. The Englishman politely invited him to breakfast before they sailed to have it out, and Bart, after a little hesitation, accepted. After breakfast he lit his pipe, and soon remarked that it was time to go. "No," said the Englishman, "you are my prisoner!" "I am not your prisoner," replied Bart, "I will blow up your ship!" Rushing out of the cabin, with a lighted match, he ran to where stood a barrel of gunpowder which had most opportunely been hoisted up from the magazine—a cask with the head out, we must imagine, and the powder exposed. Here, of course, he had it all his own way; the Englishmen were afraid to touch him, lest he should put the match to the powder—and the crews of the French ships, having heard his shout of defiance, rallied on board the English vessel in numbers, cut down many of the crew, captured the ship, and carried her into Dunkirk.
It must be to this absurd story that M. Henri Malo alludes in "Les Corsaires," where he writes, in derision of privateering romances: "Privateers! We read in these accounts the names of heroes of romance—Jean Bart, smoking his pipe, mark you, on a barrel of gunpowder; Robert Surcouf, popularised in operetta."
Jean Bart deserves better than to be lampooned in this fashion; and, though he rose to distinction in the Navy, and there has almost always been a French man-of-war named after him, it is chiefly as the indomitable corsair that his memory is cherished in Dunkirk.
[11] The tenth Article of War, at that time, read as follows: "Every flag-officer, captain, and commander in the fleet who, upon signal or order of fight, or sight of any ship or ships which it may be his duty to engage, or who upon likelihood of engagement shall not make the necessary preparations for fight, and shall not in his own person, and according to his place, encourage the inferior officers and men to fight courageously, shall suffer death, or such other punishment as from the nature and degree of the offence a court-martial shall deem him to deserve; and if any person in the fleet shall treacherously or cowardly yield, or cry for quarter, every person so offending and being convicted thereof by the sentence of a court-martial, shall suffer death."
