sea-captain. "So keep the ship abaft, and on th' port quarter, where
we can let loose our bow-guns and get little in return."
This was done, but--if we are to believe an old chronicler of the
period--"The British crew had been thrown into such confusion by the
_Pomona_'s first broadside that _they were able to fire only one or
two shots every half hour_."
"By Gad," cried Joshua Barney to Captain Robinson, about this time,
"let's cut a hole in our stern, shove a cannon through it, and whale
the British landlubber as he nears us for another shot with her
bow-chasers."
The captain grinned.
"A good idea, Barney, a good idea," he chuckled. "Now we can teach her
to keep clear of us."
So a three-pounder soon poked her nose through the stern, and, when
the proud Britisher again came up for one of her leisurely discharges,
she received a dose of grape which made her captain haul off
precipitously. Nor did he venture near again for another shot at the
saucy fugitive.
When daylight came, sixteen guns were counted upon the British brig.
"By George!" shouted Barney. "See those officers in the rigging. She's
a gun-ship--a regular ship-of-war."
But Captain Robinson laughed.
"That's an old game," said he. "They're tryin' to fool us into the
belief that she's a real gun-boat, so's we'll surrender immediately.
But see--she's drawin' near again--and seems as if she's about to
board us from the looks of her crew."
Barney gazed intently at the stranger.
"You're right," said he. "Load the three-pounder with grape-shot."
"And here's a crow-bar as'll top it off nice," put in a sailor.
Captain Robinson laughed.
"Yes, spike her in, too. She'll plunk a hole clear through th'
rascal," he cried. "I'll touch her off myself."
The British gun-boat drew nearer and nearer. Just as she was within
striking distance--about ten yards--the three-pounder was touched off
with a deaf'ning roar.
"So accurate was the aim," says an old historian, "that the British
were completely baffled in their attempt; their foresails and all
their weather foreshrouds being cut away."
"Give her a broadside!" called out Captain Robinson, as the brig
sheered off in order to support its foremast, which tottered with its
own weight; the rigging which supported it, being half cut away. And,
as he spoke--the crew let drive a shower of balls and grape-shot. It
was the last volley.
The _Pomona_ kept upon her course, while the white sails of the
attacker grew fainter and fainter upon the horizon.
"I saw her name as she ranged in close to us," said Joshua Barney,
slapping Captain Robinson on the back. "And it was the _Rosebud_."
"I reckon that _Rosebud_ has no thorns left," chuckled Captain
Robinson, and he was still chuckling when the little _Pomona_ safely
sailed into the harbor of Bordeaux in France. The voyage had been a
success.
Here a store of guns, powder and shot was purchased, and, having
shipped a cargo of brandy, and raised the crew to seventy men, the
staunch, little vessel set sail for America.
Not three days from the coast of France the cry of "Sail ho!" startled
all on board, and, upon the starboard quarter--loomed a British
privateer. Upon nearer view she was seen to have sixteen guns and
seventy men.
"All hands for a fight!" cried Robinson. "Don't let th' fellow
escape."
Now was a hard battle. It lasted for full two hours, and--in the
end--the Britisher struck, with twelve killed and a number wounded,
while the American loss was but one killed and two wounded. The
_Pomona_ kept upon her course, jubilantly.
But the saucy ship was not to have all smooth sailing. She was soon
captured--by whom it is not known--and stout "Josh" Barney became a
prisoner of war. In December, 1780, with about seventy American
officers, he was placed on board the _Yarmouth_--a sixty-four-gun
brig--and was shipped to England.
Now listen to the treatment given him according to a contemporaneous
historian. Did you ever hear of anything more atrocious?
Peace--indeed--had more horrors than war in the year 1780.
"From the time these Americans stepped aboard the _Yarmouth_ their
captors gave it to be understood, by hints and innuendos, that they
were being taken to England 'to be hanged as rebels;' and, indeed the
treatment they received aboard the _Yarmouth_ on the passage over, led
them to believe that the British officers intended to cheat the
gallows of their prey, by causing the prisoners to die before they
reached port.
"On coming aboard the ship-of-the-line, these officers were stowed
away in the lower hold, next to the keel, under five decks, and many
feet below the water-line. Here, in a twelve-by-twenty-foot room, with
upcurving floor, and only three feet high, the seventy-one men were
kept for fifty-three days, like so much merchandise--without light or
good air--unable to stand upright, with no means to get away.
"Their food was of the poorest quality, and was supplied in such
insufficient quantities, that, whenever one of the prisoners died, the
survivors concealed the fact, in order that the dead man's allowance
might be added to theirs. The water which they were served to drink
was atrocious.
"From the time the _Yarmouth_ left New York till she reached Plymouth,
in a most tempestuous winter passage, these men were kept in this
loathsome dungeon. Eleven died in delirium; their wild ravings and
piercing shrieks appalling their comrades, and giving them a foretaste
of what they, themselves, might expect. Not even a surgeon was
permitted to visit them.
"Arriving at Plymouth, the pale, emaciated men were ordered to come on
deck. Not one obeyed, for they were unable to stand upright.
Consequently they were hoisted up, the ceremony being grimly
suggestive of the manner in which they had been treated,--like
merchandise. And what were they to do, now that they had been placed
on deck?
"The light of the sun, which they had scarcely seen for fifty-three
days, fell upon their weak, dilated pupils with blinding force; their
limbs were unable to uphold them, their frames wasted by disease and
want. Seeking for support, they fell in a helpless mass, one upon the
other, waiting and almost hoping for the blow that was to fall upon
them next. Captain Silas Talbot was one of these unfortunate
prisoners.
"To send them ashore in this condition was 'impracticable,' so the
British officers said, and we readily discover that this
'impracticable' served the purpose of diverting the indignation of the
land's folk, which sure would be aroused, if they knew that such
brutality had been practiced under the cross of St. George (the cross
upon the British flag).
"Waiting, then, until the captives could, at least, endure the light
of day, and could walk without leaning on one another, or clutching at
every object for support, the officers had them removed to the old
Mill Prison."
This story has been denied, for the reason that the log of the
_Yarmouth_ shows that she was forty-four and not fifty-three days at
sea, and the captain writes:
"We had the prisoners 'watched' (divided into port and starboard
watch) and set them to the pumps. I found it necessary so to employ
them, the ship's company, from their weak and sickly state, being
unequal to that duty, and, on that account to order them whole
allowance of provisions."
It would have been impossible for men to be in the condition which the
first historian describes if they had to man the pumps. It would have
been impossible for them to have done an hour's work. Therefore, I,
myself, believe the second story. Don't you?
But to return to stout "Josh" Barney, now meditating thoughts of
escape in old Mill Prison. Bold and resourceful he was always, and he
was now determined to face the difficulties of an exit and the chances
of detection. "I must and can get away," he said.
The prisoners were accustomed to play leap-frog, and one day the
crafty "Josh" pretended that he had sprained his ankle. Constructing
two crutches--out of pieces of boards--he limped around the
prison-yard and completely deceived all but a few of his most intimate
friends.
One day--it was May the eighteenth, 1781--he passed a sentry near the
inner gate. The fellow's name was Sprokett and he had served in the
British army in America, where he had received many kindnesses from
the country people. For this reason his heart warmed to the stout,
young "Josh," who had often engaged him in conversation.
Hopping to the gate upon his crutches, the youthful American
whispered,
"Give me a British uniform and I will get away. Can you do it?"
Sprokett smiled.
"Sure," said he.
"To-day?"
"Dinner."
And this meant one o'clock, when the warders dined.
"All right," whispered "Josh," smiling broadly, and he again hobbled
around the yard.
After awhile the sentry motioned for him to come nearer. He did
so--and as he approached--a large bundle was stealthily shoved into
his arms. He hastened to his cell and there put on the undress uniform
of an officer of the British army.
Drawing on his great-coat, he went into the yard and hobbled about
upon his two sticks until the time drew near for the mid-day mess.
Then he drew close to the gate.
One o'clock tolled from the iron bell upon the prison rampart, and, as
its deep-toned echoes sounded from its tower, several of Barney's
friends engaged the half-dozen sentries in conversation. It was the
time for action.
The astute "Josh" suddenly dropped his crutches. Then--walking across
the enclosure towards the gate,--he winked to the sentry. A companion
was at hand. With a spring he leaped upon his shoulders. One
boost--and he was on top of the walk. Another spring, and he had
dropped to the other side as softly as a cat.
But the second gate and sentry had to be passed.
Walking up to this red-coated individual he placed four guineas (about
$20.00) into his outstretched palm. The soldier smiled grimly, as the
great-coat was tossed aside, and the shrewdest privateer in the
American Navy walked towards the opening through the outer wall, which
was usually left ajar for the convenience of the prison officials.
Another sentry stood upon duty at this point.
Barney nodded. The sentry had been "squared" (told of the coming
escape) and so he turned his back. Thus--with his heart beating like a
trip-hammer--"Josh," the nervy one--walked down the cobbled street
outside of the "Old Mill." He was free.
Dodging into a lane, he soon met a friend who had been told of his
attempt, and who took him to the house of an old clergyman in
Plymouth. In the morning, with two fellow-countrymen, who were also in
hiding (for they had been captured as passengers in a merchant
vessel), he secured a fishing-smack. "Josh" now covered his uniform.
Putting on an old coat with a tarred rope tied around his waist, a
pair of torn trousers, and a tarpaulin hat, the disguised Jack-tar ran
the little vessel down the River Plym, just as day was dawning. The
forts and men-of-war were safely passed, and the little shallop tossed
upon the gleaming wavelets of the English channel.
We are told that his escape was not noticed for some time because "a
slender youth who was capable of creeping through the window-bars at
pleasure crawled into Barney's cell (in the Old Mill Prison) and
answered for him." I doubt this, for--if you have ever seen the bars
of a prison--it would take a Jack Spratt to get through them, and Jack
Spratts are not common. At any rate someone answered to the daily
roll-call for Joshua B., so that it was full two weeks before the
authorities knew of his escape. Perhaps there was a ventriloquist in
the jail.
The tiny boat in which the adventurous American hoped to reach the
welcome shores of France, bobbed up and down, as she ambled towards
the low-lying coast, under a gentle southerly breeze. But there was
trouble in this self-same wind, for the white wings of a British
privateer grew nearer and nearer, and a hail soon came:
"What's your name, and where are you bound?"
Barney and his partners in distress did not answer at all. They
scowled as a boat was lowered from the side of their pursuer, and
quickly splashed towards them. In not many moments, a swearing
sea-captain swung himself upon their deck.
"Who are you, you lubbers?" said he. "Where' yer papers, and where'
yer bound to?"
"I'm a British officer," replied the astute Joshua, opening his coat
and disclosing the uniform of the service. "I am bound for France upon
official business."
The Captain snickered.
"An' with two others in er' launch? Aw go tell that to th' marines!"
"It's God's truth. I'm in a state secret."
"Wall--be that as it may be--you must come aboard of my vessel and
tell yer state secret to th' authorities in England. Meanwhile, I'll
put a skipper of my own aboard yer vessel and we'll travel
together--bein' friends."
Barney swore beneath his breath.
Thus the two boats beat towards the coast of Merrie England in
company, and upon the day following, came to anchor in a small harbor,
six miles from Plymouth. The captain of the privateer went ashore in
order to report to Admiral Digby at Plymouth, while most of the crew
also hastened to the beach in order to avoid the chance of being
seized by the press-gang, which harried incoming vessels for recruits
for His Majesty's service.
"Can't I go, too?" asked the cautious "Josh."
"No, you must remain on board until we come for you," said the
captain, as he jumped into his boat en route for the shore. "Mister
Officer, I want to search your record." Then he laughed brutishly.
But Barney's thinking cap was working like a mill race. There was a
jolly-boat tied to the stern of the privateer, and, when all were safe
ashore, he gently slipped into this, purposely skinning his leg as he
did so. Then he sculled to the beach; where a group of idlers stood
looking out to sea.
"Here," he cried, as he neared them. "Help me haul up this boat, will
yer? She's awful heavy."
A custom's officer was among these loiterers and he was inquisitive.
"Who are you?" said he. "What regiment and where stationed, pray?"
"That I cannot answer, my friend," calmly replied the acute "Josh,"
pointing to the blood as it trickled through his stocking. "I am badly
injured, you see, and must go away in order to get my leg tied up.
Prithee, kind sir, can you tell me where the crew from my vessel have
gone to?"
"They are at the Red Lion at the end of the village," replied the
official of the law. "You are, indeed, badly hurt."
"Wall, I reckon," replied the American, and, stumbling up the beach,
he was soon headed for the end of the little village.
But things were not to go too well with him. He found that he was
obliged to pass the Red Lion, and he had almost succeeded in doing so
unmolested, when one of the sailors who was loitering outside, cried
out after him,
"Ho, friend! I would speak with you!"
"Josh" had to stop although sorely tempted to run for it.
"I've got some idee of shippin' in th' Navy," said the fellow, as he
approached. "Now, friend, you can tell me somethin' of th' pay an'
service, as you're an officer of th' army."
Barney's eyes shone with pleasure, as he saw that his disguise had
deceived the fellow.
"Walk along with me towards Plymouth," said he, "and I'll explain
everything to you. I have business there which will not wait and I
must get on to it."
So they jogged along together, talking vigorously about the Navy, but,
in the course of half an hour the jack-tar seemed to think better of
his plan for entering "a service noted for its cruelty to seamen," and
turned back, saying,
"Thank'ee my fine friend. Thank'ee. I'll stick to privateerin'. It's
easier an' there's less cat-o'-nine-tails to it."
As soon as his burly form disappeared down the winding road, Barney
began to grow anxious about his safety. Perhaps a guard would be sent
after him? Perhaps--even now--men had discovered his absence and were
hurrying to intercept him? So--with these thoughts upon his mind--he
jumped over a stiff hedge into the grounds of Lord Mount-Edgecumbe.
"Egad! it's touch and go with me," said he, as he walked down one of
the gravelled paths. "I'm in for it now for here comes the gardener."
Sure enough, towards him ambled a middle-aged fellow, smiling as he
pushed along a wheel-barrow filled with bulbs.
Joshua walked up to him, extending his right hand.
"My friend," said he, "I am an officer escaping from some seamen who
wish my life because of a duel in which I recently engaged over the
hand of a fair lady. Here is a guinea. It is all that I possess.
And--if you could but pilot me to the waterside and will not tell of
my whereabouts--I will bless you to my dying day."
The good-humored man-of-the-soil smiled benignly.
"Prithee, but follow me," said he, "and we'll soon see that you pass
by the way of the water gate. Your money is most welcome, sir, for my
wife is just now ill and doctors must be paid, sir. That you know
right well."
Barney breathed easier as they walked towards the sea; for out of the
corner of his eye he saw a guard--sent to capture him--tramping along
the other side of the hedge over which he had leaped.
"Good-bye and good luck!" cried the kind-hearted servant as he closed
the private gate which led to the waterside. And, with a wave of the
hand, the fleeing American was soon hastening to the winding river,
over which he must cross in order to get on to Plymouth.
Luck was still with him. A butcher who was ferrying some beeves by
water, took him in his boat, and, as night fell, the keen-witted
privateersman crept through the back door of the old clergyman's house
at Plymouth--from which he had started. For the time being, he was
safe.
Strange to relate, the two friends of the fishing-smack adventure here
joined him once more, for they, also, had run away from the crew of
the privateer, and--as they sat around the supper-table--the
town-crier went by the house, bawling in harsh and discordant tones:
"Five guineas reward for the capture of Joshua Barney; a rebel
deserter from Mill Prison! Five guineas reward for this deserter! Five
guineas! Five guineas!"
But Barney stuffed his napkin into his mouth in order to stop his
laughter.
Three days later a clean-shaven, bright-cheeked, young dandy stepped
into a post chaise, at midnight, and drove off to Exeter. At Plymouth
gate the conveyance was stopped; a lantern was thrust into the black
interior; and the keen eyes of the guard scanned the visages of those
within:
"He's not here," growled the watchman, lowering the light. "Drive on!"
Thus Joshua Barney rolled on to home and freedom, while the
stout-bodied soldier little guessed that the artful privateersman had
slipped through his fingers like water through a sieve.
Two months later--in the autumn of 1781--Joshua Barney: fighter,
privateer, liar and fugitive, walked down the quiet streets of
Beverly, Massachusetts, and a little fish-monger's son whispered to
his companions,
"Say, Boys! That feller is a Jim Dandy. He's been through more'n we'll
ever see. Say! He's a regular Scorcher!"
* * * * *
Many months later--when the Revolutionary War had ended--the good ship
_General Washington_ lay in Plymouth Harbor on the south coast of
England. Her commander--Captain Joshua Barney--gazed contentedly at
the Stars and Stripes as they flew jauntily from the mizzen-mast, and
then walked to the rail, as a group of British officers came over the
side. But there was one among these guests who was not an officer. He
was bent, old, weather-beaten; and his dress showed him to be a tiller
and worker of the soil. It was the aged and faithful gardener of Lord
Mount-Edgecumbe.
"You remember me?" cried the genial American, grasping the honest
servant by the hand.
The gardener's eyes were alight with pleasure.
"You are the feller who jumped over the hedge--many years ago--when
the sea-dogs were hot upon your trail."
Joshua Barney chuckled.
"The same," said he. "And here is a purse of gold to reward my kind
and worthy helpmeet."
So saying, he placed a heavy, chamois bag of glittering eagles into
the trembling hands of the ancient retainer.
THE DERELICT
Unmoored, unmanned, unheeded on the deep--
Tossed by the restless billow and the breeze,
It drifts o'er sultry leagues of tropic seas.
Where long Pacific surges swell and sweep,
When pale-faced stars their silent watches keep,
From their far rhythmic spheres, the Pleiades,
In calm beatitude and tranquil ease,
Smile sweetly down upon its cradled sleep.
Erewhile, with anchor housed and sails unfurled,
We saw the stout ship breast the open main,
To round the stormy Cape, and span the World,
In search of ventures which betoken gain.
To-day, somewhere, on some far sea we know
Her battered hulk is heaving to and fro.
ROBERT SURCOUF
THE "SEA HOUND" FROM ST. MALO
(1773-1827)
"If you would be known never to have done anything,
never do it."--EMERSON.
ROBERT SURCOUF
THE "SEA HOUND" FROM ST. MALO
(1773-1827)
_Parlez-vous Francais?_ Yes, Monsieur,
I can speak like a native,--sure.
Then, take off your cap to the lilies of France,
Throw it up high, and hasten the dance.
For "Bobbie" Surcouf has just come to town,
_Tenez!_ He's worthy of wearing a crown.
It was a sweltering, hot day in July and the good ship _Aurora_ swung
lazily in the torpid waters of the Indian Ocean. Her decks fairly
sizzled in the sun, and her sails flopped like huge planks of wood.
She was becalmed on a sheet of molten brass.
"I can't stand this any longer," said a young fellow with black hair
and swarthy skin. "I'm going overboard."
From his voice it was easy to see he was a Frenchman.
Hastily stripping himself, he went to the gangway, and standing upon
the steps, took a header into the oily brine. He did not come up.
"Sacre nom de Dieu!" cried a sailor. "Young Surcouf be no risen. Ah!
He has been down ze long time. Ah! Let us lower ze boat and find
heem."
"Voila! Voila!" cried another. "He ees drowned!"
_Plunkety, plunk, splash!_ went a boat over the side, and in a moment
more, a half dozen sailors were eagerly looking into the deep, blue
wash of the ocean.
"He no there. I will dive for heem," cried out the fellow who had
first spoken, and, leaping from the boat, he disappeared from view.
In a few moments he re-appeared, drawing the body of the first diver
with him. It was apparently helpless. The prostrate sailor was lifted
to the deck; rubbed, worked over, scrubbed,--but no signs of life were
there.
Meanwhile, a Portuguese Lieutenant, who was pacing the poop, appeared
to be much pleased at what took place.
"The fellow's dead! The beggar's done for,--sure. Overboard with the
rascal! To the waves with the dead 'un!"
"Give us a few more moments," cried the sailors. "He will come to!"
But the Lieutenant smiled satirically.
"To the waves with the corpse! To the sharks with the man from St.
Malo!" cried he.
And all of this the senseless seaman heard--for--he was in a
cataleptic fit, where he could hear, but could not move. The
Portuguese Lieutenant and he were bitter enemies.
"Oh, I tell you, Boys, the fellow's dead!" again cried the Portuguese.
"Over with him!"
So saying, he seized the inert body with his hands; dragged it to the
ship's side; and started to lift it to the rail.
Conscious of all that went on around him, the paralyzed Surcouf
realized that, unless he could make some sign, he had only a few
seconds to live. So, with a tremendous effort--he made a movement of
his limbs. It was noticed.
"Voila! Voila!" cried a French sailor. "He ees alife. No! No! You
cannot kill heem!"
Running forward, he grabbed the prostrate form of Robert Surcouf,
pulled it back upon the deck, and--as the Portuguese Lieutenant went
off cursing--he rubbed the cold hands of the half-senseless man. In a
moment the supposed corpse had opened its eyes.
"Ah!" he whispered. "I had a close call. A thousand thanks to all!"
In five more moments he could stand upon the deck, and--believe me--he
did not forget the Portuguese Lieutenant!
Robert Surcouf was born at St. Malo--just one hundred years after Du
Guay-Trouin, to whom he was related. And like his famous relative he
had been intended for the Church,--but he was always fighting; was
insubordinate, and could not be made to study. In fact, he was what is
known as a "holy terror."