shall be laid before the council of the State, and I will confer with
my august friend, here present, upon this important affair, and send
you an answer."
Bowing low, the courteous privateersman withdrew.
"Farewell," cried Old Hickory after his retreating form. "When we meet
again I trust that it will be in the ranks of the American Army."
And in two days' time appeared the following proclamation:
"The Governor of Louisiana, informed that many individuals implicated
in the offences hitherto committed against the United States at
Barrataria, express a willingness at the present crisis to enroll
themselves and march against the enemy.
"He does hereby invite them to join the standard of the United States,
and is authorized to say, should their conduct in the field meet the
approbation of the Major General, that that officer will unite with
the Governor in a request to the President of the United States, to
extend to each and every individual, so marching and acting, a free
and full pardon."
When Lafitte saw these words, he fairly yelled with delight, and it is
said that he jumped into the air, cracking his heels three times
together before he struck the ground.
The orders were circulated among his followers and most of them
readily embraced the pardon which they held out. Thus--in a few
days--many brave men and skillful artillerists flocked to the
red-white-and-blue standard of the United States. And when--a few
months afterwards--Old Hickory and his men were crouched behind a line
of cotton bales, awaiting the attack of a British army (heroes, in
fact, of Sargossa), there, upon the left flank, was the sand-spit King
and his evil crew. Lafitte's eyes were sparkling like an electric
bulb, and the language of his followers does not bear repetition.
It was the morning of January eighth. The British were about to attack
the American Army defending New Orleans, which--under the leadership
of stout Andrew Jackson--now crouched behind the earthworks and cotton
bales, some miles from the city. Rockets shot into the air with a
sizzling snap. The roar of cannon shook the thin palmettos, and wild
British cheers came from the lusty throats of the British veterans of
Spain, as they advanced to the assault in close order--sixty men in
front--with fascines and ladders for scaling the defences. Now a
veritable storm of rockets hissed and sizzed into the American lines,
while a light battery of artillery pom-pomed and growled upon the
left flank. All was silence in the dun-colored embankments.
But look! Suddenly a sheet of flame burst from the earthworks where
lay the buck-skin-clad rangers from Tennessee and Kentucky: men who
had fought Indians; had cleared the forest for their rude log huts,
and were able to hit the eye of a squirrel at one hundred yards.
_Crash! Crash! Crash!_ A flame of fire burst through the pall of
sulphurous smoke, a storm of leaden missiles swept into the red coats
of the advancing British, and down they fell in windrows, like wheat
before the reaper. _Boom! Boom! Boom!_ The cannon growled and spat
from the cotton bales, and one of these--a twenty-four pounder--placed
upon the third embrasure from the river, from the fatal skill and
activity with which it was managed (even in the best of battle),--drew
the admiration of both Americans and British. It became one of the
points most dreaded by the advancing foe. _Boom! Boom!_ It grumbled
and roared its thunder, while Lafitte and his corsairs of Barrataria
rammed home the iron charges, and--stripped to the waist--fought like
wolves at bay.
Two other batteries were manned by the Barratarians, who served their
pieces with the steadiness and precision of veteran gunners. The enemy
crept closer, ever closer, and a column pushed forward between the
levee and the river so precipitously that the outposts were forced to
retire, closely pressed by the coats of red. On, on, they came, and,
clearing the ditch before the earthworks, gained the redoubt through
the embrasures, leaped over the parapet and quickly bayonetted the
small force of backwoodsmen who held this point.
"To the rescue, men," cried Lafitte, at this juncture. "Out and at
'em!"
Cutlass in hand, the privateer called a few of his best followers to
his side; men who had often boarded the decks of an East Indiaman and
were well used to hand-to-hand engagements. With a wild cheer they
leaped over the breastworks and rushed upon the enemy.
The British were absolutely astonished at the intrepidity of this
advance. Pistols spat, cutlasses swung, and one after another, the
English officers fell before the snapping blade of the King of
Barrataria, as they bravely cheered on their men. The practiced
boarders struck the red-coated columns with the same fierceness with
which they had often bounded upon the deck of an enemy, and cheer
after cheer welled above the rattle of arms as the advancing guardsmen
were beaten back. All the energies of the British were concentrated
upon scaling the breastworks, which one daring officer had already
mounted. But Lafitte and his followers, seconding a gallant band of
volunteer riflemen, formed a phalanx which it was impossible to
penetrate. They fought desperately.
It was now late in the day. The field was strewn with the dead and
dying. Still spat the unerring rifles of the pioneers and still
crashed the unswerving volleys from their practiced rifles. "We cannot
take the works," cried the British. "We must give up." And--turning
about--they beat a sad and solemn retreat to their vessels. The great
battle of New Orleans was over, and Lafitte had done a Trojan's share.
In a few days peace was declared between the United States and Great
Britain, and General Jackson--in his correspondence with the Secretary
of War--did not fail to speak in the most flattering terms of the
conduct of the "Corsairs of Barrataria." They had fought like tigers,
and they had been sadly misjudged by the English, who wished to enlist
them in their own cause. Their zeal, their courage, and their skill,
were noticed by the whole American Army, who could no longer
stigmatize such desperate fighters as "criminals." Many had been
sabred and wounded in defence of New Orleans, and many had given up
their lives before the sluggish bayous of the Mississippi. And now,
Mr. Lafitte, it is high time that you led a decent life, for are you
not a hero?
But "murder will out," and once a privateer always a privateer, and
sometimes a pirate.
Securing some fast sailing vessels, the King of Barrataria sailed to
Galveston Bay, in 1819, where he received a commission from General
Long as a "privateer." Not content with living an honest and peaceful
life, he proceeded to do a little smuggling and illicit trading upon
his own account, so it was not long before a United States cruiser was
at anchor off the port to watch his movements. He was now Governor of
Galveston, and considered himself to be a personage of great moment.
Five vessels were generally cruising under his orders, while three
hundred men obeyed his word. Texas was then a Republic.
"Sir"--wrote Lafitte to the Commander of the American
cruiser off the port of Galveston--"I am convinced that
you are a cruiser of the navy, ordered here by your
Government. I have, therefore, deemed it proper to
inquire into the cause of your lying before this port
without communicating your intention. I wish to inform
you that the port of Galveston belongs to and is in the
possession of the Republic of Texas, and was made a port
of entry the 9th day of October, last. And, whereas the
Supreme Congress of the said Republic have thought
proper to appoint me as Governor of this place, in
consequence of which, if you have any demands on said
Government, you will please to send an officer with such
demands, who will be treated with the greatest
politeness. But, if you are ordered, or should attempt,
to enter this port in a hostile manner, my oath and duty
to the Government compel me to rebut your intentions at
the expense of my life.
"Yours very respectfully,
"J. LAFITTE."
But to this the American officer paid no attention. Instead, he
attacked a band of Lafitte's followers, who had stationed themselves
on an island near Barrataria with several cannon, swearing that they
would perish rather than surrender to any man. As they had committed
piracy, they were open to assault. Twenty were taken, tried at New
Orleans, and hung,--the rest escaped into the cypress swamps, where
it was impossible to arrest them.
When Lafitte heard of this, he said with much feeling:
"A war of extermination is to be waged against me. I, who have fought
and bled for the United States. I who helped them to win the battle of
New Orleans. My cruisers are to be swept from the sea. I must turn
from Governor of Galveston, and privateer to pirate. Then--away--and
let them catch me if they can."
Now comes the last phase of his career. Too bad that he could not have
died honestly!
Procuring a large and fast-sailing brigantine, mounting sixteen guns,
and having selected a crew of one hundred and sixty men, the desperate
and dangerous Governor of Galveston set sail upon the sparkling waters
of the Gulf, determined to rob all nations and neither to give quarter
nor to receive it.
But luck was against him. A British sloop-of-war was cruising in the
Mexican Gulf, and, hearing that Lafitte, himself, was at sea, kept a
sharp lookout at the mast-head for the sails of the pirate.
One morning as an officer was sweeping the horizon with his glass he
discovered a long, dark-looking vessel, low in the water: her sails as
white as snow.
"Sail off the port bow," cried he. "It's the Pirate, or else I'm a
landlubber."
As the sloop-of-war could out-sail the corsair, before the wind, she
set her studding-sails and crowded every inch of canvas in chase.
Lafitte soon ascertained the character of his pursuer, and, ordering
the awnings to be furled, set his big square-sail and shot rapidly
through the water. But the breeze freshened and the sloop-of-war
rapidly overhauled the scudding brigantine. In an hour's time she was
within hailing distance and Lafitte was in a fight for his very life.
_Crash!_
A cannon belched from the stern of the pirate and a ball came
dangerously near the bowsprit of the Englishman.
_Crash! Crash!_
Other guns roared out their challenge and the iron fairly hailed upon
the decks of the sloop-of-war; killing and wounding many of the crew.
But--silently and surely--she kept on until within twenty yards of the
racing outlaw.
Now was a deafening roar. A broadside howled above the dancing
spray--it rumbled from the port-holes of the Englishman--cutting the
foremast of the pirate in two; severing the jaws of the main-gaff; and
sending great clods of rigging to the deck. Ten followers of Lafitte
fell prostrate, but the great Frenchman was uninjured.
A crash, a rattle, a rush, and the Englishman ran afoul of the
foe--while--with a wild cheer, her sailors clambered across the
starboard rails; cutlasses in the right hand, pistols in the left,
dirks between their teeth.
"Never give in, men!" cried the King of Barrataria. "You are now with
Lafitte, who, as you have learned, does not know how to surrender."
But the Britishers were in far superior numbers. Backwards--ever
backwards--they drove the desperate crew of the pirate ship. Two
pistol balls struck Lafitte in the side which knocked him to the
planking; a grape-shot broke the bone of his right leg; he was
desperate, dying, and fighting like a tiger. He groaned in the agony
of despair.
The deck was slippery with blood as the Captain of the boarders rushed
upon the prostrate corsair to put him forever out of his way. While he
aimed a blow a musket struck him in the temple, stretching him beside
the bleeding Lafitte, who, raising himself upon one elbow, thrust a
dagger at the throat of his assailant.
But the tide of his existence was ebbing like a torrent; his brain was
giddy; his aim faltered; the point of the weapon descended upon the
right thigh of the bleeding Englishman. Again the reeking steel was
upheld; again the weakened French sea-dog plunged a stroke at this
half-fainting assailant.
The dizziness of death spread over the sight of the Monarch of the
Gulf of Mexico. Down came the dagger into the left thigh of the
Captain; listlessly; helplessly; aimlessly; and Lafitte--the robber of
St. Malo--fell lifeless upon the rocking deck. His spirit went out
amidst the hoarse and hollow cheers of the victorious Jack-tars of the
clinging sloop-of-war.
"The palmetto leaves are whispering, while the gentle trade-winds blow,
And the soothing, Southern zephyrs, are sighing soft and low,
As a silvery moonlight glistens, and the droning fire-flies glow,
Comes a voice from out the Cypress,
'Lights out! Lafitte! Heave ho!'"
THE PIRATE'S LAMENT
I've been ploughin' down in Devonshire,
My folks would have me stay,
Where the wheat grows on th' dune side,
Where th' scamperin' rabbits play.
But th' smells come from th' ocean,
An' th' twitterin' swallows wheel,
As th' little sails bob landwards,
To th' scurryin' sea-gulls' squeal.
_Oh, it's gold, gold, gold,_
_That's temptin' me from here._
_An' it's rum, rum, rum,_
_That makes me know no fear._
_When th' man-o-war is growlin',_
_As her for'ard swivels roar,_
_As th' decks are black with wounded,_
_An' are runnin' red with gore._
I've been goin' to church o' Sundays,
An' th' Parson sure can talk,
He's been pleadin' for my soul, Sir,
In Paradise to walk.
An' I kind o' have th' shivers,
Come creepin' down my spine,
When th' choir breaks into music,
While th' organ beats th' time.
_But it's gold, gold, gold,_
_That glitters in my eye,_
_An' it's rum, rum, rum,_
_That makes me cheat an' lie,_
_When th' slaver's in th' doldrums,_
_Th' fleet is closin' round,_
_An' th' Captain calls out, furious,_
_"Now, run th' hound aground!"_
No matter how I farm, Sir,
No matter how I hoe,
Th' breezes from th' blue, Sir,
Just kind uv make me glow.
When th' clipper ships are racin',
An' their bellyin' sails go past,
I just leave my team an' swear, Sir,
I'll ship before th' mast.
_For it's gold, gold, gold,_
_That makes me shiver, like,_
_An' it's rum, rum, rum,_
_That makes me cut an' strike,_
_When th' boarders creep across th' rail,_
_Their soljers all in line,_
_An' their pistols spittin' lead, Sir,_
_Like er bloomin' steam engine._
So I'll kiss my plough good-bye, Sir,
I'll throw my scythe away,
An' I'm goin' to th' dock, Sir,
Where th' ships are side th' quay.
Shake out th' skull an' cross-bones,
Take out th' signs of Marque,
An' let's cut loose an' forage,
In a rakish ten-gun barque.
THE MEN BEHIND THE GUNS
A cheer and salute for the Admiral, and here's to the Captain bold,
And never forget the Commodore's debt, when the deeds of might are
told!
They stand to the deck through the battle's wreck, when the great
shells roar and screech--
And never they fear; when the foe is near, to practice what they
preach:
But, off with your hat, and three times three, for the war-ship's
true-blue sons,
The men who batter the foe--my Boys--the men behind the guns.
Oh, light and merry of heart are they, when they swing into port,
once more,
When, with more than enough of the "green-backed stuff," they start
for their leave-o'-shore;
And you'd think, perhaps, that these blue-bloused chaps who loll
along the street,
Are a tender bit, with salt on it, for some fierce chap to eat--
Some warrior bold, with straps of gold, who dazzles and fairly stuns
The modest worth of the sailor boys,--the lads who serve the guns.
But, say not a word, till the shot is heard, that tells of the
peace-blood's ebb,
Till the long, low roar grows more and more, from the ships of the
"Yank" and "Reb."
Till over the deep the tempests sweep, of fire and bursting shell,
And the very air is a mad Despair, in the throes of a living Hell:
Then, down, deep down, in the mighty ship, unseen by the mid-day suns,
You'll find the chaps who are giving the raps--the men behind the guns.
--ROONEY (_Adapted_).
RAPHAEL SEMMES
DESPOILER OF AMERICAN COMMERCE
(1809-1877)
"Sit apart, write; let them hear or let them forbear;
the written word abides, until, slowly and unexpectedly,
and in widely sundered places, it has created its own
church."--RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
RAPHAEL SEMMES
DESPOILER OF AMERICAN COMMERCE
(1809-1877)
"We started from Ole England fer to cripple up our foes,
We started from Ole England fer to strike some rapid blows,
So we coasted to the Azores where we ran a packet down,
And then to the Bermudas, where we burned the _Royal Crown_,
Then we scampered to Bahia, fer to sink the gay _Tycoon_,
And to scuttle the _Justina_, before the Harvest Moon.
We hit across the ocean to race by Cape Good Hope
And in Madagascar channel towed _Johanna_ with a rope.
Away off at Sumatra, we had lots an' lots uv fun,
When we winged the _Pulo Condor_; but say,--we had a run,
An' a pretty bit uv fightin', when we took the _Emma Jane_
Off th' heated coast uv India, near th' bendin' sugar cane.
Yes, we did some privateerin', as wuz privateerin', sure,
An' we scuttled many a schooner, it wuz risky business pure.
But--stranger--we'd be laughin', jest filled with persiflage,
If we hadn't had a seance with that bloomin' _Kearsarge_."
--_Song of the Chief Mate of the Alabama._--1864.
It was off the east coast of South America. The year was 1864, and a
little schooner--the _Justina_--bobbed along, with the flag of the
United States Government flying jauntily from her gaff.
Suddenly there was a movement on deck. Men rushed hither and thither
with some show of excitement. Glasses were brought out and
raised,--smothered cries of excitement were mingled with orders to
trim sails. All eyes looked with suspicion and dismay at a long,
graceful vessel which was seen approaching from the northward.
"The _Alabama_!" cried one.
"Yes, the cursed _Alabama_!" answered another. "We are lost!"
On, on came the pursuing vessel; a cloud of black smoke rolling from
her smoke-stack; her white sails bellying in the fresh breeze; for she
was rigged like a barquentine, with a lean body, single smoke-stack,
and a polished rifle-gun winking in the sun-rays upon her bow. On, on,
she came, and then--_puff! boom!_--a single shot came dancing in front
of the slow-moving schooner.
"Pull down the colors!" shouted the Captain of the _Justina_. "We're
done for!"
Down came the ensign of the United States, and the little schooner was
luffed so that she stood still. The _Alabama_ ranged up alongside, a
boat soon brought a crew of boarders, and, before many moments, she
was in the hands of Captain Raphael Semmes and his men.
That evening the _Alabama_ steamed southward, the crew of the
_Justina_ was on board, her rich cargo filled the hold, and a black
curl of smoke and hissing flames marked where the proud, little
merchantman had once bobbed upon the rolling water. Raphael Semmes was
happy, for his work of destroying the commerce of the United States
Navy had progressed far better than he had hoped.
[Illustration: RAPHAEL SEMMES.]
"Men!" cried he, "The cause of the Confederate States of America
was never brighter upon the ocean than now. Give three times three for
Jeff. Davis--his soldiers and his sailors!"
A rousing cheer rose above the waves, and the proud privateer bounded
onward upon her career of destruction and death. The _Alabama_ was in
the zenith of her power.
* * * * *
The scene now shifts to the harbor of Cherbourg, upon the western
coast of France. The _Alabama_ lay there,--safely swinging at her
anchor-chains within the break-water. She had come in to refit, for
her bottom was much befouled by a long cruise, which had been
successful. Built at Birkenhead, England, for the Confederate States
Government, she set sail in August, 1862; and had been down the coast
of North and South America; around the Cape of Good Hope to India, and
back to the shores of France. Sixty-six vessels had fallen into her
clutches, and of these fifty-two had been burned; ten had been
released on bond; one had been sold, and one set free. Truly she had
had a marvellous trip.
As she slumbered on--like a huge sea-turtle--a black cloud of smoke
appeared above the break-water, and a low-bodied United States cruiser
slowly steamed into the harbor. She nosed about, as if looking for
safe anchorage, and kept upon the opposite side of the little bay.
Immediately all hands clambered to the side of the Confederate
cruiser, and glasses were levelled at this vessel which carried the
flag of opposition.
"She's stronger than we are," said one of the crew.
Another grinned.
"Look at her eleven-pounders," said he. "I see her name, now. She's
the _Kearsarge_, and about our tonnage, but I reckon that she carries
more men."
Captain Semmes, himself, had come up from below, and was examining the
intruder with his glass.
"Boys!" said he, "we've got to fight that ship."
And, as he withdrew into the cabin, all seemed to be well pleased with
this announcement.
The _Kearsarge_, commanded by Captain John A. Winslow, had been lying
at anchor in the Scheldt, off Flushing, Holland, when a gun roared
from the forward part of the ship, warning those officers who had gone
ashore, to come on board. Steam was raised, and, as soon as all were
collected on deck, the Captain read a telegram from Mr. Dayton, the
Minister to France from the United States. It said:
"The _Alabama_ has arrived at Cherbourg. Come at once or she will
escape you!"
"I believe that we'll have an opportunity to fight her," said Captain
Winslow. "So be prepared."
At this, all of his sailors cheered wildly.
The _Kearsarge_ was a staunch craft; she was two hundred and
thirty-two feet over all, with thirty-three feet of beam, and carried
seven guns; two eleven inch pivots, smooth bore; one thirty-pound
rifle, and four light thirty-two pounders. Her crew numbered one
hundred and sixty-three men. The sleeping _Alabama_ had but one
hundred and forty-nine souls on board, and eight guns: one sixty-eight
pounder pivot rifle, smooth bore; one one hundred-pounder pivot, and
six heavy thirty-two pounders. So, you see, that the two antagonists
were evenly matched, with the superior advantage of the numbers of men
on the _Kearsarge_ offset by the extra guns of her opponent.
Most of the officers upon the _Kearsarge_ were from the merchant
service, and, of the crew, only eleven were of foreign birth. Most of
the officers upon the _Alabama_ had served in the navy of the United
States; while nearly all of her crew were either English, Irish, or
Welsh. A few of the gunners had been trained aboard the _Excellent_: a
British training ship in Portsmouth Harbor. Her Captain--Raphael
Semmes--was once an officer in the navy of the United States. He had
served in the Mexican War, but had joined the Southern cause, as he
was a Marylander. He was an able navigator and seaman.
The _Kearsarge_ cruised about the port of Cherbourg, poked her bows
nearly into the break-water, and then withdrew. The French neutrality
law would only allow a foreign vessel to remain in a harbor for
twenty-four hours.
"Will she come out?" was the question now upon every lip aboard the
_Kearsarge_. "Will she come out and fight? Oh, just for one crack at
this destroyer of our commerce!"
But she did not come out, and the _Kearsarge_ beat around the English
Channel in anxious suspense.
Several days later Captain Winslow went ashore and paid a visit to
the United States Commercial Agent.
"That beastly pirate will not fight," he thought. "All she wants to do
is to run away."
Imagine how his eyes shone when he was handed the following epistle!
"C.S.S. _Alabama_, CHERBOURG, June 14th, 1864.
"To A. BONFILS, Esqr., Cherbourg;
"SIR:--I hear that you were informed by the United
States Consul that the _Kearsarge_ was to come to this
port solely for the prisoners landed by me, and that she
was to depart in twenty-four hours. I desire you to say
to the U. S. Consul that my intention is to fight the
_Kearsarge_ as soon as I can make the necessary
arrangements. I hope these will not detain me more than
until to-morrow evening, or after the morrow morning at
furthest. I beg she will not depart before I am ready to
go out.
"I have the honor to be, very respectfully,