The gentleman to whom I am indebted for the story of the old pirate,
“Barbe Rouge,” is now a well-known artist and author, and as I knew him
to be the hero of several adventures, I was anxious to obtain a story
from him. Having gained an introduction to him, I put myself in his way
when passing through Norwich. After a long chat, he expressed a wish to
inspect my caravan, which I had left at Thorpe, the prettiest village
in Norfolk, so we strolled down to it together.
Being of a roving and adventurous disposition, he showed great delight
at my house on wheels and its comfortable internal arrangements, and
having friends at Lynn whom he wished to visit, he begged to be allowed
to accompany me on my journey as far as the borders of the county. I
readily acquiesced, and found him such a companionable fellow, that our
roundabout journey to Lynn--distant some fifty miles by the nearest
road from Norwich--actually took us _three weeks_ to accomplish. My
comrade was delighted with the gipsy life, and but that his leisure
time was at an end, he would have accompanied me further on my
progress through the fens of Lincolnshire.
We met with several adventures while we were together, one of which I
must relate.
Harry Nilford (such was my friend’s name) strolled out one evening to
indulge in a bath, while I stayed in to cook the supper, it being my
day for _chef_ duty; and as we were camped within a mile of the sea,
between Blakeney and Morston, I expected him back in about an hour
or rather more, but it was upwards of two hours before he returned,
looking very excited. He had taken my gun with him, thinking it
very probable that he might come across a stray rabbit for the pot,
and I naturally inferred, from his sparkling eyes, that he had been
successful in his quest.
“What do you think I’ve shot, old fellow?”
“Rabbits?”
“No; guess again. Something bigger and rarer.”
“Well, then, a hare?”
“No--bigger and rarer still,” said he, smiling at my puzzled look.
I guessed all kinds of things, but was every time wrong, so I asked the
question--
“Is it fish, fowl, or fur?” I have heard of large fish being shot, so
included it in my query.
“Well,” said my friend, “it is fur, and I might almost say fish also,
for it is a splendid swimmer.”
I puzzled over the riddle for some time, and then, after having failed
in guessing an otter, gave it up as something beyond me.
“Then if you cannot guess, or even get near it, I will tell you. It
was _a seal_--a very rare visitor to this coast indeed, in fact, such
a thing has not been seen for many years along the hundred miles of
coast which bounds the county of Norfolk.”
He had shot the seal as it flippered itself along the yielding sand,
upon which it had been basking, to make its escape to the sea. Both
barrels, however, did not suffice to kill it, and the animal got to the
water, and would have made its escape, although severely wounded, had
not Harry rushed into the sea and given the soft-eyed seal its quietus
with the butt of the gun.
It was too heavy for him to bring away, and was, moreover, covered with
blood, so he dug a shallow trench in the sand, and placing the body in
it, covered it up and left it.
We arranged to go down to the beach early in the morning and bring our
prize back in triumph; accordingly, about seven o’clock next day, we
went, but to our astonishment the seal was gone!
Could it have revived and made its escape?
We searched about for signs.
We noticed footmarks leading down to the water’s edge, and also the
prints of a dog’s paws in the sand, and, lower down still, we saw where
the keel of a boat had cut its way when rowed ashore and beached.
We put these things together, and came to the conclusion that my friend
had been watched and the seal stolen after his departure. Anyway it
was gone; and although we inquired at both Blakeney and Morston, and
offered a reward, we could learn no tidings of the missing animal.
We went sorrowfully on our way, and two days after were at Burnham
Thorpe (Nelson’s birthplace), when we heard at the village inn of a
hairy mermaid being exhibited at Brancaster. We took no notice of the
news but when we reached the village with a Roman name, we found the
people quite excited over the wonderful mermaid, and with numerous
other visitors paid our pennies to go in and see the curiosity--when
behold, it was Harry’s seal!
Of course Harry demanded it, but the men would not give it up, and as
Brancaster does not contain a policeman, force had to be resorted to.
My friend was a big, strong fellow, and I being scarcely less in size
or strength, we made a good fight of it, and placed the seal in my
van and made off. The villagers became very abusive and threatening,
and many missiles were thrown at us, but we got away as quickly as
possible, I handling the reins, and Harry keeping off the crowd with a
gun in one hand and a whip, which he used pretty freely, in the other.
We had three panes of glass broken, sundry cuts and bruises, and a
black eye, which latter fell to my lot, on our side. We could not quite
tell the number of the evening’s casualties; all we knew was that more
than one bloody nose and contused cheek were to be seen.
The seal was skinned and dressed in Lynn, and Harry had a waistcoat
made for himself, and a fine lappet cap for me, which has been a great
comfort in winter travelling, when the easterly winds are blowing.
The following story of “Barbe Rouge” he kindly touched up, at my
request, after I had written it, as I received it from his lips while
in a mesmeric state, for, being a story within a story, it is rather
difficult of interpretation. The case stands thus: “Barbe Rouge,” a
piratical sea dog of the eighteenth century, enacted a tragedy, of
which he left a record, which record, a hundred odd years later, was
found by my friend, Harry Nilford, on the Isle of Jethou, one of the
Channel Isles. The story of the tragedy he committed to memory, and in
a hypnotic state recounted to me.[A] Being a complex story I have, as I
mention above, requested him to touch it up here and there. This he has
done with the following result.
[A] Those of my readers who would like to read the adventures of Harry
Nilford should obtain _Jethou, or Crusoe Life in the Channel Isles_,
published by Messrs. Jarrold and Sons, 10 and 11, Warwick Lane,
London, E.C.