"Thees Wright ees a very hornet for a fight!" sighed the French captain, as he ordered the grappling hooks cast off, and floated his vessel away.

_Poom! Poom!_

There was still some fight left in the little _Saint George_ and her dauntless crew kept pounding iron at the sullen zebeque, which, shattered and torn, filled away and made for the open sea. Her captain had been struck by a piece of sh.e.l.l just as the battle closed; two lieutenants were killed, seventy men were wounded, and eighty-eight had been killed by the accurate shooting of the "Never-Say-Dies" under Captain Fortunatus Wright: the invincible. It had been a gallant battle, gallantly fought by both sides, and gallantly won.

Bold navigator Wright followed his crippled adversary for several miles, then--seeing another French gun-boat threatening his convoy--he returned to the merchant-ships which had accompanied him; sent them back into Leghorn harbor; and followed, next day, with the proud, but battered _Saint George_. It had been a glorious victory.

No sooner had the war-scarred Captain Wright let go his anchor chains in the harbor of Leghorn than he realized that he had only just begun to fight.

"Sapristi!" said an Italian official. "This pirate has deceived us!

This fellow was allowed but four guns upon his ship and he had twelve.

To the jail with this dog! To the prison with this cut-throat!

Sapristi!"

A boat soon rowed to the _Saint George_ and an order was delivered to Captain Wright to the effect that he must bring his vessel into the inner harbor, and, if he did not obey, she would be brought in by Italian gun-boats. Wright--of course--refused. So two big Italian warships sailed up upon either side of the _Saint George_, ran out their guns, and cast anchor.

"I will not move for the entire Italian Government!" roared Captain Fortunatus. "I will appeal to the British consul for protection, as England is at war with France, not with Italy."

Now was a pretty how-de-do. The Italians were furious with the stubborn privateersman for refusing to obey their orders, but, in truth, the way that he had deceived them in smuggling the extra cannon aboard--when under their own eyes--is what had roused their quick, Tuscan tempers. They thought that they had been sharp--well--here was a man who was even sharper than they, themselves. "Sapristi!" they cried. "To the jail weeth heem!"

There was a terrific war of words between the British consul and the officials of that snug, little town. Then, the problem was suddenly solved, for, two powerful, English men-of-war dropped into the harbor: the _Jersey_ of sixty guns, and the _Isis_ mounting fifty. The authorities of Leghorn were told that they had orders from the Admiral of the British, Mediterranean fleet, to convoy any English merchantmen which might be there, and _to release the Saint George immediately_. Wright threw up his cap and cheered, but the officials of Leghorn said things which cannot be printed. Thus the _Saint George_ sailed upon her way, unmolested, and was soon taking more prizes upon the broad waters of the Mediterranean.

The path of the privateer is not strewn with roses. Captain Fortunatus found that his reputation had gone abroad and it had not been to his credit, for, when he put in at Malta he was not allowed to buy provisions for his ship.

"You are a beastly pirate!" said an official. "You cannot purchase anything here for your nefarious business."

"I am a privateer!" answered Wright, with anger.

"A privateer looks just the same to me as a pirate," sarcastically sneered the official. And Captain Fortunatus had to look elsewhere for provisions.

As he cruised along, a big, French cruiser of thirty-eight guns chased the little _Saint George_ as if to gobble her up alive.

"Boys! We shall now have some fun!" said Captain Wright. "I can sail faster than this Frenchy. Just watch me!"

So, when the great beast of a French vessel came lumbering by, Wright played with her like a cat with a mouse; sailed around her in circles; shot guns at her rigging--just to aggravate the men from the sunny land--and then dipped his ensign and went careening away as if nothing had happened. No wonder that the French hated and despised this valiant mariner! Wouldn't you have done so if you had been a Frenchman?

Thus Captain Fortunatus Wright continued upon his privateering, his fighting, and his cruising; bearing terror to his enemies but satisfaction to his friends. His name was as well known among those who sailed the Mediterranean as was that of the great Napoleon in later years, and it was just as cordially hated by those who opposed him. "The Ogre from Leghorn" was one of his t.i.tles, while some applied to him the choice epithet of "The Red Demon from Italy." At any rate this did not seem to worry the veteran sea-dog, who continued to take prizes and make money until the year 1757. Then he disappears from history, for the body of brave, resolute, stubborn, and valiant Captain Fortunatus Wright mysteriously and suddenly vanished from this earth.

What was his end?

Perhaps he perished while boarding the deck of some craft which was manned by men as gallant as his own. Perhaps he fell while stemming the advance of a crew of wild Frenchmen, eager for his blood and remembering the many victories which he had won over their countrymen.

Perhaps, in the wild, wind-tossed wastes of the Mediterranean, his vessel--unable to cope with the elements--was hurled upon some jagged rock and sunk in the sobbing waters of the frothing sea. Perhaps he was captured, hurried to some dark prison, and died in one of those many dungeons which disgrace the cities of the Italian coast. Perhaps he was hanged for privateering.

At any rate, nothing is known of the last days of this dauntless navigator save what can be gathered from an old grave in St. Peter's churchyard, in Liverpool.

Here is the tombstone of the father of Fortunatus Wright, an inscription upon which, tells us that he was a master-mariner of Liverpool; that he defended his ship--on one occasion--most gallantly against two vessels of superior force; and that he died, not by the stroke of a boarding-pike, but safely in his own home. To this is added the information that:

"Fortunatus Wright, his son, was always victorious, and humane to the vanquished. He was a constant terror to the enemies of his king and his country." That is all.

THE DEEP

There's beauty in the deep: The wave is bluer than the sky; And though the lights shine bright on high, More softly do the sea-gems glow That sparkle in the depths below; The rainbow tints are only made When on the waters they are laid.

And sea and moon most sweetly shine Upon the ocean's level brine.

There's beauty in the deep.

There's quiet in the deep.

Above, let tide and tempest rave, And earth-born whirlwinds wake the wave; Above, let care and fear contend With sin and sorrow to the end: Here, far beneath the tainted foam That frets above our peaceful home, We dream in joy, and walk in love, Nor know the rage that yells above.

There's quiet in the deep.

GEORGE WALKER

WINNER OF THE GAMEST SEA FIGHT OF THE ENGLISH CHANNEL

(1727-1777)

"'War is h.e.l.l,' said General William T. Sherman.

But,--better have war than bow to an inferior nation."--_Doctrines of the Strenuous Life._

GEORGE WALKER

WINNER OF THE GAMEST SEA FIGHT OF THE ENGLISH CHANNEL

(1727-1777)

"If Britain can but breed th' men, Who are like Walker made, She'll have no fear of danger, When th' foe starts to invade.

When th' foe starts to invade, my boys, An' creep along th' sh.o.r.e, Where th' curling breakers wash th' cliffs, Where th' breeching combers roar.

Then, lift a gla.s.s to Walker, Of _Glorioso_ fame, _May we ne'er forget his deed lads,_ _May we ne'er forget his name_."

--_Chants from The Channel._--1769.

It was the year 1739, and the good people of Charleston, South Carolina, were in a great state of agitation. Little knots of merchants, sailors, clerks, and dock-hands cl.u.s.tered about each other in the narrow streets. And, above the hub-bub of many voices, could be heard the solemn sentence, oft repeated:

"The pirate is off the narrows! The pirate will soon be here!"

Then all would gaze seaward with startled faces, and would murmur:

"The pirate--the Spanish pirate will be here."

As they thus stood irresolutely, a strongly-knit fellow came walking towards the dock-end. He was clad in gray; his face was deeply seamed by long exposure to the elements; and high top-boots of leather encased his lower limbs.