Nearer and nearer came his own vessel to the lolling Indiaman, and, as she rolled within hailing distance, the bold French sea-dog saw "_beaucoup de monde_"--a great crowd of people--upon the deck of the Englishman.

"My lads!" cried he, turning to his crew. "This _Triton_ is very strong. We are only nineteen. Shall we try to take her by surprise and thus acquire both gain and glory? Or, do you prefer to rot in a beastly English prison-ship?"

"Death or victory!" cried the Frenchmen.

Surcouf smiled.

"This ship shall either be our tomb, or the cradle of our glory," said he. "It is well!"

The crew and pa.s.sengers of the _Triton_ saw only a pilot-brig approaching, as these did habitually (to within twenty or thirty feet) in order to transfer the pilot. Suddenly a few uttered exclamations of surprise and dismay. The French colors rose to the mast of the sorrowful-looking pilot-boat, and with a flash and a roar, a heavy dose of canister and grape ploughed into the unsuspecting persons upon the deck of the Indiaman. Many sought shelter from the hail of iron.

A moment more, and the brig was alongside. A crunching: a splitting of timber as the privateer struck and ground into the bulwarks of the _Triton_, and, with a wild yell--Surcouf leaped upon the deck of his adversary--followed by his eighteen men, with cutla.s.s, dirks and pistols.

There was but little resistance. The Captain of the _Triton_ seized a sword and made a vain attempt to stem the onslaught of the boarders, but he was immediately cut down. The rest were driven below, and the hatches clapped tight above them. In five minutes the affair was over, with five killed and six wounded upon the side of the English: one killed and one wounded among the French. Surcouf had made a master stroke. The _Triton_ was his own.

The many prisoners were placed on board the _Diana_ and allowed to make their way to Calcutta, but the _Triton_ was triumphantly steered to the Mauritius, where Surcouf received a tremendous ovation.

"Hurrah for Robert Surcouf: the sea-hound from St. Malo!" shrieked the townsfolk.

"Your captures are all condemned," said the Governor of the island, a few days after his triumphant arrival. "For you sailed and fought not under a Letter of Marque, so you are a pirate and not a privateer.

Those who go a-pirating must pay the piper. Your prizes belong to the Government of France, and its representative. I hereby seize them."

Surcouf was nonplussed.

"We will take this matter to France, itself," cried he. "And we shall see whether or no all my exertions shall go for nought."

So the case was referred to the French courts, where Robert appeared in person to plead his cause. And the verdict was:

"The captures of Captain Robert Surcouf of St. Malo are all declared 'good prize' and belong to him and the owners of his vessel."

So the wild man from St. Malo was very happy, and he and his owners pocketed a good, round sum of money. But he really was a pirate and not a privateer. _Tenez!_ He had the money, at any rate, so why should he care?

The remaining days of Robert's life were full of battle, and, just a little love, for he returned to his native town during the progress of the law-suit--in order to see his family and his friends, and there became engaged to Mlle. Marie Blaize, who was as good as she was pretty. But the sea sang a song which ran:

"For men must work and women must weep, The home of a hero is on the deep."

which the stout sea-dog could not resist. So he left the charming demoiselle without being married, and 'tis said that she wept bitterly.

Now came his greatest exploit.

On October 7th, 1800, the hardy mariner--in command of the _Confiance_; a new vessel with one hundred and thirty souls aboard--was cruising off the Indian coast. He had a Letter of Marque this time, so all would go well with him if he took a prize. The opportunity soon came.

A sail was sighted early that day, and Surcouf scanned her carefully through his gla.s.s.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "SURCOUF SCANNED HER CAREFULLY THROUGH HIS GLa.s.s."]

"She's a rich prize," said he. "An Indiaman. All hands on deck.

Make sail! Drinks all round for the men! Clear for action!"

He spoke this to himself, for he was aloft, and, climbing to the deck, ordered everybody aft to listen to a speech. When they had collected there, he said, with feeling:

"I suppose each one of you is more than equal to one Englishman? Very good--be armed and ready for boarding--and, as it is going to be hot work, I'll give you one hour for pillage. You can fight, and, behind me, you should be invincible! Strike, and strike hard; and you will be rich."

The _Kent_ had four hundred and thirty-seven souls aboard, says an old chronicler, for she had picked up a great part of the crew of the _Queen_: an East Indiaman which had been destroyed off the coast of Brazil. Her Captain's name was Rivington and he was a fellow of heroic courage.

As the _Confiance_ drew near, the crew of the Englishman gave her a fair broadside and pumped gun after gun into her hull. But the Frenchman held her fire, and bore in close, in order to grapple.

Hoa.r.s.e shouts sounded above the roar of the guns and the splitting of timber, as the two war-dogs closed for action. The crew of the _Kent_ were poorly armed and undisciplined: they had never fought together.

With Surcouf it was far different. His sailors were veterans--they had boarded many a merchantman and privateer before--and, they were well used to this gallant pastime. Besides, each had a boarding-axe, a cutla.s.s,--pistol and a dagger--to say nothing of a blunderbuss loaded with six bullets, pikes fifteen feet long, and enormous clubs--all of this with "drinks all round" and the promise of pillage. No wonder they could fight!

With a wild, ear-splitting whoop the wild men of the French privateer finally leaped over the rail--upon the deck of the Englishman--and there was fierce struggling for possession of her. At the head of his men, Rivington fought like a true Briton,--cutla.s.s in hand, teeth clinched, eyes to the front. He was magnificent.

But what could one man do against many?

Back, back, the French forced the valiant lion, while his crew fell all about in tiers, and, at length, they drove him to the p.o.o.p. He was bleeding from many a wound. He was fast sinking.

"Don't give up the ship!" he cried, casting his eye aloft at the red ensign of his country.

Then he fell upon his face, and the maddened followers of Surcouf swept over the decking like followers of Attila, the terrible Hun.

"Spare the women!" shouted the French Captain above the din--and roar of battle. "Pillage; but spare the women!"

It was well that he had spoken, for his cut-throats were wild with the heat of battle. In twenty minutes the _Kent_ was helpless; her crew were prisoners; and the saucy pennon of France fluttered where once had waved the proud ensign of Great Britain.

Surcouf was happy. Landing the English prisoners in an Arab vessel, he arrived at the Mauritius with his prize in November, and soon took his doughty _Confiance_ to the low sh.o.r.es of France, catching a Portuguese merchant en route, and anchoring at La Roch.e.l.le, on April 13th, 1801.

Rich, famous, respected; he now married the good Mlle. Marie Blaize, and became the owner of privateers and a respected citizen of the Fatherland. Fortune had favored this brave fellow.

As a prosperous ship-owner and ship-builder of his native village--"the Sea-Hound of St. Malo"--closed his adventurous life in the year 1827. And when he quietly pa.s.sed away, the good housewives used to mutter:

"Look you! Here was a man who fought the English as well as they themselves could fight. He was a true son of William the Conqueror.

Look you! This was a King of the Ocean!"

And the gulls wheeled over the grave of the doughty sea-warrior, shrieking,

"He-did-it! He-did-it! He-did-it!"

THE CRY FROM THE Sh.o.r.e

Come down, ye greyhound mariners, Unto the wasting sh.o.r.e!

The morning winds are up,--the G.o.ds Bid me to dream no more.

Come, tell me whither I must sail, What peril there may be, Before I take my life in hand And venture out to sea!

_We may not tell thee where to sail,_ _Nor what the dangers are;_ _Each sailor soundeth for himself,_ _Each hath a separate star;_ _Each sailor soundeth for himself,_ _And on the awful sea,_ _What we have learned is ours alone;_ _We may not tell it thee._

Come back, O ghostly mariners, Ye who have gone before!