The Corsair King

The storm was subsiding. A calm night followed. The moon rose, shedding a magical lustre upon the sea. Barthelemy stood on the deck of his ship with folded arms, gazing at the stars.

How much wine and blood he had poured to intoxicate himself, but all in vain. Neither wine nor blood gave him peace and forgetfulness. Ah, he could win no forgetfulness, that sweet unconsciousness of the soul, but instead came memory, the anguish of recalling the past.

The stars exert a magical power over the soul; whoever gazes at them long has it drawn whither it does not desire, whither it fears to go.

What did Barthelemy behold in those stars? He saw the years of his youth, painted in sweet, glimmering pictures, as unlike those of the present as if either the one or the other must be a dream.

There were the three girlish figures sporting around him, weaving garlands for his head, fastening them on with kisses, amid merry laughter. How softly the palms were whispering!

They sat together in the little house, the grandmother, in her armchair, telling marvelous, terrible tales of famous warriors; the young girls casting timid glances at the windows, where the darkness of the gathering night appeared, and the fire on the hearth died slowly, while William's heart began to swell with eager desire to battle with these unknown perils, and win for himself a name like those of the heroes glorified by tradition. How softly the palms were whispering!

The moon shone brilliantly. The moonlight nights of the South are brighter than the days of the North. His Julietta, clinging to him, murmured tenderly: "How I love you; we will live and die together." William's head sank on his breast, and he fancied he clasped in his arms the whole kingdom of heaven. How softly the palms were whispering!

The young girl sat on the green shore; her white kerchief fluttered in the wind as she waited every evening for the ship on which her lover had sailed, waited with yearning and prayers. How her heart leaped when, on the distant horizon, she fancied she recognized the slender masts that appeared before her, and measured in her imagination, a hundred times over, the space which yawned between them. Her bosom heaved, her soul burned with joy and, as it came nearer and nearer, she threw kisses—

"What ship is that?" shouted Moody's harsh, strident tones close beside Barthelemy.

Roused from his waking dream, he cast a half startled, half angry glance at the speaker.

"What ship do you mean?"

"The one at which you have been looking steadily for half an hour, the sail appearing yonder on the horizon."

Barthelemy now, for the first time, noticed a vessel whose outlines had blended with the ship seen in his dream, and which seemed to be swiftly approaching.

"Oho! Off with the Fox-Hound!" he cried. "Forward, my lads!"

"Not to-night," shouted one of the crew from the other ship, "the Royal Fortune ought to go. You have drunk enough, we are sober; and even my grandfather's spook wouldn't fight sober."

"What talk is this?"

"The talk that came to us to-night from the rum and sugar, when even the fish got punch from the Royal Fortune."

"You rascals, do I manufacture sugar and brandy that you ask me for it? When the supply is exhausted, get more. Wherever a Portuguese galleon appears on the horizon, you can find all the sugar you want. Follow her and drink your fill."

Meanwhile the vessel had come so near that they could count all her sails in the bright moonbeams; then she tacked and began to recede.

"Follow her!" shouted Barthelemy; "See, she has discovered us and wants to escape. Skyrme, quick, don't let her elude us. Up, up, to the chase my lads!"

The Fox-Hound instantly unfurled every sail; the crew of the larger ship, greedy for prey, rushed on her deck and, aided by a favorable wind, the pursuit of the unknown ship began, which, overhauled more and more by the Fox-Hound, soon disappeared with it below the horizon.

The fugitive was the Swallow, the formidable English man-of-war, commanded by two of the bravest captains, David Oyle and—Rolls.

When Barthelemy had captured all the ships that had been sent against him, the Swallow sailed out alone to seek and conquer him.

On reaching the harbor, they saw in the distance the pirate ships, which were easily recognized, and wanted to attack them at once, but were obliged first to sail around a large shoal known as the "French Sand-bank," and the pirates, mistaking this circuit for flight, rushed in pursuit.

The Swallow merely sailed far enough out to sea to lure the Fox-Hound to a point where the cannonading could not be heard on land, and then allowed herself to be overtaken.

Suddenly the pirates, with loud shouts, ran up the black flag and dashed with the speed of an arrow toward the Swallow. Skyrme stood in the bow, holding his grappling iron ready.

"Barthelemy and death!" roared the whole band.

At the same moment the cannon of the British ship, with a terrible thunder, sent a devastating volley upon the deck of the Fox-Hound, veiling her in a cloud of smoke.

As soon as it lifted, the pirates were seen standing as if dazed by the thunderbolt which had fallen upon them. The deck was strewn with mangled corpses, the black flag was shot from the mast. Skyrme alone had retained his presence of mind.

"Forward, you knaves!" he roared furiously, "what are you staring at? Up with the flag again, and throw your grappling irons."

The pirates quickly hauled up the flag, and Skyrme's stentorian voice shouted: "Forward!"

A second volley thundered down upon them from the British cannon. The flag fell a second time, and with it Skyrme, whose legs were torn off by a cannon ball. The pirates lost their self-control, and rushing to the man at the helm, forced him to turn and spread their sails for flight.

"Do not yield," roared Skyrme, clinging to the mast. "Shame and disgrace upon you! Stick to the ship, and rush upon her decks. Die the death of heroes!"

The pirates, with a last outburst of daring, began to urge the Fox-Hound toward the Swallow, and had almost succeeded in reaching it with their grappling irons, when a third volley echoed on the air. The main-mast was shattered and fell with all the rigging, into the sea.

They were lost. They could fight no longer.

"Throw the flag into the water that it may not fall into the hands of the enemy!" gasped Skyrme, only half of whose gigantic body remained. "Go to the powder room and fire among the kegs!"

Five pirates, with loaded pistols, instantly leaped below, and at the end of a minute, with a roar like thunder, a cloud of smoke rose into the air; otherwise there was no harm done. There was not powder enough to shatter the ship. The five pirates lay in the hold, burnt and swearing, as black as if they had been transformed into devils in advance. The explosion threw the helmsman flat on the deck and, as if he had no other care on his mind, he screamed for his hat, which had gone overboard.

The Englishmen instantly took possession of the wreck, whose deck was strewn with the dead and wounded.

The latter were raised and cared for.

"Don't touch me!" shrieked Skyrme in a frenzy of rage, and seizing a sabre in each hand he began a desperate struggle. The bravest soldiers could scarcely succeed in disarming the mangled giant, who, when his huge hands were chained in order to bind up his wounds, tore off the bandages with his fetters and, by a last tremendous exertion of strength, burst them and—died.

Meanwhile, in order not to waste time, Barthelemy captured a ship coming from India. Her captain, Jonathan Hill, was a jovial fellow who, accepting the pirate's invitation, sat down to breakfast with him, became very friendly after his first glass of wine, and when the second was emptied, asked the company to drink for a wager, in which contest he vowed to land them all under the table.

During this noble rivalry every man was called upon for his favorite song. Hill had two or three.

"Now let us have your favorite, Barthelemy!" he said at last, turning to the pirate chief.

"I cannot sing," replied Barthelemy.

"Oho! But you ought at least to learn the one which is being sung everywhere about you; for instance this:

Barthelemy shuddered.

"Where did you hear that song?"

"Ha! ha! my friend, from a wonderfully beautiful girl, of whom your soul must not even dream; it's a pity that she was in love with someone else."

"Speak! when? where?"

"Well, it was a romantic adventure. I had just anchored off the coast of Hispaniola when the negroes in San Domingo rose against their masters. I had gone on shore with twenty men to get some fresh water, when I heard a shriek in the distance. 'Let's go there!' I said to my companions, 'we'll help if there is need'; and seizing our guns we rushed toward the sound. Three young girls came from behind the hill, pursued by three hundred negroes. The black rascals, shouting and yelling, were fast gaining upon them. The girls could not run fast enough, for they were dragging a large armchair in which sat an old woman. 'Fire!' I shouted, and we sent a volley among the black devils. They scattered, and before they could gather again, we had seized the poor hunted women and rushed to our boats with them. The beautiful girl was as light as a bird, I can tell you. I could have carried her in my arms to the ends of the earth."

"Go on," whispered Barthelemy in an almost unintelligible tone.

"Aha, you are interested in hearing of a beautiful girl? And she thought of you, too, but how? She wrote the song about you, which is not particularly flattering. It seems she had a lover, who had gone on a long voyage and, as she was constantly afraid you would do the poor fellow some mischief, she added whenever she prayed for him the entreaty that God would sink Robert Barthelemy in the depths of the sea. Poor girl, how she loved that man! She asked every sailor we met if he had seen the ship on which William went. My heart ached for her. I left her in Dublin. I don't know whether she has found her lover."

Barthelemy's face had gradually blanched to a corpse-like pallor, his eyes were fixed on vacancy and a strange smile rested on his ghastly face.

"See how the captain is smiling, he has gone crazy!" whispered the pirates, starting up in alarm.

"What has happened to you?" exclaimed Hill, striking Barthelemy on the shoulder. The latter started at the touch, and a look of profound, unutterable sadness drove the smile from his face.

Rising from the table, he grasped Hill by the hand, drew him aside, slipped his arm into his, and walking forward to the bow of the ship, said in a stifled voice:

"Captain, this is the last day of my life! I feel, I know it. You must not ask why. That is my own affair. The pirate has his superstitions as well as the rest of the world. The sailor knows that he is doomed when he meets the spectre of the sea. My soul has such a spectre, and I encountered it to-day. I know not how or where, but I shall fall. In the hold of the captured King Solomon there are ten thousand pounds sterling in gold dust; if I fall, take it—as compensation for your stolen property."

Hill gazed at him from head to foot, and then returned to the others.

"Your captain is so drunk that he doesn't know what he is talking about."

An hour later most of the pirates lay intoxicated under the tables, only two or three remaining erect, disputing the wager with Jonathan Hill, when the man at the helm shouted:

"Sail in sight!"

The cry sobered some of the pirates and, staggering forward, they recognized in the approaching vessel the ship seen the night before.

A strange dread took possession of them all. They hastily shook their drunken messmates from their dreams, pointed to the ship, and hurried to Barthelemy with the tidings. The latter noticed the terror in their faces, and said coldly:

"That is certainly the Portuguese sugar maker which fled from the Fox-Hound yesterday and, in trying to escape into some harbor, has now run between two fires."

"That's no Portuguese trader, sir," said one of the pirates in a trembling voice. "Before I deserted to you, I served on that ship and know her well. It is the Swallow."

"Well?" said Barthelemy, smiling scornfully, "and suppose she is, would my men be too cowardly to meet her?"

"She has one hundred and ten guns and is one of the best sailers in the navy."

"That makes no difference. Who are her captains?"

"One is named David Oyle—the other Rolls."

"Rolls!" repeated Barthelemy starting. "So my presentiment was true. Up, my men! Beat the drums, show the flags, spread every inch of canvas, prepare for the battle! Fear nothing, the god of war is on our side."

The buccaneers seized their weapons, the gunners went to their stations, and Barthelemy withdrew for a few moments to his cabin.

He soon reappeared, wearing on his head a broad-brimmed hat, with a long scarlet plume fastened with a ruby buckle; his costume, studded with gems, was girdled with a Persian shawl; around his neck hung a broad gold chain, sustaining a glittering diamond cross, and in his belt were thrust pistols whose handles were set with pearls. So he came forth, haughty in bearing and magnificently clad, like a bridegroom going to his marriage banquet.

The eyes of all the pirates were fixed upon him. Every one had the firmest belief that nothing was impossible for Barthelemy.

The latter beckoned to Moody and whispered in his ear:

"Old comrade, I need not tell you that this will be the hour of greatest peril which we have ever experienced. We must hold by each other. I have decided to approach the enemy with all sail set, receiving and returning his fire. If he dismasts us, we will try to escape to land; if that fails, we will grapple the enemy and blow both ships into the air."

"Very well," muttered the old pirate, clenching his pipe between his teeth.

"One thing more, Moody. If I should fall, throw my body into the sea. I want to rest on the bottom of the ocean."

The pirate bent his head and growled: "Very well."

Then each man went to his post. Barthelemy drew his sword and, raising his head proudly, cried: "Raise the anchors."

The order was obeyed, the wind filled the sails, and the two ships, with their flags fluttering in the breeze, rapidly approached each other.

On arriving within a certain distance, both turned suddenly. The Swallow fired first, sixty guns thundering at the same instant. The Royal Fortune reserving her fire, did not lose a single sail, and only three of her men fell.

"Up and at them!" shouted Barthelemy, "the advantage is ours"; and as he spoke his forty guns returned the volley of the Swallow, which rocked heavily under the shock.

Just at that moment the report of a pistol echoed from the Swallow's deck and Barthelemy sank lifeless on a cannon. The bullet had pierced his heart.

The man at the helm, Stephenson, saw him fall and, not perceiving the wound, shouted:

"Don't lie down, captain, but look the danger boldly in the face and fight as beseems a man."

Even as he spoke a jet of blood gushed from Barthelemy's breast.

Stephenson, seeing it, leaped from his post in despair, leaving his place at the helm, and throwing himself on Barthelemy's body shouted, sobbing aloud: "He is dead!"

The cry fairly paralyzed the pirates just at the critical moment; nameless terror filled their hearts, and all rushed to their captain's corpse.

Moody thrust them aside right and left till he reached the body, and hastily seizing it, he threw it over the bulwark into the sea.

With Barthelemy, the moving spirit of the pirates fled. Throwing down their weapons, they surrendered. No man knew exactly what he was doing; they sank like a headless body.

Scudamore was the only one who thought of anything. He recognized Rolls on the other ship and, seizing a lighted slow-match, rushed to the powder magazine, but met Henry Glasby standing with a drawn sword at the door.

"What are you doing here?" he shrieked.

"Keeping you back," replied Glasby, wrenching the match from his hand and stamping out the light.

"Oho! Asphlant, Moody, here!" shouted Scudamore. "Here is a traitor. Help me break into the powder magazine."

An uproar followed. Some of the pirates wanted to blow up the ship, others opposed it, and while the two parties were contending Glasby poured water into the kegs, so that the powder was useless.

An hour after the whole crew were prisoners.

Chapter IV

Weighing the ration of bread in his hand one of them said, laughing: "You want us to dry up to save hemp; we shall get so thin on this fare that you can hang us by a thread of yarn."

They were chained together in couples. One began to sing and pray; his companion gave him a violent thrust in the side.

"What do you expect to gain by that?" he asked.

"The Kingdom of Heaven," replied the other humbly.

"You? The Kingdom of Heaven? You passed that port long ago with the rest of us. We're sailing for hell. The captain is already waiting for us, and we shall enter according to our rank, and when we run into harbor there we'll salute him with a salvo of thirteen shots. Hurrah for Barthelemy and his luck."

The poor, penitent sinner did not stop singing and praying, spite of the oaths of his companion, till the latter, in all seriousness, begged the captain of the ship to relieve them from this fellow, whose howling disturbed the good-humor of the others, and who had proved himself unworthy of such distinguished company; or at any rate, for the maintenance of order, to take away his prayer-book.

The most dangerous members of the pirate band were kept prisoners on the Swallow, and among them were Moody and Asphlant. The latter formed a plot to escape from their confinement some night, kill both the captains, and form a still more powerful buccaneer crew.

One of them, however, deemed it advisable to save himself at the expense of the others and betrayed the plan. The prisoners had already managed to file through their chains. Afterwards they were watched day and night.

Scudamore had been left on the Royal Fortune, where he was permitted liberty to move about to care for the wounded pirates, so far as they would permit.

One night Scudamore instigated them to free themselves with his aid, and die fighting rather than be executed. The conspiracy was discovered at the moment of the outbreak and, that it might not be repeated, on reaching the land a trial was held at once in order to make short work of the pirates.

They were divided into two classes, one containing the officers, the other the men; the former had ordered everything, the latter had merely executed their commands. The first was jestingly called the Upper House. The trial of the Upper House ended badly. All were condemned to death; among them Moody, Asphlant, Simpson and Scudamore. Only one was acquitted—Henry Glasby. His noble character was known by reputation; many owed their lives and property to his intercession; he had often attempted, at the risk of his life, to escape from the pirates, but was always captured. The court released him. At last he could join his promised bride.

The end of the notorious band of pirates was noised abroad throughout the entire world. Three young girls went in turn to every church in Dublin, offering grateful thanks to Heaven for having heard their petitions and sunk the terrible corsair king in the sea. Then, in a whisper, they added: "And protect our beloved William, restore him to us."

Robert Barthelemy lay a hundred fathoms beneath the waves amid the coral and sea-shells.

The End