The story hunter

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.

BARBE ROUGE.

Visitors to Guernsey will remember that opposite the entrance to the Harbour of St. Peter Port, at a distance of about three miles, lies a curiously-shaped island called Jethou, which rises from the sea in a graceful curve, and looks at first sight like an immense turtle, or a huge floating dish-cover. It is a small island, probably not more than a third of a mile long and a quarter of a mile broad, but is so steep, that in the centre it reaches an altitude approaching three hundred feet.

It is a solid granite island, covered in most parts with bracken and furze, which makes it a very paradise for the rabbits with which it abounds. There are two small stone-built houses upon it, around one of which is a prolific fruit and vegetable garden. There are out-buildings attached, and at a distance of nearly a quarter of a mile from the white house is an apology for a harbour.

It is a remarkably nice place for a holiday—sunny, healthy, quiet, and not too far from aid in case of sickness or accident; but it is not a resort for the general public, being private property.

It was on this island that in 186— a young Norfolk gentleman elected to spend twelve months as a recluse, or as he was pleased to term it—a Crusoe.

He went to the island for two reasons; one of which was the anticipation of a happy and adventurous time, and the other the winning of a wager (that he would not leave the island before twelve months had expired). In neither object was he disappointed.

While papering the walls of his little sitting-room, he had the good fortune to find a parchment, hidden away in a niche in the wall, which had hitherto been concealed by the thick covering of wall-paper, of which he peeled off no less than five layers. He had read Edgar Allen Poe’s story of “The Golden Beetle,” and finding a parchment covered with hieroglyphics, he surmised that if he could only decipher it there might be as thrilling a sequel as followed on the solution of the cryptogram in Poe’s story.

Unfortunately he was not so clever as the man in the story, and failed—unassisted—in discovering the secret of the parchment.

The puzzling document was a list of some sort which the finder could not understand, as it was in French; beneath it was a drawing of a square with a human skull in the centre, from which radiated lines ending in certain letters, and having figures upon the rays.

The solution was discovered, however, after the young Crusoe had been on the island for upwards of twelve months (he stayed eighteen months in all), and in a most unexpected manner.

Being a Crusoe, it was not at all a surprising matter that he should have a man Friday, and one day during a storm a Friday really did appear, in the form of a French sailor, whose little vessel was wrecked upon the hostile granite shores of Jethou. The man saved, the sole survivor of a crew of four, was at once christened Monday, from the day on which he was saved. This man (Alec Ducas) spoke very fair English, and the two young men soon became fast friends.

One day the young Englishman, whose name was Harry Nilford, bethought him of his curious parchment, and producing it from his box, asked his friend if he could decipher it. The first part of the document was quickly read, and no doubt astonished the finder. It was as follows—

“This is the Last Will of Jean Tussaud (sometimes known as Barbe Rouge), Master Mariner, of C——.

“The person who is lucky enough to find my treasure-house, I hereby declare to be my heir, and whatsoever he finds shall be his, and for his sole benefit.

“My chief mate, William Trefry, a Cornishman, wished to become my heir before my death, but we could not agree upon that point, although I gave him possession of my petites fées (little fairies) and a key, also a valuable knife, for an inheritance. The bearings of my treasure-house are these.”

Then followed the curious drawing with the death’s-head centre, followed by the words—“The lucky one will find the following property.”

Here followed a long list of the articles stowed away; winding up with the words—“and my box of pretty petites fées.”

For weeks the two young men puzzled their wits over the document; but to abbreviate this narrative,[B] they ultimately succeeded in discovering the place of concealment.

It was in the centre of the garden, at the rear of the house, and after great toil in digging they came upon the skeleton of a man, and were about to fill up the large hole they had made, imagining, in their horror, that they had come upon a grave instead of a treasure-house, when one of them saw a glittering something protruding from the sternum of the skeleton, which proved to be the jewelled haft of a dagger, which had undoubtedly given the death-blow to the tenant of the grave, being driven in with immense force, up to the hilt, quite through the breast-bone. Clearing the bony relic, they found, suspended around the neck, by a length of silver chain, which was much oxidized, a couple of rusty keys.

This discovery led them to connect the skeleton with the mate, Trefry, mentioned in the document, and they continued their search, which was rewarded by their finding a large collection of miscellaneous articles, among which were numerous weapons, bundles of gold lace, several cups of the same metal, packages of once costly clothing and fine linen (now mouldering with age), copes, chasubles, and a beautiful jewelled mitre wrapped in a bullock’s hide, boots, sashes, etc.

Beneath all these, in a hollowed space, was a chest securely padlocked, which was duly hoisted out and burst open, and in it were discovered seventeen bags, each containing a hundred Spanish doubloons, three parchment books, and last, but far from least, a small golden casket of exquisite workmanship, filled quite full of precious stones in their natural, rough state, except a very few which were cut and polished. In all they would have filled a pint measure. These were Barbe Rouge’s petites fées—his little fairies.

Now what I have recounted so far is a kind of prologue to what follows. The purport of my story is to show how the skeleton came in the treasure vault, which was opened by our good friends, Nilford and Ducas, with whom, however, we have nothing further to do.

I must point out that the following narrative is what I have gathered from the pages of one of the three books found in “Barbe Rouge’s” chest, two of them being logs of his voyages (and such voyages), and the third a kind of private diary. I have pieced together the somewhat disconnected jottings of Red Beard into the following story, drawing slightly on my imagination to fill in the gaps.

On the morning of April 28, 175—, the vessel owned and commanded by “Barbe Rouge,” called La Chauve-souris, was lying quietly at anchor in the little haven at the back of the lofty pinnacle of rocks known as La Creviçhon, for she was to sail on the morrow, or the second day at latest, for a cruise in the West Indies. She was a smart little schooner, mounting ten guns, and carried the large complement of thirty-eight men, for she was what the French Government were pleased to call a licensed privateer, although, if public report went for anything, she might with more propriety have been stigmatized as something with a much more ugly name. Whatever people might call her was no concern of Jean Tussaud (which was Barbe Rouge’s real name), he called her a privateer, and so we also will call her, for the word pirate is not at all a nice-sounding word.

She had some weeks previously returned from a very prosperous cruise in the Mediterranean, and although she came home short-handed, to the extent of eight men, she brought with her, as some sort of human equivalent, two very fine women, both of whom were young and handsome.

One was a fair Circassian damsel called Retté, and her companion, an English girl named Mary Whitford. These fair ones Barbe Rouge had taken from an Algerian vessel which he intercepted on her voyage from Cyprus to Dargelli, whither the girls were being conveyed to the sheik Obdurrah, as reinforcements for his harem. How the girl Mary Whitford could thus be sold Tussaud’s book says not; but he captured her, and brought her and Retté to Jethou, where he took them ashore to his stone house, much to the regret of William Trefry, the mate, who had fallen greatly in love with Mary during the voyage home. Barbe Rouge saw what was in the wind, and watched the couple unnoticed, but with a hawky, jealous eye.

Trefry feared his skipper, for he had seen him perform cruel deeds that made the boldest heart on board tremble, and because Barbe Rouge’s giant form possessed the strength of two men; so, fearing any personal encounter, he resolved by stratagem to carry out a scheme for Mary’s release which he had been elaborating during the last few days of the voyage.

He foresaw that the two girls would be immediately taken ashore on the arrival of La Chauve-souris at Jethou, and with this in view he arranged two or three plots with Mary, by which they might escape together to Guernsey; they also arranged a set of private signals with which to communicate with each other.

As anticipated, an hour after reaching the haven of Jethou, Mary and Retté were taken ashore, and, alas for their hopes, the girls were quartered in a room which did not overlook the haven; and furthermore, they were only allowed out for exercise after dusk, when their jealous protector, Barbe Rouge, accompanied them for a walk round the island.

Thus were their signals of no more avail than a wink in the dark.

The days sped rapidly; boats went to and from St. Peter Port bringing stores and taking various goods for sale. Half-a-dozen carpenters and a smith, besides the sailmaker and others, were busy with the ship’s hull and rigging, refitting and altering, repairing and renewing all kinds of gear, and over these men was placed Trefry, to whom the whole crew looked up as skipper during Barbe Rouge’s frequent and prolonged absences ashore on Jethou.

The young Englishman gnawed his very heart away in devising schemes for Mary’s release, and his eyes grew weary with looking for the preconcerted signals from her, but none ever appeared.

Could she have forgotten him?

Was it a case of “out of sight out of mind”? No, that could never be, for the girl’s anxious desire was to escape, and reach her dear old Yorkshire home, from which she had been absent nearly two years. She had left it to take a trip on her uncle’s bark, The Develin, from Whitby to Samos in the Grecian Archipelago, in company with her brother, who was two years her senior.

They reached Samos safely, but one morning, her uncle and brother being ashore, two native boatmen came alongside, one of whom, in fair English, said the old gentleman had sent them “to fetch Mary, to show her some of the sights of the place.” Mary accordingly seated herself in their boat, but the men took her to another port, a league up the coast, and thus kidnapped her.

As the days before sailing to the West grew fewer, Trefry became nearly mad with his pent-up feelings; but in the presence of Barbe Rouge had to dissemble and assume as calm a countenance and manner as he possibly could, although at heart he could have wished the old pirate hung at the end of his own gaff.

Only two or three days intervened before the date of sailing, and his very appetite forsook him, and he could not help glaring at the skipper whenever they met; but Barbe Rouge, with an imperturbable countenance, took no notice of the mate’s despair, although he well knew what was passing in his heart; he saw the young fellow’s terrible struggle with himself, and gloated over it.

Trefry dared not make an open show of concern about Mary, as even at the last moment there might arrive the opportunity for a rescue, so he held his peace till the morning of April 28th.

As the first grey streak of dawn appeared in the N.E. Trefry stepped on deck and strained his eyes towards the stone house on shore. It was too dark to discern anything in the form of a signal, but he looked ever and anon, and to his great joy did not look in vain.

He could scarce believe his eyes when he saw something appear out of and above a chimney on the old house. It was but a wisp of rag, but it was quite sufficient to denote its purpose as a signal, and Trefry knew its meaning to be an urgent appeal for succour.

One or two of the crew also saw it, and it soon became known to the whole ship’s company that the girls were making signals for help; but, though comments were many, no one dared take any action, for the crew of La Chauve-souris was, as often happens on privateers and suchlike vessels, divided into little coteries, each afraid of, or watching the actions of the others.

Barbe Rouge had devotees numbering about twenty, while those whom Trefry could rely upon to take his view of anything on the tapis, he could count on the fingers of his two hands.

Moreover only one day remained. What could he do?

He thought over many schemes for liberating the girls, but could not hit upon one likely to be successful; so, finding his own imaginative faculties at fault, he called two or three of his more intimate cronies together, and placed the case before them in a council in the captain’s cabin, while one kept watch.

Many suggestions were made, of various degrees of practical merit, some indeed so sieve-like that they would not hold the water of common-sense at all. Trefry soon found that, great burly brute as he was, Barbe Rouge had a strong following of staunch men on board; men who loved the skipper because their natures were coarse and rough, and who saw in him the beau-ideal of brute strength, stature, and power to command: his very courage and daring delighted them. Sentiment, and the wrongs of others, were nothing to such as they.

Trefry found that, all told, he could only count on eleven others besides himself to help him in the contemplated carrying off of the two girls; but, to better equalize the numbers, he determined, after dark, to give leave to six or eight of the skipper’s staunchest men to take the long-boat, and pull across to Guernsey for a spree.

This was agreed to as part of the programme; and it was also agreed, that at eleven o’clock that night he should go ashore alone to the stone house, and bring off the girls, while his eleven comrades should arm themselves (from the arm-chest, of which he had the key), and make themselves masters of the ship while he was ashore.

The day passed slowly by, and the shades of night at length fell, draping its mantle of deepening blue over the pretty little island.

At eleven o’clock Trefry, well armed, went ashore as arranged.

The night was dark, for there was no moon, and calm, for there was but little wind.

Quietly he crept round the side of the house, and taking off his boots went up the stone steps leading to the garden at the rear, where he quickly became aware of a faint glow of light rising from behind a tremendous mound of earth in the very centre of the garden.

He paused and listened; then silently crept across the garden on all fours to the mound, up which he as noiselessly climbed, and peeped over.

He beheld a great excavation several feet square, from which the light came, and peering over the edge, he saw on the opposite side of the wall of the hole, the shadow of Barbe Rouge’s great head and beard, projected by the light of a lantern placed on this side of the pit. The shadow moved but slightly, showing that the fiery skipper was deeply engrossed in some task or other of a weird nature, or he would not have chosen night for his work.

Like a flash of light it entered Trefry’s brain that the old buccaneer had killed the girls, or at least one of them, and was now hiding the evidences of his guilt by burying the body in the garden.

However, there might still be a chance that they were alive; and not to leave a stone unturned, he resolved, now that he knew Barbe Rouge was in the hole, to go round the house and gently tap at each window, to endeavour to obtain a response from those he was in quest of. This idea he carried into effect, but without receiving any reply to his tapping, and he again went to the mound and peeped over—Barbe Rouge was still busy, as his shadow, bobbing about in the uncertain light of the horn lantern, proved.

Could it be possible that the skipper had left the door of the house unlocked? He would see at all events, and back to the house he went. Upon pressing the handle, to his great joy the door swung back, and he quietly entered. For fear of being discovered, should Barbe Rouge enter the doorway, he leaned a stick, which he found in the passage, against the door on the inside, so that any one entering from without could not fail to knock it down with a clatter upon the stone floor, and thus give him warning.

Carefully he searched each of the five rooms which the house contained, breathing ever and anon the names of Mary and Retté, but when he came to the last room, and found it empty, his feelings overcame him, and, but for some wine which he discovered on a table, he would certainly have fainted with horror, thinking that his Mary and her companion had been cruelly murdered, and were now being buried by his captain, the dreadful Barbe Rouge.

More wine; and then he gradually grew into a frenzy, swearing that but one task remained, which ere he left Jethou should be accomplished.

This was to revenge the deaths of Mary and Retté by killing the monster who was now sitting in the pit, which in another minute should be his tomb. Burning with rage, so that he shook in every limb, he had difficulty in calming his feelings sufficiently to accomplish his task in an unfailing manner.

He paused to calm his quivering nerves, and then went gently along the passage, pistol in hand, to where he had left the broom-stick at the door. It remained as he had left it; so he quietly leaned it against the wall, and nervously began to open the door, for fear the giant’s form might be about to enter.

Inch by inch it opened and he peeped out.

All was quiet.

With his pistol still grasped tightly he made for the mound, intending to shoot Barbe Rouge in his self-made grave, but before reaching the spot, he fell prone over a large piece of granite rock; he lay perfectly still, for fear Barbe Rouge should peep out of his hole to see what had caused the noise.

For some minutes he lay silent but alert; then, as the skipper did not appear, he arose, returned his flintlock to his belt, and picked up the huge stone at his feet.

This he resolved should be the instrument of Barbe Rouge’s death—a stone for a dog—reserve the bullet for a nobler foe!

Up the bank of earth he staggered with his burden. Yes! Barbe Rouge was still at work—he could see his white stocking cap and the shaggy red locks beneath; so, pausing, he raised the mass of stone high above his head, thinking to hurl it down with crushing force upon the cranium of the monster below, when suddenly a heavy hand seized him from behind, and the stone, losing its balance, fell from his grasp with a thud into the hole. He gave one glance round, his last on this earth, for his eyes met the infuriated orbs of Barbe Rouge himself, who, with a stroke swift as sight, drove a long keen dagger deep into the young Englishman’s breast. Without a groan he fell dead into the yawning gulf before him.

With a chuckle at the success of his fiendish work, Barbe Rouge quietly descended a short ladder into the great vault he had dug, and took out a book from an iron-bound chest at the bottom, in which he calmly wrote certain notes, stating that he had killed Trefry for endeavouring to meddle with his “petites fées,” or little fairies, but whether he referred to the two girls or the gems is not very evident.

Trefry was a doomed man from the time he stepped ashore, as, through a spy on board La Chauve-souris, Barbe Rouge was cognizant of all that had taken place on board the schooner. He received information that Trefry would come ashore between eleven and twelve, and had prepared a ruse to deceive and place him at his mercy.

He made a dummy head with a red tow wig and beard in imitation of himself, and on the top placed his old white stocking cap. This little device was fixed at the bottom of the excavation upon a cross pole fastened to an upright. At the end of the cross pole which touched the ground a live rabbit was fastened, that, moving about a foot from right to left, the dummy head was made to oscillate. A lantern was so placed as to throw a shadow of the head upon the side of the pit farthest from the house, and the trap thus artfully baited caused the downfall of the gallant young Cornishman, Trefry.

Barbe Rouge signified his intention of leaving Jethou with his fair ones next day for a voyage to the West Indies, and from a record in a St. Peter Port document, we find that he actually did sail on May 1st, after giving a grand farewell entertainment to many of the good townspeople of St. Peter Port on the previous evening.

Thus we see that virtue is not always triumphant, and that every dog has his day, including the somewhat numerous species known as the Sea Dog.

After a year or two I met the adventurous Nilford again, when he informed me that he had put my van quite in the shade by a novel idea of his own. It appears that he was so struck with my mode of life that he purchased an old gipsy-van, and rambled about in it for a week or two together, just when the fit seized him. Then the idea occurred to him of making a pair of boats, into which the wheels of his van were fitted, and by decking the space fore and aft between the boats, he went all over the Broads, and finally coasted it to Essex, whence he had the good or ill luck to be blown over to Holland. As he has written the history of his adventures, it is no business of mine further to divulge them here, but will content myself with calling the reader’s attention to a book entitled, Afloat in a Gipsy Van.[C]