Part 21

When Lafitte heard of this, he said with much feeling:

"A war of extermination is to be waged against me. I, who have fought and bled for the United States. I who helped them to win the battle of New Orleans. My cruisers are to be swept from the sea. I must turn from Governor of Galveston, and privateer to pirate. Then--away--and let them catch me if they can."

Now comes the last phase of his career. Too bad that he could not have died honestly!

Procuring a large and fast-sailing brigantine, mounting sixteen guns, and having selected a crew of one hundred and sixty men, the desperate and dangerous Governor of Galveston set sail upon the sparkling waters of the Gulf, determined to rob all nations and neither to give quarter nor to receive it.

But luck was against him. A British sloop-of-war was cruising in the Mexican Gulf, and, hearing that Lafitte, himself, was at sea, kept a sharp lookout at the mast-head for the sails of the pirate.

One morning as an officer was sweeping the horizon with his glass he discovered a long, dark-looking vessel, low in the water: her sails as white as snow.

"Sail off the port bow," cried he. "It's the Pirate, or else I'm a landlubber."

As the sloop-of-war could out-sail the corsair, before the wind, she set her studding-sails and crowded every inch of canvas in chase. Lafitte soon ascertained the character of his pursuer, and, ordering the awnings to be furled, set his big square-sail and shot rapidly through the water. But the breeze freshened and the sloop-of-war rapidly overhauled the scudding brigantine. In an hour's time she was within hailing distance and Lafitte was in a fight for his very life.

_Crash!_

A cannon belched from the stern of the pirate and a ball came dangerously near the bowsprit of the Englishman.

_Crash! Crash!_

Other guns roared out their challenge and the iron fairly hailed upon the decks of the sloop-of-war; killing and wounding many of the crew. But--silently and surely--she kept on until within twenty yards of the racing outlaw.

Now was a deafening roar. A broadside howled above the dancing spray--it rumbled from the port-holes of the Englishman--cutting the foremast of the pirate in two; severing the jaws of the main-gaff; and sending great clods of rigging to the deck. Ten followers of Lafitte fell prostrate, but the great Frenchman was uninjured.

A crash, a rattle, a rush, and the Englishman ran afoul of the foe--while--with a wild cheer, her sailors clambered across the starboard rails; cutlasses in the right hand, pistols in the left, dirks between their teeth.

"Never give in, men!" cried the King of Barrataria. "You are now with Lafitte, who, as you have learned, does not know how to surrender."

But the Britishers were in far superior numbers. Backwards--ever backwards--they drove the desperate crew of the pirate ship. Two pistol balls struck Lafitte in the side which knocked him to the planking; a grape-shot broke the bone of his right leg; he was desperate, dying, and fighting like a tiger. He groaned in the agony of despair.

The deck was slippery with blood as the Captain of the boarders rushed upon the prostrate corsair to put him forever out of his way. While he aimed a blow a musket struck him in the temple, stretching him beside the bleeding Lafitte, who, raising himself upon one elbow, thrust a dagger at the throat of his assailant.

But the tide of his existence was ebbing like a torrent; his brain was giddy; his aim faltered; the point of the weapon descended upon the right thigh of the bleeding Englishman. Again the reeking steel was upheld; again the weakened French sea-dog plunged a stroke at this half-fainting assailant.

The dizziness of death spread over the sight of the Monarch of the Gulf of Mexico. Down came the dagger into the left thigh of the Captain; listlessly; helplessly; aimlessly; and Lafitte--the robber of St. Malo--fell lifeless upon the rocking deck. His spirit went out amidst the hoarse and hollow cheers of the victorious Jack-tars of the clinging sloop-of-war.

"The palmetto leaves are whispering, while the gentle trade-winds blow, And the soothing, Southern zephyrs, are sighing soft and low, As a silvery moonlight glistens, and the droning fire-flies glow, Comes a voice from out the Cypress, 'Lights out! Lafitte! Heave ho!'"

THE PIRATE'S LAMENT

I've been ploughin' down in Devonshire, My folks would have me stay, Where the wheat grows on th' dune side, Where th' scamperin' rabbits play. But th' smells come from th' ocean, An' th' twitterin' swallows wheel, As th' little sails bob landwards, To th' scurryin' sea-gulls' squeal.

_Oh, it's gold, gold, gold,_ _That's temptin' me from here._ _An' it's rum, rum, rum,_ _That makes me know no fear._ _When th' man-o-war is growlin',_ _As her for'ard swivels roar,_ _As th' decks are black with wounded,_ _An' are runnin' red with gore._

I've been goin' to church o' Sundays, An' th' Parson sure can talk, He's been pleadin' for my soul, Sir, In Paradise to walk. An' I kind o' have th' shivers, Come creepin' down my spine, When th' choir breaks into music, While th' organ beats th' time.

_But it's gold, gold, gold,_ _That glitters in my eye,_ _An' it's rum, rum, rum,_ _That makes me cheat an' lie,_ _When th' slaver's in th' doldrums,_ _Th' fleet is closin' round,_ _An' th' Captain calls out, furious,_ _"Now, run th' hound aground!"_

No matter how I farm, Sir, No matter how I hoe, Th' breezes from th' blue, Sir, Just kind uv make me glow. When th' clipper ships are racin', An' their bellyin' sails go past, I just leave my team an' swear, Sir, I'll ship before th' mast.

_For it's gold, gold, gold,_ _That makes me shiver, like,_ _An' it's rum, rum, rum,_ _That makes me cut an' strike,_ _When th' boarders creep across th' rail,_ _Their soljers all in line,_ _An' their pistols spittin' lead, Sir,_ _Like er bloomin' steam engine._

So I'll kiss my plough good-bye, Sir, I'll throw my scythe away, An' I'm goin' to th' dock, Sir, Where th' ships are side th' quay. Shake out th' skull an' cross-bones, Take out th' signs of Marque, An' let's cut loose an' forage, In a rakish ten-gun barque.

THE MEN BEHIND THE GUNS

A cheer and salute for the Admiral, and here's to the Captain bold, And never forget the Commodore's debt, when the deeds of might are told! They stand to the deck through the battle's wreck, when the great shells roar and screech-- And never they fear; when the foe is near, to practice what they preach: But, off with your hat, and three times three, for the war-ship's true-blue sons, The men who batter the foe--my Boys--the men behind the guns.

Oh, light and merry of heart are they, when they swing into port, once more, When, with more than enough of the "green-backed stuff," they start for their leave-o'-shore; And you'd think, perhaps, that these blue-bloused chaps who loll along the street, Are a tender bit, with salt on it, for some fierce chap to eat-- Some warrior bold, with straps of gold, who dazzles and fairly stuns The modest worth of the sailor boys,--the lads who serve the guns.

But, say not a word, till the shot is heard, that tells of the peace-blood's ebb, Till the long, low roar grows more and more, from the ships of the "Yank" and "Reb." Till over the deep the tempests sweep, of fire and bursting shell, And the very air is a mad Despair, in the throes of a living Hell: Then, down, deep down, in the mighty ship, unseen by the mid-day suns, You'll find the chaps who are giving the raps--the men behind the guns.

--ROONEY (_Adapted_).

RAPHAEL SEMMES

DESPOILER OF AMERICAN COMMERCE

(1809-1877)

"Sit apart, write; let them hear or let them forbear; the written word abides, until, slowly and unexpectedly, and in widely sundered places, it has created its own church."--RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

RAPHAEL SEMMES

DESPOILER OF AMERICAN COMMERCE

(1809-1877)

"We started from Ole England fer to cripple up our foes, We started from Ole England fer to strike some rapid blows, So we coasted to the Azores where we ran a packet down, And then to the Bermudas, where we burned the _Royal Crown_, Then we scampered to Bahia, fer to sink the gay _Tycoon_, And to scuttle the _Justina_, before the Harvest Moon. We hit across the ocean to race by Cape Good Hope And in Madagascar channel towed _Johanna_ with a rope. Away off at Sumatra, we had lots an' lots uv fun, When we winged the _Pulo Condor_; but say,--we had a run, An' a pretty bit uv fightin', when we took the _Emma Jane_ Off th' heated coast uv India, near th' bendin' sugar cane. Yes, we did some privateerin', as wuz privateerin', sure, An' we scuttled many a schooner, it wuz risky business pure. But--stranger--we'd be laughin', jest filled with persiflage, If we hadn't had a seance with that bloomin' _Kearsarge_."

--_Song of the Chief Mate of the Alabama._--1864.

It was off the east coast of South America. The year was 1864, and a little schooner--the _Justina_--bobbed along, with the flag of the United States Government flying jauntily from her gaff.

Suddenly there was a movement on deck. Men rushed hither and thither with some show of excitement. Glasses were brought out and raised,--smothered cries of excitement were mingled with orders to trim sails. All eyes looked with suspicion and dismay at a long, graceful vessel which was seen approaching from the northward.

"The _Alabama_!" cried one.

"Yes, the cursed _Alabama_!" answered another. "We are lost!"

On, on came the pursuing vessel; a cloud of black smoke rolling from her smoke-stack; her white sails bellying in the fresh breeze; for she was rigged like a barquentine, with a lean body, single smoke-stack, and a polished rifle-gun winking in the sun-rays upon her bow. On, on, she came, and then--_puff! boom!_--a single shot came dancing in front of the slow-moving schooner.

"Pull down the colors!" shouted the Captain of the _Justina_. "We're done for!"

Down came the ensign of the United States, and the little schooner was luffed so that she stood still. The _Alabama_ ranged up alongside, a boat soon brought a crew of boarders, and, before many moments, she was in the hands of Captain Raphael Semmes and his men.

That evening the _Alabama_ steamed southward, the crew of the _Justina_ was on board, her rich cargo filled the hold, and a black curl of smoke and hissing flames marked where the proud, little merchantman had once bobbed upon the rolling water. Raphael Semmes was happy, for his work of destroying the commerce of the United States Navy had progressed far better than he had hoped.

"Men!" cried he, "The cause of the Confederate States of America was never brighter upon the ocean than now. Give three times three for Jeff. Davis--his soldiers and his sailors!"

A rousing cheer rose above the waves, and the proud privateer bounded onward upon her career of destruction and death. The _Alabama_ was in the zenith of her power.

* * * * *

The scene now shifts to the harbor of Cherbourg, upon the western coast of France. The _Alabama_ lay there,--safely swinging at her anchor-chains within the break-water. She had come in to refit, for her bottom was much befouled by a long cruise, which had been successful. Built at Birkenhead, England, for the Confederate States Government, she set sail in August, 1862; and had been down the coast of North and South America; around the Cape of Good Hope to India, and back to the shores of France. Sixty-six vessels had fallen into her clutches, and of these fifty-two had been burned; ten had been released on bond; one had been sold, and one set free. Truly she had had a marvellous trip.

As she slumbered on--like a huge sea-turtle--a black cloud of smoke appeared above the break-water, and a low-bodied United States cruiser slowly steamed into the harbor. She nosed about, as if looking for safe anchorage, and kept upon the opposite side of the little bay.

Immediately all hands clambered to the side of the Confederate cruiser, and glasses were levelled at this vessel which carried the flag of opposition.

"She's stronger than we are," said one of the crew.

Another grinned.

"Look at her eleven-pounders," said he. "I see her name, now. She's the _Kearsarge_, and about our tonnage, but I reckon that she carries more men."

Captain Semmes, himself, had come up from below, and was examining the intruder with his glass.

"Boys!" said he, "we've got to fight that ship."

And, as he withdrew into the cabin, all seemed to be well pleased with this announcement.

The _Kearsarge_, commanded by Captain John A. Winslow, had been lying at anchor in the Scheldt, off Flushing, Holland, when a gun roared from the forward part of the ship, warning those officers who had gone ashore, to come on board. Steam was raised, and, as soon as all were collected on deck, the Captain read a telegram from Mr. Dayton, the Minister to France from the United States. It said:

"The _Alabama_ has arrived at Cherbourg. Come at once or she will escape you!"

"I believe that we'll have an opportunity to fight her," said Captain Winslow. "So be prepared."

At this, all of his sailors cheered wildly.

The _Kearsarge_ was a staunch craft; she was two hundred and thirty-two feet over all, with thirty-three feet of beam, and carried seven guns; two eleven inch pivots, smooth bore; one thirty-pound rifle, and four light thirty-two pounders. Her crew numbered one hundred and sixty-three men. The sleeping _Alabama_ had but one hundred and forty-nine souls on board, and eight guns: one sixty-eight pounder pivot rifle, smooth bore; one one hundred-pounder pivot, and six heavy thirty-two pounders. So, you see, that the two antagonists were evenly matched, with the superior advantage of the numbers of men on the _Kearsarge_ offset by the extra guns of her opponent.

Most of the officers upon the _Kearsarge_ were from the merchant service, and, of the crew, only eleven were of foreign birth. Most of the officers upon the _Alabama_ had served in the navy of the United States; while nearly all of her crew were either English, Irish, or Welsh. A few of the gunners had been trained aboard the _Excellent_: a British training ship in Portsmouth Harbor. Her Captain--Raphael Semmes--was once an officer in the navy of the United States. He had served in the Mexican War, but had joined the Southern cause, as he was a Marylander. He was an able navigator and seaman.

The _Kearsarge_ cruised about the port of Cherbourg, poked her bows nearly into the break-water, and then withdrew. The French neutrality law would only allow a foreign vessel to remain in a harbor for twenty-four hours.

"Will she come out?" was the question now upon every lip aboard the _Kearsarge_. "Will she come out and fight? Oh, just for one crack at this destroyer of our commerce!"

But she did not come out, and the _Kearsarge_ beat around the English Channel in anxious suspense.

Several days later Captain Winslow went ashore and paid a visit to the United States Commercial Agent.

"That beastly pirate will not fight," he thought. "All she wants to do is to run away."

Imagine how his eyes shone when he was handed the following epistle!

"C.S.S. _Alabama_, CHERBOURG, June 14th, 1864.

"To A. BONFILS, Esqr., Cherbourg;

"SIR:--I hear that you were informed by the United States Consul that the _Kearsarge_ was to come to this port solely for the prisoners landed by me, and that she was to depart in twenty-four hours. I desire you to say to the U. S. Consul that my intention is to fight the _Kearsarge_ as soon as I can make the necessary arrangements. I hope these will not detain me more than until to-morrow evening, or after the morrow morning at furthest. I beg she will not depart before I am ready to go out.

"I have the honor to be, very respectfully,

"Your obedient servant,

"R. SEMMES, Captain."

"Ha! Ha!" chuckled Winslow. "We're in for it, now. Hurray!" and he hastened back to his ship to spread the glad tidings.

"My boys!" said he to his crew. "It is probable that the two ships will engage on parallel lines, and, if defeated, the _Alabama_ will seek for neutral waters. It is necessary, therefore, that we begin this action several miles from the break-water. The _Alabama_ must believe that she can win, or she would not fight us, for, if we sink her, she cannot be replaced by the Confederate Government. As for ourselves, let us never give up, and--if we sink--let us go down with the flag flying!"

"Hear! Hear!" cried all. "We're with you, Captain. Never give up the ship!"

"Clean decks, boys!" continued brave Winslow. "Get everything ship-shape for the coming affair, for we're in for as tight a little fight as e'er you entered upon."

Preparations were immediately made for battle, but no _Alabama_ appeared.

Thursday passed; Friday came; the _Kearsarge_ waited in the channel with ports down; guns pivoted to starboard; the whole battery loaded; and shell, grape, and canister ready to use in any method of attack or defence,--but no _Alabama_ appeared. A French pilot-boat drifted near, and the black-eyed skipper cried out,

"You fellers look out for ze _Alabama_. She take in much coal. Whew! She take much of ze captured stuff ashore. Whew! She scrub ze deck. Whew! She put ze sailors to ze business of sharpening ze cutlass and ze dirk. Whew! You look out for ze great privateer! Whew!"

Captain Winslow only smiled.

"Zey have ze big feast," continued the Frenchman. "Zey dr-e-e-nk ze wine. Zey stan' on ze chairs and zey say, 'We will seenk ze Yankee dog.' Ta donc! Zey call you ze dog!"

And still Captain Winslow smiled. But, next day, his smile turned to a frown.

It was Sunday, the nineteenth day of June. The weather was beautiful; the atmosphere was somewhat hazy; the wind was light; and there was little sea. At ten o'clock the _Kearsarge_ was drifting near a buoy about three miles eastward from the entrance of Cherbourg break-water. Her decks had been newly holy-stoned; the brass work had been cleaned; the guns polished, and the crew had on their Sunday clothes. They had been inspected, and dismissed--in order to attend divine service.

At 1.20 a cry rang out:

"She comes!"

The bell was tolling for prayers.

"The _Alabama_! The _Alabama_! She's moving, and heading straight for us!"

All rushed to the deck; the drum beat to quarters. Captain Winslow laid aside his prayer-book, seized his trumpet, ordered the boat about, and headed seaward. The ship was cleared for action and the battery was pivoted to starboard.

Yes, she was coming!

From the western entrance of the safe, little French seaport steamed the long-bodied, low-hulled privateer: her rakish masts bending beneath the spread of canvas: her tall funnel belching sepia smoke. A French iron-clad frigate--the _Couronne_--accompanied her, flying the pennant of the Commander-of-the-Port. In her wake plodded a tiny fore-and-aft-rigged steamer-yacht: the _Deerhound_, showing the flag of the Royal Mersey (British) Yacht Club. The frigate--having convoyed the Confederate privateer to the limit of the French waters (three marine miles from the coast)--put down her helm and ploughed back into port. The steam yacht continued on, and remained near the scene of action.

As the _Alabama_ had started upon her dash into the open, Captain Semmes had mounted a gun-carriage, and had cried,

"Officers and Seamen of the _Alabama_:

"You have at length another opportunity of meeting the enemy--the first that has been presented to you since you sank the _Hatteras_! In the meantime you have been all over the world, and it is not too much to say that you have destroyed, and driven for protection under neutral flags, one-half of the enemy's commerce, which, at the beginning of the war, covered every sea. This is an achievement of which you may well be proud, and a grateful country will not be unmindful of it. The name of your ship has become a household word wherever civilization extends! Shall that name be tarnished by defeat? The thing is impossible! Remember that you are in the English Channel, the theatre of so much of the naval glory of our race, and that the eyes of all Europe are, at this moment, upon you. The flag that floats over you is that of a young Republic, which bids defiance to her enemies whenever and wherever found! Show the world that you know how to uphold it! Go to your quarters!"

A wild yell had greeted these stirring expressions.

The shore was black with people, for the word had been passed around that the two sea-warriors were to grapple in deadly embrace. Even a special train had come from Paris to bring the sober townsfolk to Cherbourg, where they could view the contest. They were chattering among themselves, like a flock of magpies.

"Voila!" said a fair damsel, whose eyes were fairly shining with excitement. "Oh, I hope zat ze beeg gray fellow weel win."

She meant the _Alabama_, for the Confederates dressed in that sober color.

"Zis ees ze naval Waterloo!" whispered a veteran of the Crimean War.

It was 10.50 o'clock. The _Kearsarge_ had been steaming out to sea, but now she wheeled. She was seven miles from shore and one and one-quarter miles from her opponent. She steered directly for her, as if to ram her and crush through her side. The _Alabama_ sheered off and presented her starboard battery. The _Kearsarge_ came on, rapidly, and--at 10.57 was about eighteen hundred yards from her enemy--then--_Crash! Roar!_ A broadside thundered from the Confederate privateer, while the solid shot screamed through the rigging of the Yankee man-of-war.

On! On! came Captain Winslow's gallant craft, while a second and a third broadside crashed into her. The rigging tore and swayed, but she was little injured. She was now within nine hundred yards.

"Sheer! Sheer!" cried the Union Commander.

The _Kearsarge_ spun off and broke her long silence with the starboard battery. _Crash! Roar!_ the shells pounded around the great privateer, and, with a full head of steam, the corsair of the Southern Confederacy swept onward. _Crash! Roar!_ she answered with shell, and the bursting iron shivered the foremast of her doughty opponent.

Captain Winslow was fearful that the enemy would make for the shore, so he spun over his helm to port in the endeavor to run under the _Alabama_'s stern and rake her. But she sheered off, kept her broadside to him, and pounded away like a pugilist. The ships were a quarter of a mile (440 yards) away from each other. They were circling around in a wide arc, plugging away as fast as they could load. The spectators cheered, for it was as good a show as they had ever witnessed.

"Eet ees fine!" said the veteran of the Crimea. "Eet remin' me of ze battaile at Balaklava!"

Suddenly a wild cheer rose from the deck of the United States cruiser. A shot had struck the spanker-gaff on the enemy and her ensign had come down on the run.

"Hurray!" shouted the seamen. "That means we'll win, sure!"

The fallen ensign re-appeared at the mizzen, while firing from the _Alabama_ became rapid and wild. The gunners of the _Kearsarge_ had been cautioned against shooting without direct aim, and had been told to point their heavy guns below, rather than above the water-line.

Captain Winslow was busy with his orders.

"Clear the enemy's deck with the light guns!" he shouted. "Sink the Confederate with the heavy iron!"