A formidable force, under such a commander. The Prince Frederick, however, got aground in the Bristol Channel, and was compelled to put back and dock: so the three others set forth in company at the beginning of May 1746, and had only been a week at sea when they encountered three French line-of-battle ships, from which Walker escaped in the dark by the ruse of leaving a lantern floating in a cask, while he extinguished all lights and altered his course; but the Princess Amelia parted company and eventually put into Lisbon.

A little later, at Safia, on the coast of Morocco, having chased a small French vessel into the bay, Walker determined to cut her out that night with his boats—an operation not often undertaken by privateers, though numerous feats of the most daring description have been performed in this connection by the Navy. Walker considered, however, that he and his men were fully capable of planning and executing such an enterprise, and, having given detailed directions, he despatched three boats under the command of Mr. Riddle, his second lieutenant, on this dangerous service, about midnight. As is frequently the case with such undertakings, the original plan had to be modified, and they found the Frenchmen very much on the alert. The lieutenant in command was very severely wounded immediately, but nothing would stop Walker's men, and, after a tussle, they carried the vessel and brought her out in triumph. As she was a smart little craft Walker made her a tender in place of the Princess Amelia, naming her Prince George and putting his first lieutenant, John Green, in command. Mr. Green, we are told, would have been sent in charge of the cutting-out expedition, but that he had expressed the opinion that it would be better to wait until daylight. "Sir," says Mr. Walker, "though I have no reason to doubt your prowess, yet I never will send a man upon an expedition to which he has any objection." He gave him the command, however, of the new tender, displaying his customary fairness of dealing with all his subordinates.

During this eight months' cruise "The Royal Family" made some valuable prizes and put into Lisbon with more than £220,000 to the good, and without a single man having been killed.

Having overhauled and refitted his ships—now increased to six in number by the addition of the Prince George and the Prince Edward, a vessel purchased at Lisbon—Walker put to sea again on July 10th, 1747 and in October following occurred the most remarkable action in which he was concerned. He had, before this, lost one of his squadron, the Prince Edward, by a very extraordinary accident. Crowding sail to come up with her consorts, being astern, she was suddenly observed to reel, and immediately foundered, going down stern first. The survivors—her captain and two men only—stated that the mainmast had slipped out of the "step" in the bottom of the ship—or more probably had displaced the step by the strain upon it—and the heel of the mast had gone through her bottom, the mast, with all the sails set, falling over the stern.

On October 6th the squadron had been watering in Lagos Bay—that same harbour in which we saw Bernard D'Ongressill so scurvily treated by the Portuguese nearly five hundred years previously—and the King George and Prince Frederick, coming out about five o'clock in the morning, leaving the Princess Amelia still at anchor, saw a large sail standing to the northward. Walker made the signal to chase, and sent a small vessel, a recent prize, into the anchorage to hurry up the Princess Amelia. The Duke and Prince George, having completed their watering earlier, were in sight; but, after chasing for about an hour, for some unexplained reason discontinued—or could not get up.

The chase, seeing she was likely to be hemmed in by the two nearest ships, kept away to the westward, making all sail; and Walker, with his two ships, chased her until noon, when the King George was nearly up with her, the Prince Frederick some distance to the southward. They had not yet disclosed each other's nationality, but Walker realised by this time that the stranger was a very big ship, and he was within gunshot of her, practically alone; and then it suddenly fell a flat calm, and the chase, hoisting her colours, ran out her guns, disclosing herself as a 74-gun ship. The colours, however, hung down in the calm, and it was impossible to tell whether they were Spanish or Portuguese—for the two ensigns were very similar at that time, though they are not so now. After about an hour, during which the Prince Frederick could get no nearer, and Walker and his big opponent were eyeing each other curiously, the latter ran in her lower deck guns, and closed the ports. This looked as though she was a treasure ship, unwilling to fight if she could avoid it; and, as a matter of fact, she was just that; only she had already—after being chased by some English men-of-war—landed her treasure, to the value of some three millions sterling, at Ferrol, and was on her way to Cadiz. However, seeing her somewhat shy, Walker's officers and men were all for fighting; and when a light breeze sprang up about five o'clock, and the big ship again made sail on her original course, the King George at once continued the chase, leaving the Prince Frederick, which did not get the breeze so soon, yet further astern.

At eight o'clock, in bright moonlight, Walker was within speaking distance, cleared for action, his men lying down at their quarters. He hailed in Portuguese: no reply. Then he hailed in English, asking her name; in reply, she asked his name, also in English. "The King George!" replied Walker, and then came a thundering broadside, dismounting two guns and bringing down the maintopsail yard. Walker's men were on their feet and had their broadside in in a few seconds; and then this ridiculously uneven contest went on, the huge Spanish ship—her name, the Glorioso—towering above the other, and both letting drive with guns and small arms for all they were worth. Why the King George was not sunk it is impossible to say. The chronicler of the fight says that the Spaniards did not manage to fire their broadsides regularly but only a few guns at a time, while the King George's men got theirs in with great precision and regularity, and also maintained a very hot fire of musketry, under the control of the Captain of Marines.

This desperate conflict was maintained for three hours, at close range—so close at times that some burning wadding from the Spaniard's guns set fire to the King George's mainsail. The incident, as Sir John Laughton remarks, was unique in naval warfare; there have been instances in which a vessel of vastly inferior force has contrived to maim or delay her big antagonist until assistance arrived, and so to contribute very materially to her capture, advantage being taken of superior speed and handiness, or circumstances of wind and sea, and so on; but for a vessel of the King George's size to maintain a close ding-dong action with a 74-gun ship, in fine weather, for this space of time is entirely unprecedented. Had Walker been in command of a king's ship, he would certainly have been held blameless if he had run away; but running away, even from a vastly superior force, was not, as we have seen, a proceeding which found any favour in the eyes of George Walker; and there was, of course, the strong inducement of the assumed treasure, which, after all, was not there.

The writer attributes their immunity from destruction and their trifling casualties—one killed and fifteen wounded—partly to the very closeness of the action, the Spanish ship's shot not hitting the hull; and also, to the fact that, probably from the overloading of the guns with several shot, in the hope of knocking a huge breach in the King George's side, the shot came with such reduced force that, when they hit, they did not penetrate. Walker's device of high bulwarks of elm planking, before alluded to, he likewise considers had a share in their miraculous salvation.

the 'action'

The action was fought, we are told, so close under Cape St. Vincent that the castle on the Cape repeatedly fired upon the combatants, "as a neutral power commanding peace"; in other words, as a protest against the action being fought in Portuguese waters, within gunshot of the coast.

By half-past ten the Prince Frederick came up to the assistance of her consort. At this time the King George had received so much damage aloft, that there was no choice but to remain, for she could not have run away. "All our braces and maintopsail yard were shot away, the foremast quite disabled, and the mainmast damaged. We could not work our ship, and bravery became now a virtue of necessity."

There was no mention of striking the colours, however; and half an hour later the Glorioso desisted from action, and retired from the field. When, at daybreak, Captain Dottin, of the Prince Frederick, came on board, his first inquiry was as to whether the commodore was alive; then, seeing the ship's company so nearly intact, and his friends among the officers unhurt, he embraced the gallant commodore in the enthusiasm of his joy and admiration.

Despatching the Prince Frederick, with the Duke and Prince George, in pursuit of the enemy, Walker set to work to refit; and then a fresh alarm arose, for a large sail was seen approaching from the eastward. She proved, however, to be a friend, the Russell, an 80-gun ship, and Walker lost no time in acquainting her captain with the state of affairs.

Helpless in his dismantled vessel, Walker watched with his glass the progress of the chase, his own three vessels nearing the Spaniard, with the giant Russell crowding sail to join them; but he could not account for a fourth vessel which now seemed to be in the fight.

The headmost ship, apparently the Prince Frederick, now engaged the Spaniard hotly, and Walker, speaking his thoughts aloud to his officers, deplored her captain's unwariness in not waiting for the others to come up; for Dottin was blazing away for all he was worth, and Walker's experience immediately suggested a new danger. "Dottin will fire away all his cartridges at too great a distance, and afterwards be obliged to load with loose powder, by which some fatal accident may happen."

Scarcely had he spoken, keeping his glass upon the vessel, when simultaneously with the discharge of a broadside a pillar of smoke and flame shot up. "Good heavens, she's gone!" cried Walker. "Dottin and all his brave fellows are no more!" One of the officers suggested that it was merely the smoke of her last broadside. "It's a dreadful truth you tell," replied Walker, still looking through his glass, "for 'tis the last she will ever give!" And when the smoke cleared away there was no ship to be seen! This terrible incident so affected the ship's company that Walker called the officers aside into the companionway in order to admonish them that they must keep up an air of cheerfulness before the men, who might otherwise be backward in fighting; and while he spoke there was a series of sudden explosions, mingled with cries of alarm. Running out on deck, they found the crew in a panic, some clinging outside the ship, others climbing out on the bowsprit, in readiness to jump overboard when the ship should blow up. The alarm was caused by a seaman stepping upon a number of loaded muskets, which were covered with a sail, and firing one off, which quickly set the others going, some spare ammunition also exploding; bullets were flying about, the sail was on fire, and the men could not be persuaded to quit their temporary refuge, so completely scared were they by this sudden din, following closely upon the tragic occurrence they had just witnessed. The captain and officers extinguished the fire, assisted by the chaplain—"a very worthy gentleman"—apparently of the same type as that excellent parson described in "Midshipman Easy," who rendered such material assistance under similar circumstances, and was anxious to ascertain afterwards whether he had allowed his tongue too free play for one of his cloth; he had, but Jack Easy consoled him. "Indeed, sir, I only heard you say, 'God bless you, my men; be smart,' and so on."

Well, the Russell, aided by "The Royal Family," captured the Spaniard, of course, though she made a more stubborn fight than they expected, and the Russell was very short of men. The King George, however, had no decisive news on the subject for some days, when, encountering their consort, the Duke, what was the joy on board upon learning that the Prince Frederick was safe and sound! The vessel which so unhappily blew up was the Dartmouth, a frigate which had come up, hearing the guns, to see the fun. Only seventeen of her crew were picked up by the Prince Frederick's boats; one of them was an Irish lieutenant, O'Brien, who apologised to captain Dottin for his dress: "Sir, you must excuse the unfitness of my dress to come aboard a strange ship, but really I left my own in such a hurry that I had no time to stay for a change." He had been blown out of a port!

It was not until he was introduced to the Spanish captain, on board the Russell, that Walker learned that the treasure was safe at Ferrol—a great blow to him and his men; and on arriving at Lisbon he was, to his surprise, confronted by one of his owners, who blamed him severely for venturing the privateers against a man-of-war. Walker very justly replied, "Had the treasure, sir, been aboard, as I expected, your compliment had been otherways; or had we let her escape from us with that treasure on board, what had you then have said?"

Walker was then, in fact, treated very scurvily by the owners, if we are to believe the quite simple and apparently straightforward story of his friend and former officer, and was at the last hustled out of his ship, the King George, at Lisbon, by a scandalous subterfuge. Probably avarice was at the bottom of all this sordid business; privateer owners had a very keen eye for the main chance, and did not set too much store by heroism—without profits!

Walker took his passage home in the packet, an armed vessel, commanded by an elderly and somewhat timid gentleman. They encountered an Algerine of greater force, and some of Walker's men who were on board were heard to remark that if their captain had commanded he would knock her out of the water; so two English merchants, who were passengers, begged the captain to turn over the fighting command to Walker.

This was actually done, and Walker, playing a clever game of bluff, sent the enemy off without firing a shot.

This is the last we hear of Walker at sea. We find him in gaol for debt, but the precise circumstances which induced his formerly very admiring owners to place him there are not quite clear. As we know, it was no disgrace in those days to be imprisoned for debt, and the process was, indeed, a remarkably easy one. As has already been remarked, it is impossible to believe that George Walker was otherwise than a man of strictest honour and probity: he proved himself almost quixotically so, in fact, for when, upon one occasion, a couple of rich East India ships offered him £1,000 to convoy them safely to Lisbon, he replied that "he would never take a reward for what he thought his duty to do without one"; nor would he accept the smallest present from them, after seeing them safely into port.

According to The Gentleman's Magazine, George Walker died September 20th, 1777. Where he was buried does not appear; whether he was ever married or left any family is equally obscure.

One thing, however, is certain: he left behind him the reputation of a very noble and brave seaman, the idol of his men, the terror of his king's enemies. There is no eulogy which has been engraved upon the tombstones of our naval and military heroes which might not with justice have been included in George Walker's epitaph. So far as his opportunities went, he set an example which could scarcely have been improved upon.

SOME FRENCHMEN

the 'bart'

CHAPTER XIII

JEAN BART

One of these big privateers, in the year 1745, was engaged off the south coast of Ireland with the 40-gun ship Anglesea, Captain Jacob Elton, with a very sad and tragic result. The Anglesea, having put into Kinsale to land some sick—her senior lieutenant being one—sailed again on March 28th, being one of the vessels ordered to command the entrance of the channel. On the following day, with a fresh breeze blowing, a large sail was reported to windward. Captain Elton, for some reason, assumed that this was his consort, the Augusta, of 64 guns; it was just twelve o'clock, so he ordered his boatswain to pipe to dinner, making no preparation for action. The stranger came down rapidly, displaying no colours, apparently—which should have aroused Elton's suspicion—and suddenly, when he was quite near, it was realised that the ornament on her quarter was in the French style.

Then, all in a hurry, they beat to quarters, and the English captain, in order to gain time for his preparations, made more sail, setting his foresail; but the wind was strong, with a lumpy sea, and the increased pressure of sail, as the gun's crews opened the lee ports, brought tons of water in on to the lower deck, threatening to water-log the ship.

The enemy—which was the Apollon, 50 guns, fitted out as a privateer—had it all her own way. Passing under the stern of the Anglesea, she rounded to on her lee quarter, and delivered a heavy fire. The guns were not cleared away, there was a lot of water below, and in a minute or two sixty men were dead or wounded. The captain and master were killed by the first broadside, and the command of the ship thus devolved upon the second lieutenant, a young and inexperienced officer. He was in a very tight place. The Frenchman being on the lee quarter, he could not bear up and run, as he would have fallen on board the enemy, which carried many more men, and his ship meanwhile was under a heavy fire, which could not be returned, his men falling fast. After consultation with the third lieutenant, he surrendered—and really it is difficult to see what else he could have done. Possibly an older man, of consummate skill and great experience, might have found a way of handling his ship so as, at least, to gain some respite; on the other hand, no such man would have had any business to find himself in this predicament.

So the lieutenant—Baker Phillips by name—hauled down his colours, and in due course was tried by court-martial for the loss of his ship. The court "was unanimously of opinion that Captain Elton, deceased, did not give timely directions for getting his ship clear or in a proper posture of defence, nor did he afterwards behave like an officer or a seaman, which was the cause of the ship being left to Lieutenant Phillips in such distress and confusion. And that Lieutenant Baker Phillips, late second lieutenant of the said ship, by not endeavouring to the utmost of his power after Captain Elton's death to put the ship in order of fighting, not encouraging the inferior officers and men to fight courageously, and by yielding to the enemy, falls under part of the tenth Article.[11] They do sentence him to death, to be shot by a platoon of musqueteers on the forecastle; ... but ... having regard to the distress and confusion the ship was in when he came to the command, and being a young man and inexperienced, they beg leave to recommend him to mercy."

That is to say, they felt bound, under the clause referred to in the Articles of War, to sentence him to death, but obviously hoped that the extreme penalty would not be inflicted under the circumstances—a very proper view to take. The recommendation, however, was ignored—it will be recollected that just at this period the British Navy was, for some reason, passing through a very unsatisfactory phase; courage and energy appeared often to be lacking—as in the instance of the treasure ships, in the previous year, when George Walker was compelled to witness the outrageous incapacity and supineness of the captains of the men-of-war. These men were acquitted—Lieutenant Baker Phillips was not. Perhaps it may be permitted to ask, would Captain Elton have been shot had he survived the action? His lieutenant was made an example of, and there is some story that a reprieve was refused on account of his Jacobite tendencies; no evidence appears to be forthcoming in support of this view. Another and very terrible tale in connection with the incident relates that Phillips's wife, after a reprieve had been refused, went in person to Queen Caroline and obtained one, with which she posted in feverish haste to Portsmouth; but the unhappy young officer, desiring to avoid the terrible pain of a final interview with her, had, in ignorance of her mission to the queen, requested that the hour of his execution might be hastened. When she arrived, he had already been shot. One can only hope that this story is not true; it is too terrible to dwell upon.

Well, that is how the privateer Apollon scored off us. Five-and-thirty years later, in 1780, within a mile or two of the same spot, a still more powerful vessel, similarly commissioned—to wit, the Comte d'Artois, of 64 guns—was overcome and captured by the Bienfaisant, 64 guns, captain Macbride, after a smart action of over an hour. The Bienfaisant was countenanced, more than assisted, by the presence of the Charon, 44 guns, which took little or no part in the action. The French loss was 21 killed and 34 wounded, while the British lost 3 killed and 23 wounded.

It was one of these privately maintained king's ships which was selected to convoy the young Pretender to Scotland in 1745; indeed, both the Elizabeth, of 60 guns, and the Dentelle, a much smaller vessel, in which the prince embarked, were of this class. The two vessels encountered the British 60-gun ship Lion, off Ushant, and of course there was a fight. The Lion and Elizabeth, pretty equally matched, and each commanded by a doughty fighter, blazed away at each other by the space of four or five hours, when both had had enough. Captain Brett, of the Lion, while regretting that he had not been able to capture the Elizabeth, was pleasing himself with the reflection that he had "spoiled her voyage"—and so he had, for she had 65 killed and 136 wounded, while her hull was fearfully battered, and she was compelled to make for the nearest French port. Brett took but little notice of the smaller craft, which, endeavouring at first to assist the Elizabeth, was easily disposed of by the Lion's stern chasers, and hung about out of range until the big ships separated, when she proceeded on her voyage to Scotland. Brett must have been rather annoyed afterwards to think that he had not made a capture of the Dentelle; but he had, in fact, spoiled their voyage very effectually, for the Elizabeth had on board all the stores and munitions for the campaign in Scotland, and Charles Edward Stuart landed very empty-handed in consequence.

One of the most prominent among French privateer captains is Jean Bart; he is, in fact, perhaps somewhat unduly prominent, as it does not appear, from authentic accounts, that he performed any more wonderful or daring feats of seamanship and battle than some others. It may be that the many unfounded, or at least unsupported tales of his prowess—incredible tales, many of them—form the basis, to a large extent, of his immense popularity; or, on the other hand, this very popularity may have given rise to these exaggerated anecdotes. He was, without doubt, a very fine seaman, and a determined and capable commander, very worthy of the public esteem, and his reputation gains nothing from wild inventions.

He was born in 1650, at Dunkirk, though his family is said to have been of Dieppe origin. He came of privateering, semi-piratical stock, and at the age of twelve he embarked as boy on board a Dunkirk smuggler, under a brutal, but capable ruffian named Jerome Valbué; his father's old boatswain, Antoine Sauret, accompanying him, apparently, as a kind of "sea-daddy"—and it appears to have been just as well that he had some one to stand between him and the skipper. After a four years' apprenticeship, young Bart, always enthusiastic and eager to learn, had acquired remarkable proficiency in seamanship and gunnery, and is said to have won the prize for the best marksman at the annual competition on the Dunes.

Thanks to Sauret's teaching and his own zeal, the lad was considered competent, at the age of sixteen, to fill the post of mate on a brigantine, the Cochon Gras, of which the redoubtable Valbué was appointed commander.

Jean Bart and his elderly adviser, Sauret, were, however, destined soon to find employ elsewhere, the occasion of their leaving the Cochon Gras being an exhibition of wanton cruelty on the part of their captain. The fact of the two having protested rendered it advisable that they should not remain.

M. Valbué, it appears, in common with many captains, both in the Navy and elsewhere at that period, still affected to be bound, together with his crew, by the Laws or Judgments of Oléron—a brutal code, dating from the twelfth century.

Valbué, half drunk, had been relating some wonderful tale of the miraculous intervention of a saintly bishop to save a fishing-boat, and proceeded to emphasise his own belief and his contempt for heretics by flinging his half-empty tin cider-mug at one Lanoix, a harmless Huguenot seaman. (Huguenots are habitually represented by the ordinary British writer as harmless, exemplary persons; a large number of them were, in fact, bloodthirsty, cruel, and seditious ruffians, who richly deserved all they got.)

Lanoix meekly but firmly pointed out that the Laws of Oléron ordained that the captain was not to punish a seaman until his anger had cooled down. (It reminds one rather of Midshipman Easy walking about with the Articles of War under his arm, and admonishing his superior for using strong language!)

Valbué's rejoinder was a blow with a handspike, which narrowly missed braining the seaman. Antoine Sauret ventured to remonstrate, but was warned that he was in danger of similar treatment: for the Laws of Oléron allow the captain one blow, just as the law of England allows a dog one bite—only the skipper was apparently permitted one crack at each member of his crew. So Sauret said no more.

Lanoix, however, was as well up in the law as his captain, and, jumping over the iron rail which separated the forecastle from the after part of the vessel, reminded Valbué that if he followed him on to the forecastle and repeated the blow he would put himself in the wrong, and he, Lanoix, would have the right to retaliate.

Valbué immediately let loose a string of contemptuous and insulting epithets, and, passing the barrier, struck Lanoix two violent blows on the face.

Out came the seaman's knife, and in a second the captain's arm was badly gashed; but the instinct of discipline induced the crew to rush to the rescue, and they pinioned Lanoix—but not before he had killed one man, stabbing him to the heart.

Valbué thereupon sent his cabin-boy down to bring up a copy of the Laws of Oléron, Jean Bart, at the helm, looking on all this while with disapproval and horror very plainly expressed in his countenance. When the boy appeared with the book Sauret went aft and sat down by the helmsman.

Thinking to place Sauret and his young companion in the wrong, Valbué bade the former come forward and read out the law. He refused, pointing out that Valbué had himself broken the law, and that Lanoix was entitled to purgation of his offence by means of certain oaths and formulæ.

However, the protests of Jean Bart and the brave old man were of no avail. Ignoring their veto, and declaring that six out of eight of the crew agreed that Lanoix had wounded his captain and slain one of his shipmates, Valbué inflicted upon the unfortunate Huguenot the penalty for the first offence, lashing his arm to a sharp sword fixed to the windlass and then knocking him down, so that the flesh was stripped from his arm; and finally, ordering the dead body of the other man to be brought along, he caused Lanoix, sorely wounded but still alive, to be bound to it, and both were thrown overboard—which is also strictly in accordance with the Laws of Oléron, in the event of a seaman killing one of his comrades at sea—as he who runs may read.

Jean Bart and the boatswain acquired from that moment a strong distaste for the Laws of Oléron, and quitted the vessel upon arriving, the same evening, at Calais.

Valbué, consistent with all his brutality, reported the circumstances, as enjoined by the same code, to the authorities; and the incident, we are told, led to the framing of the Maritime Code of France.

Bart and Sauret were highly commended for their plucky protest, and a few days later the former was entrusted with the responsible task of conveying some French noblemen, in a half-decked sailing-boat, to join De Ruyter in the Dutch fleet, then lying off Harwich—so we are told in the account given by Mr. C.B. Norman, in "The Corsairs of France"; but Mr. Norman is very vague as to dates, and we can only conclude that this was during the interval between the "four days' fight," from June 1st to 4th, 1666, and the subsequent decisive action on July 25th and 26th. It is said that he distinguished himself in the "hard-fought action"—between Albemarle and De Ruyter—on August 6th following; but there is no record of any action on this date.

However, these matters are not of much importance, especially in the case of Jean Bart, concerning whom, as has been stated, fables are plentiful. It appears to be certain that he was some five years in the Dutch service, his heart being all this time with France; and when, in 1672, war was declared between France and the States-General, he immediately returned to Dunkirk, and entered upon his career as a privateersman. Commencing as a subordinate, he was given his first command in 1674—when he was four-and-twenty—a small vessel, mounting two guns, with a crew of thirty-six.

In this vessel—the King David—Bart soon showed himself to be a bold and capable captain; in four or five months he captured six prizes. No fighting was entailed, it is true; but those who knew Jean Bart did not doubt that he could fight, should the occasion arise; and his old friend and "sea-daddy," Antoine Sauret, loafing and chatting with his cronies in Dunkirk, did not allow his young friend's exploits to be forgotten.

Naturally, his next command was a larger vessel—a brigantine, named La Royale, mounting ten guns, and his success continued unabated. He cruised in company with two other Dunkirk men, and made many captures, the most important being the Esperance, a States-General man-of-war, carrying 12 guns, by which he appears to have won great renown—though she was only overcome by the heavy odds against her, Bart having the assistance of at least one of his allies. However, there is no small merit in always contriving to outnumber the foe.

Having taken four months' leisure in order to get married, Jean Bart once more put out, in July 1675, and met with immediate success; and, capturing quite a number of fishing-vessels, he permitted the captains to ransom them for a handsome sum—a much more convenient arrangement, in many instances, than bringing a number of prizes into port; it was, however, forbidden, as liable to lead to great abuses, and Bart was deprived of half the proceeds and warned to be more careful in future—a warning to which he did not pay much heed. Ransoming was subsequently forbidden to British privateers, and other precautions against semi-piracy were instituted, more or less copied from the French, who were always in advance of us in their regulation of privateering.

So successful was Jean Bart in La Royale that early in 1676 he was given command of a much more important vessel—the Palme, of 24 guns, with a crew of 150 men—a regular frigate of those times. Again he was lucky in hunting in company, for he and his consorts were opposed to eight armed whalers and three privateers, which they fought for three hours, when Bart boarded and carried the largest, while his consorts secured the whalers, the two other privateers finding it too hot to remain.

Bart was by no means satisfied with these exploits. A genuine fighting man, he longed to be matched singly against a man-of-war or a privateer of fully his own force; and this wish was gratified on September 7th, 1676, when he fell in with a fleet of fishing-vessels, convoyed by the Neptune, a vessel carrying 32 guns. Bart sailed into the convoy, and, hoisting his colours, fired a gun for the enemy to bring to. Up went the Dutch colours, with a broadside by way of emphasis; the Dutch captain was a man of Jean Bart's stamp—a foeman worthy of his steel—and they had a great fight.

For three hours, at close range, they battered each other, Bart all the while trying to get a favourable position for boarding, but being constantly frustrated by the good seamanship of the other. At length, however, the Neptune was so seriously damaged aloft that she was no longer under full command; Bart, instantly and skilfully availing himself of the chance, got his vessel lashed alongside, and headed the boarding party, consisting of nearly all his crew. The Dutch captain, grievously wounded, sat on one side, like desperate Andrew Barton, and shouted to his men to lay on; but they were demoralised by the banging they had had, and Bart and his boarders were not to be denied; in a few minutes the affair was over, and the French flag replaced the Dutch. It was a proud moment for Jean Bart, and a proud day when he sailed into Dunkirk with the captured vessel in his wake, followed by the fleet of fishing-boats which his victory had thrown into his hands.

The fame of this exploit soon spread abroad, and one fine day Jean Bart received a gold chain from the king as a mark of appreciation of his prowess; at the same time the authorities began to discuss the question of keeping a list, or roll, of the best fighting privateer captains, in order that they might be transferred to the Navy in case of need—not necessarily an advantage to a keen privateersman, as he would occupy at first a subordinate position, very irksome after the freedom of his former life, in command of his ship.

Colbert, the Minister of State, was very eager about the matter, and advocated giving the most efficient privateer commanders the rank of commodore among their brethren, so that they could operate in squadrons, and attack the enemy's men-of-war. He caused inquiries to be made at Dunkirk and other ports as to the character and capability of the leading privateersmen; and of course he received extremely favourable reports of Jean Bart, who meanwhile was again at sea in the Palme, doing great execution.

His employers soon displayed their appreciation of his services by providing him with a yet larger ship—the Dauphin, of 30 guns, with a crew numbering 200. In this vessel, a year later, he encountered another Dutchman of the same sort as the captain of the Neptune.

Sailing in company with two smaller privateers, on June 18th, 1678, a Dutch frigate was sighted. The smallest privateer happened to be nearest to the enemy, who immediately attacked, hoping to carry her before her consorts could arrive. The Frenchman, however, handled his craft so judiciously as to keep his big antagonist in play until Bart came up. The two larger vessels—the Dutchman was the Sherdam, Captain Ranc—at once got into action, while Bart's smaller consort stood off, awaiting a chance. Seeing his opportunity, Bart signalled to her to bear down, and between them they got the Dutchman in such a position that he could not avoid being boarded. A crowd of men from both French vessels was speedily on his deck; but they had no kind of a walk-over; Ranc, though severely wounded, rallied his men again and again, and it was not until two-thirds of his crew were disabled or killed that he at length surrendered.

Bart was wounded in the leg, and badly burnt by the discharge of a gun, almost in his face, as he leaped on board; six of his men were killed and thirty-one wounded, while as for the saucy Dauphin, her career was at an end. So well had the Dutchmen plied their guns that her hull was shattered beyond repair, and it was with extreme difficulty that she was brought into harbour.

Bart, of course, had another ship at his disposal immediately—such an invincible corsair was not allowed to be idle—and he was at sea again in a fortnight, in the Mars, of 32 guns; a few weeks later, however, the war came to an end, and he returned to Dunkirk to have a spell on shore.

And here the career of Jean Bart as a privateer captain comes to an end; in January 1679 he was given a commission as lieutenant in the navy. This was not very much to his taste; besides the comedown from captain to lieutenant, the aristocrats who predominated among French naval officers regarded a privateersman, thus pitchforked in among them, with a very supercilious air, and made things decidedly unpleasant for him.

However, Jean Bart pulled through this all right, and eventually had opportunity of displaying his capacity in the royal ships.

There are, as has been remarked, a number of romantic tales extant about Jean Bart; most of them are quite incredible, and for the others there is no reliable authority. One may be given here as a sample.

At Bergen, in the year 1691, it is said that Bart made the acquaintance of the captain of a large English vessel, who expressed a keen desire to meet him outside. Bart said if he would wait a few days his wish should be gratified, and sent word one day that he would sail on the morrow. The Englishman politely invited him to breakfast before they sailed to have it out, and Bart, after a little hesitation, accepted. After breakfast he lit his pipe, and soon remarked that it was time to go. "No," said the Englishman, "you are my prisoner!" "I am not your prisoner," replied Bart, "I will blow up your ship!" Rushing out of the cabin, with a lighted match, he ran to where stood a barrel of gunpowder which had most opportunely been hoisted up from the magazine—a cask with the head out, we must imagine, and the powder exposed. Here, of course, he had it all his own way; the Englishmen were afraid to touch him, lest he should put the match to the powder—and the crews of the French ships, having heard his shout of defiance, rallied on board the English vessel in numbers, cut down many of the crew, captured the ship, and carried her into Dunkirk.

It must be to this absurd story that M. Henri Malo alludes in "Les Corsaires," where he writes, in derision of privateering romances: "Privateers! We read in these accounts the names of heroes of romance—Jean Bart, smoking his pipe, mark you, on a barrel of gunpowder; Robert Surcouf, popularised in operetta."

Jean Bart deserves better than to be lampooned in this fashion; and, though he rose to distinction in the Navy, and there has almost always been a French man-of-war named after him, it is chiefly as the indomitable corsair that his memory is cherished in Dunkirk.