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                  THE LIFE OF A CELEBRATED BUCCANEER

    _A PAGE OF PAST HISTORY FOR THE USE OF THE CHILDREN OF TO-DAY_

                          BY RICHARD CLYNTON


    LONDON
    SWAN SONNENSCHEIN & CO.
    PATERNOSTER SQUARE.

    1889




LIFE OF A CELEBRATED BUCCANEER.




CHAPTER I.


Once upon a time there lived on an island, separated from the main land
of Europe by a silver streak of the ocean, a celebrated Buccaneer.

There was a rugged grandeur about the rock-bound coast of this island,
with its bluff, bold headlands and beetling cliffs, where the sea birds
loved to make their nests high up above the spray; mingling their cries
with the voice of the ocean as it rushed into its wide and deep throated
caverns. The waves, too, worked ever, and for ever, a broad fretwork
collar round these rocky shores. Unlucky was the ship that found this
island on her lee in a gale of wind. Many a child had been made
fatherless there, and many a wife a widow. But to those who knew how to
thread their way through the many channels, numerous bays, creeks, and
rivers, offered a safe retreat either from the storm or from an enemy.

This island was a fit home for one following the profession of a
Buccaneer. Its natural advantages were extremely great; for not only was
it difficult of access, but its innumerable big throated caverns opened
their wide jaws ready to receive anything that floated in from the
ocean. However, this bold pirate did such a good business, that in a
short time these caves became too small, so he had to build wharves and
warehouses to hold his plunder; for he lived in such an age, and was
surrounded by such unprincipled people, that he could not leave his
things lying about on the shore. Besides which, the climate was not
good, being frequently visited by fogs, gales of wind, and very heavy
rains.

Soon villages rose up; then towns, which in their turn grew into great
cities, the principal of which were generally planted by the side of
some one of his many rivers. Soon the bays and rivers became crowded
with ships, and the shores were busy scenes of industry. Cargoes were
being landed. Sails were being made and repaired; ropes overhauled and
restranded, and the smell of the pitch caldrons rose up and mingled with
the salt air blown in fresh from the sea. Shipwrights' hammers resounded
along the shores, and were echoed back by the beetling cliffs. While the
men worked, the women sang, and the chubby-faced, fair-haired children
played about on the beach.

To those who ask how our bold Buccaneer acquired most of his property,
it must be answered that it came to him in a manner usual in those
times. Everybody laid their hands upon what they could, and then devoted
all their spare time and energy to the keeping of it. Title deeds were
for the most part written in blood, with a sharp-pointed one-nibbed
steel pen. When we live in Rome we must do as the Romans do, and we must
not set up to be better than our neighbours, that is, if we wish to
prosper, and when all the world is going in for universal plunder it
does not pay to stand on one side, with hands idle, arms folded, and
eyes upturned to heaven, saying that people are wicked. Needs must when
the devil drives.

It has been a time-honoured custom to rob and kill, so that riches may
be laid up; then it becomes the duty of all to watch lest the thief
breaks through and steals. This primitive method of doing business is
now justly condemned, and all nations pay at least a tribute to virtue,
by flinging a cloth over any shady action. But nations even now have to
maintain their dignity. Insults have to be resented, and ambitious
designs have to be frustrated. Battles are fought, and people are
slaughtered, and some one, as the saying is, has to pay the piper.

It would almost seem, by a contemplation of things in general, that man
by nature is a robber, the action changing its colour according to the
atmosphere that people have to live in. In barbarous ages the act of
plunder is done openly, and a fellow-creature is sent about his
business, either with a broken head or with a spear through his body,
and there is an end to him, and perhaps the world is not much the
poorer. That honesty is the best policy is, by experience, forced upon
us; but even now, in our most enlightened age, the individual will at
times adulterate his liquor, sand his sugar, and sell short weight,
though he may try to sanctify the deed by saying his prayers before and
after; thus adding somewhat to the general stock of humbugs, hypocrites,
and Pharisees. But to our story.

It was a noble sight to see this bold Buccaneer getting under weigh with
his fleet of ships. Clack, clack went the windlasses, and his brave lads
could be heard singing as they lifted their anchors a peak--

    Merrily round our capstans go
      As we heave in the slack of our chain,
    Into our sails the north winds blow
      As we bear away from the main.
        Yo ho, my lads, heave ho!

Home went the sheets. Up went the yards, and the sails bellied out to
the wind. On the shores crowded the women and children. The little ones
with shock heads of curly hair, the sport of the breeze, crying after
their fathers, holding up their tearful little faces for the sea-breeze
to kiss. The wives wishing their brave lads a prosperous voyage, and a
safe return, with plenty of plunder. Silks and spices from the East, and
gold and silver from the West, or wherever they could find it. Away went
the ships, with their white canvas spread like the wings of a seagull.
Soon the hulls were down, and the white specks, after lingering for a
while upon the far-off horizon, sank beneath and vanished. Then sending
a sigh after their mates on the wings of the north wind, the women
returned to their homes and sang their young sea whelps to sleep, with
lullabies tuned to the daring deeds of their fathers.




CHAPTER II.


Things in this world do not remain shady long. Time works wonders and
throws the halo of romance over the darkest deeds. See what time and
romance have done for William Tell. Look at your Alexander and your
Frederick; are not they both called great? Ah! these two were conquerors
not plunderers; and there lies the difference, though perhaps Maria
Theresa and one or two others might have had something to say against
one of these fine fellows. Then there is Robin Hood. Have not time and
romance completely changed the aspect of that, at one time, bold and
notorious outlaw? For over fifty years did this jolly robber enjoy
himself upon other people's property. Look too at the numerous other
gentlemen of the road; your crusaders and adventurers in early times.
What were the hardy Norsemen, of whom we love to sing? There is
something very attractive about your robber, no matter whether he
carries on his profession by sea or land, the only thing needful being,
to study him at a distance, and through the halo of this said romance.
If it were not for the world's great robbers what would historians have
to record; what would poets have to sing about? If they had to confine
themselves to the virtuous actions, to the good that is done, their
occupation would be gone. The chronicling of small beer is a waste of
labour.

But there comes a time when the very worst of sinners are troubled by
that mysterious part of the human economy known by the name of
conscience. This conscience is at times a veritable tyrant, saying what
we shall eat, what we shall drink, and what we shall do. To the many the
matter is not one of difficulty. If they have to make their way in the
world, conscience is either thrown overboard, or put under hatches until
such times as it is wanted. Then it comes up all the fresher for its
temporary retirement, and is, generally speaking, very exacting.

The disposition to repent of the evil we have done is not confined
either to age, time, or sex happily. The call comes perhaps, more often,
and earlier, to women than it does to men. Jezebel was not altogether as
good as she ought to have been, but even she might have turned over a
new leaf, and have become a most respectable saint, had not misfortune
thrown her across the path of that impetuous fellow Jehu, with the
result that she was, as every one knows, thrown out of a window. Had
Jezebel lived in the Buccaneer island in his later days, and had she
been young and beautiful, and the paint not too thick upon her face, she
might have been tried for some small act of indiscretion, such for
instance as that trifling incident about Naboth; but probably she would
have been acquitted, when no doubt she would have left the court without
a stain upon her character, and would have been an object of sympathy
ever after. This lady has left a numerous family of daughters behind
her, many of whom, however, turn over new leaves, and having been
considerable sinners, become the most straight-laced, unpitying, and
uncharitable of sour-faced saints. Poor Jezebel the first was never
given a chance. She lived too soon.

But to the point. The time came when our bold Buccaneer