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Updated: May 9, 2025
Certain well-known leaders were going the rounds, that is to say, running from one house to another, to collect their men. At Barthelemy's, near the Barriere du Trone, at Capel's, near the Petit-Chapeau, the drinkers accosted each other with a grave air. They were heard to say: "Have you your pistol?" "Under my blouse." "And you?" "Under my shirt."
Drops of cold perspiration stood on Barthelemy's brow, his eyes stared fixedly into vacancy, his fingers clenched the paper convulsively; then, starting up, he flung the Creole aside and dealt the table such a blow with his clenched fist that the pirates, to a man, instantly became silent and stared at him in wonder. "The carouse is over!" thundered their leader in a terrible voice.
Asphlant undertook to execute the command, but soon returned to report that the ship's cargo consisted of eighty negro slaves and, as he did not know whether one could kindle negroes, he had come to ask what to do with them. Barthelemy's eyes flashed with a fiendish delight. "Negroes?" he asked, grinding his teeth, "Throw them into the sea, they must learn to swim."
Stephenson, seeing it, leaped from his post in despair, leaving his place at the helm, and throwing himself on Barthelemy's body shouted, sobbing aloud: "He is dead!" The cry fairly paralyzed the pirates just at the critical moment; nameless terror filled their hearts, and all rushed to their captain's corpse.
Half an hour later, two vessels were seen moving across the sea in opposite directions, widening the space between them every moment. In Hispaniola Robert Barthelemy's name became known everywhere on the high seas.
Indeed, to shorten a long story, by the end of Barthelemy's count there were two hundred and thirty-nine notches on the rod. For twelve years thereafter, I falling into discourse with Messire Georges Chastellain, an esquire of the Duke of Burgundy, and a maker both of verse and prose, he told me the same tale to a man, three hundred men.
"For heaven's sake, gentlemen!" shrieked a voice among the captured sailors, and a man, with his hands tied behind his back, threw himself at Barthelemy's feet and tried to kiss his boots, while his eyes rested despairingly on the face of the pirate chief. "For heaven's sake, you brave, valiant, worthy men! You heroes, you demi-gods!
"And we would rather stay here, where people fear us, than go where we must fear others." "If you want blood, we can shed as much here for you as you desire." "But we won't go a thousand miles and seek danger merely to avenge you on the negroes who killed your sweetheart." Robert Barthelemy's face blanched to a ghastly pallor.
The bullet had pierced his heart. The man at the helm, Stephenson, saw him fall and, not perceiving the wound, shouted: "Don't lie down, captain, but look the danger boldly in the face and fight as beseems a man." Even as he spoke a jet of blood gushed from Barthelemy's breast.
I left her in Dublin. I don't know whether she has found her lover." Barthelemy's face had gradually blanched to a corpse-like pallor, his eyes were fixed on vacancy and a strange smile rested on his ghastly face. "See how the captain is smiling, he has gone crazy!" whispered the pirates, starting up in alarm. "What has happened to you?" exclaimed Hill, striking Barthelemy on the shoulder.
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