His barque was loaded with a cargo of corn and bound for Bordeaux. Now, I don't know much music, and I don't care for this modern jazz school at all. Faust I enjoy. Give me the duet in the Garden scene, and, since I am called the "Sea Devil," I don't mind admitting a secret fondness for old Mephisto and his serenade beneath the window. Now I had to sink my favourite composer. The thought of it made me hum a phrase of Valentine's dying lament. But the sinking of the _Charles Gounod_ meant much more than any such superficial melancholy. One shouldn't ever have to sink a sailing ship. They are the last survivors of the golden days at sea, crueler days and finer days. Take any old salt who has sailed before the mast, and ask him. The shipyards are not building many of them any more, and the day of the schooner, the barque, the clipper, and the barquentine is fast passing. Every one that goes down to Davy Jones is a loss that will not be replaced. I have an old-time seaman's love for sailships. A steamer? Train the guns and light the fuses. I could sink a steamer and laugh as she takes her last dive. But I never did get used to sinking sailing ships, although we had to send many of them on their last voyage before our own final adventure in the South Seas. Our bombs exploded in the hold of the _Charles Gounod_. She lurched like a living thing. Her tall masts trembled. The majestic ship seemed to bow her head as she nosed down into the sea. The last we saw of her was a glimpse of her tallest mast and waving from it the tricolour of France. With her departure, I somehow thought I saw the passing of the whole age of sailing ships. Three days later, a tremendous commotion in the rigging. Six men were reporting "Sail ho!" "Hold there," I roared, "let's have done with the argument until we've settled with the ship." She was a fine three-masted schooner. We thought she might be an American. The Americans favour that type of ship. And the United States was not yet in the war. However, the Canadians also have a weakness for the three-masted schooner. We raised our flag, hoping to induce the skipper to raise his flag, which would be the polite response for him to make. But her skipper didn't seem to be in any mood for returning compliments that day. Perhaps he had had a bad night and was saying to himself: "What do I care for that old Norwegian tub?" We backed our main-topsail and dipped our flag three times as a salute, hoping that this exceptional courtesy would induce the schooner to follow the amenities of the sea.