A quarter of an hour later, followed by Jack Millet and my crew of twelve, I clambered in over the bulwarks of the motherly old craft that we had brought-to, and formally took possession of the _Haarlem_, Dutch East Indiaman, of 965 tons, homeward-bound from Batavia, full to the hatches with a rich cargo of Eastern produce, and a cuddy-full of passengers who seemed to take their capture very philosophically, especially when I explained to them that they might rely upon being left in undisturbed possession of all their strictly personal effects.  With the skipper, however,--a most dignified old fellow, white-haired, and bronzed by nearly half a century of the sea life,--it was different.  It appeared that he was part-owner of the ship, having sunk the entire savings of a lifetime in the purchase of fifty shares and a quantity of the cargo in her hold; and although he did his utmost to face his misfortune as a brave man should, the tears started to his eyes as he explained to me that the capture of the ship would leave him and his _frau_ absolutely penniless in their old age.  I endeavoured to soften the blow to him as much as possible by sympathetically murmuring some idiotic platitude about "the fortune of war," but of course it was no good; the poor old fellow simply shook his head and ejaculated--"Ay--the fortune of war!  It is all very well for you, young sir, who depend upon war to provide you with a career, to talk like that; but think of the thousands who are ruined and whose hearts are left desolate by war; think of the parents who have to mourn the loss of sons cut down by war in the very flower of their manhood, and all because our rulers cannot agree!  I tell you, sir, that if all men were what they should be-- honourable, honest, upright, and faithful followers of Christ--there need be no war."