“——Like lions wanting food,
Do rush upon us as their hungry prey.”
HENRY VI.
Morning, beautiful and clear, such as it is only in the transparent
regions of the tropics, had just come, when, in obedience to the order
of the preceding night, the sailor returned to the cabin of Lorenzo.
There he was subjected to a more particular examination than the leisure
of the foregone night permitted, and he detailed, with accuracy, the
various little incidents which had befallen him since he started from the
schooner on his commission.
“The ship,” he said, “is very large, and seems to be well manned.
There were several persons on board, who appeared to be passengers. We
pretended to be fishing, and we pulled backwards and forwards under her
stern as she was sailing slowly before the light wind, so that we had an
opportunity of observing her closely, and of seeing that on her stern
was marked the ‘Letitia’ of Bristol.”
“The ‘Letitia,’” repeated Lorenzo, and a gloom passed over his
countenance, as he remained for a minute or two absorbed by some
devouring thought.
“Did she seem to sail well?” at length, he asked.
“Senor, the wind was light, and we could not judge of that; but, from her
build, I think she would be a clipper,” answered the man.
After Lorenzo had put some other questions to the sailor he dismissed
him, and requested that the master-fisherman should be immediately
brought. The latter was, in a short time, conducted to the officer’s
cabin, where he was interrogated in the same manner. The fisherman said
it was the large ship which appertained to the rich English merchant,
and of which he had already given information to the captain. The
officer dismissed him also, and sought, at once, the captain’s cabin.
He communicated the report of the party, and in answer was ordered to
go on deck, immediately, and get ready to set sail. When Lorenzo was
detailing to his chief the report of the reconnoitring party, the deepest
physiognomist would not have been able to discover a wrinkle or a mark
in the face of the young man, or to perceive the slightest change in his
dark eyes that could indicate the existence of any particular feeling
within. He sat like a statue, as silent and as still, with his piercing
eyes fixed on the pupils of the narrator’s, who, from time to time, was
obliged to look down in order to relieve himself of the torture in which
he was kept by the eagle glance of his chief. But when Lorenzo arrived
at the part of the report in which the description of the vessel was
made, and the name “Letitia” was mentioned, there might be traced around
his lips the rudiments of a sardonic smile of triumph—something like
the flash of a ponderous cannon when a match is applied in the darkness
of night, that dazzles for a moment, and then suddenly dies away in the
thick enshrouding smoke that darkly typifies the terrible gloom of the
destruction which springs from its midst.
Having heard the report of his officer, the captain ordered him to
proceed, at once, on deck, and get ready to set sail. The officer bowed
and retired.
When Lorenzo had quitted the cabin, the captain remained sitting in the
same position in which he had received the report, and appeared occupied
by some preying thought.
“Yes,” he muttered, “‘Letitia,’ that is the name: he goes in it. Speed
well my purpose!”
The preparations on board the schooner did not require much time to be
completed, and, in a few moments, the captain himself made his appearance
on deck. It would appear, that except when the schooner was under
weigh, he never showed himself to his crew. Like the priests of yore,
who swayed mankind, he was no doubt apprehensive, that if he exhibited
himself too frequently to vulgar view, the sailors, in getting familiar
with his person, should lose much of the veneration and awe which they
unquestionably entertained for him, and which seemed to crush their wills
to an implicit and blind obedience to his.
When he appeared on deck, he was attired in quite a different fashion to
the one in which he was seen in his cabin. He wore black trowsers, with
broad stripes of gold on the sides, and a black frock coat, simply but
richly ornamented with embroidery of the same precious metal. The red
sash, as usual, was folded round his waist, and supported the pistols and
poniard; his head was crowned with a flaming cap, in the front of which
was wrought the death’s head and dead men’s bones; while, in addition to
these things, a beautiful sword, with gold mountings, hung by his side.
“Weigh,” he said, to the officer on duty, as his foot touched the deck;
the vessel was immediately put under sail. The light breeze of the
morning filled her well-trimmed canvass, and like a creature of life
and grace the Black Schooner began to cut through the water. Scarcely a
ripple marked where her sharp keel passed, as she moved gracefully over
the quiet waters of the gulf.
The hills of the Bocas gradually arose more and more distinctly before
her, as she quickly approached them. No scene perhaps in nature is more
beautiful than the one which presents itself to the mariner as he sails
through the narrow strait that affords a northern passage from the Gulf
of Paria.
Standing in the midst of the clearest waters that bathe in graceful
ripplings their luxuriant base, are clusters of small islands that are
carpeted to the very beach with fresh and never fading verdure. Like a
scene in a panorama, or like the trembling shadows which a tropical moon
casts over the silent lake or placid stream, those islands seem balancing
over a crystal surface, that shines and sends forth a thousand undulating
reflections under the pure and clear rays of an undarkened tropical sun:
or, as they recede to the eye, in proportion to the progress of the
vessel, imagination might convert them into the terrestrial realities of
those variegated spots which the musing poet is fond to contemplate, to
follow in their course, to speculate and dream upon, in the transparent
and lulling pureness of a summer sky. Above these are seen the
blossoming coral-trees with their scarlet flowers, that chequer the
densely wooded hills, and stand amidst the dense foliage that surrounds
them, marked and conspicuous like thousands of growing wreaths, that
administering nymphs eternally offer to tropical nature in gratitude for
her marvellous and beautiful works.
Over the shining waters themselves that lave these hills and fairy isles,
are seen the long-necked pelican, in its shadowy flight, or its fierce
headlong plunge after its watery prey; the spiry smoke, as it ascends
from some reed-constructed cottage on the shore; the feathery canoe of
some solitary fisherman, playing, like a child of the element, on the
beautiful sea; the crooked creeks and receding bays that conjure up
thoughts of lurking pirates; the sullen growling of the ocean, in long,
high, and heaving swells, as it rolls on the ocean-side: all these mark
the entrance of the Boca with the boldest and most beautiful features of
natural beauty that fancy, in her wildest reveries, can draw and paint;
while the gloomily ascending mountains of Paria, on the left side, with
their precipitous falls, to be seen far, far away;—mountains, that stand
dark and dismal like sulky lions on the crouch, and seem ready to fall—to
fill up the narrow straits below, and to bury, far beneath their weight,
the frail structure of fragile wood that intrudes with its rash and
venturesome burdens into the very shadow of their black brow, tend to add
to the scene a solemn and terrifying effect.
The black schooner glided through the narrow outlet, and rose outside on
the boisterous billows of the Atlantic.
The captain paced the deck in deep reflection. His dark eyebrows
completely hid his eyes, which remained fixed on the deck. Their long
and silken lashes swept the handsome young man’s cheeks, his lips were
compressed, and his black mustachios imparted a still sterner, and
more terrible appearance to his face. He wore the aspect of one whose
resolution was taken to do a desperate deed, and whose nature still
refused consent and revolted at the thought, like him who sacrifices to
principle, and is doomed to drain a cup that makes humanity shudder.
He had directed the schooner to be steered in the course which the ships
bound for England generally take, and men were stationed on her tall
and raking masts to keep watch. The day passed: night came; still the
schooner held her course, and silence reigned on board. Not a sound
was heard, save when the shrill pipe called to duty, or told the hour.
The next day came, and with it the order to prepare for fight, still
there was no vessel in sight. But the captain was not one to give orders
in vain. He knew his vessel, he knew the currents, and could tell the
precise hour when he would overtake a vessel of whose departure he was
apprized.
* * * * *
The sun was just sinking in the horizon, when the man aloft cried out—
“Sail, ho!—to leeward.”
The captain stopped, and ordered his telescope; with that he discerned a
speck in the distance, but far away.
“Keep her away,” he cried, to the man who was steering:—“ease your jib,
foresail, and mainsail sheets, Gregoire;”—to the officer on duty; and the
schooner edged off.
She sailed so fast that by midnight she was near the object that had
appeared in the horizon, and which was now found to be a large ship
gallantly careering over the ocean. Her white canvass shone in the
moonlight, and the foam that gathered at her bows was brilliant with the
phosphorescence of the Caribean Sea.
“Take in the fore-sail,” the captain cried; and that sail was immediately
lowered.
The sailors were now all armed with pistols, poniards, and boarding
pikes. As they stood grimly gazing on the ship before them, their black
beards, red caps, and weapons, looked terribly dreadful, and the idea of
some bloody deed could not but be suggested by their appearance.
The fife sounded a peculiar note, and all the sailors gathered at
the foot of the schooner’s mainmast. Here may have been heard the
low whisperings of comrade to comrade: there may have been seen the
fierce eyes of some, flashing, as it were, in anticipation of something
congenial. Some may have been observed to stroke their raven beards as if
out of patience; others, leaned carelessly on their pikes. When they had
properly formed, the captain stopped in his nervous walk, and, drawing
himself up to the full height of his lofty and commanding person, said:—
“Associates, you have now another opportunity to revenge yourselves on
the world. There,” and he pointed to the ship, “there you have the wealth
of some trader, that has neither capacity to enjoy it, nor heart to use
it. Remember how frequently you have wanted the morsel which he could so
easily have spared, but which you never found. Remember your wrongs and
now redress them; take what the world would not afford you. By the dawn
of day we shall attack that ship. I expect nothing less than that which
I have always found in you, give but your valour, and you shall have the
booty—the reward of bravery. Go, rest yourselves until the morning.”
This short speech, he spoke in a clear, deep, and sonorous voice; while
the features of the speaker seemed more eloquent than his tongue. The
bitterest hatred curled his lip, when he delivered the first part, and
animation glowed on his countenance, when he spoke of the bravery of his
men.
“Bravo! bravo!” broke out in loud and deep echoes from the assembled
crew. The sailors, one by one, returned to the foremost part of the
vessel, not without having first cast an inquiring glance at the ship
before them. Some betook themselves to their hammocks, and others sat
together smoking their cigars and conversing, in a low tone, on the
probable events of the approaching morning.
The night waned: and, at last, morning came.
The captain, who, after he had addressed his men, had given orders to the
officer of the watch to keep the ship always in sight, but by no means to
approach her more closely, had descended into his cabin, now re-appeared
on deck. He walked up to the helm, looked first at the compass, and then
at the ship that was still a-head of the schooner. The ship appeared now
in all her greatness. She was a large merchant-man, apparently, deeply
laden, but by no means an indifferent sailer.
“Hoist the foresail,” the captain said, and the sail was again put on the
vessel, that seemed to feel it, for she now leapt over the waves like a
snake on whose tail some passer-by had accidentally trodden.
“To your posts, my men,” the captain again said, and the shrill fife
re-echoed his command.
With the silence of death every man took his station, every gun was
manned, every halliard was attended to, while the sides of the deck
were immediately lined with men, who were armed with pikes and axes in
addition to their pistols and poniards.
It is difficult to imagine the rapidity and calmness with which these
preparations were made. We must call to the assistance of our memory
the movements of beautifully adjusted machines as they perform their
parts, to form an adequate idea of the promptness and ease with which the
hundreds of men on board the Black Schooner, executed their captain’s
order.
The schooner now drew rapidly on the ship: she was light, and was a fast
sailer, and fully felt the light breeze which was blowing at that early
part of the morning. Not so with the ship pursued: deeply laden, and
comparatively heavy, the light air had scarcely any effect upon her, and
she was moving along but tardily. When the schooner had arrived within
gun-shot from the ship, at the captain’s order, a gun was fired, and the
broad black ensign, with the frightful device of death, ran along the
signal-line.
The shot boomed athwart the ship’s bows, but she paid no attention to the
signal; on the contrary, additional sails were immediately hoisted, and
the vessel was kept freer from the wind. But the schooner still gained
upon her.
The report of another cannon, from her side, echoed over the waters:
still the ship kept her course. The captain spoke not a word, but looked
with haughty calmness on the large vessel, as he stood lofty and erect
on the deck, with his arms crossed over his breast. “Launch and man the
boats,” he said, after a long space of time had been permitted to escape;
a loud cheer, which they could no longer suppress, burst forth from the
men. More quickly than we can describe, the hatches were raised, and two
boats were immediately hoisted out into the water; twenty men cheerfully
jumped into each, and stood ready for the order to shove off.
The boats were towed at the sides until the captain’s voice was
heard—“Shove off and board,” he cried, in the same composed and stern
manner. A loud cheer from the sailors in the boats, and their comrades
on deck, echoed the order. The boats leapt over the long waves under the
vigorous efforts of the men. They approached the ship. They stood up,
pike in hand, ready to climb its sides.
“Pull, my men,” cried the officer in command, “we take her at once:”
a flash was seen on the ship’s deck, a loud report was heard, and, as
the smoke ascended, the shattered remnant of the first boat were seen
floating here and there, and those who had been in it, and, a moment
before, had longed so eagerly for battle, were scattered about on the
water dead and horribly mutilated.
The discharge from the ship told with a fatal exactness: the gun, it
would appear, had been loaded with pieces of old iron, nails, and
everything destructive that could be found; and the charge swept away men
and boat with a dreadful crash.
“Lay on your oars, my mates,” cried the officer of the second boat,
fierce with anger at the destruction of his comrades: and in a few
seconds she was alongside the ship.
“Board, board,”—quicker than thought the assailants climbed the sides of
the merchantman, but not to land on deck: a dreadful conflict ensued.
The men of the ship resisted valiantly, like those who knew they were
fighting for their lives: the foremost assailants were dashed into the
deep. They slashed at each other—attacking and attacked. The assailants
handled their pikes with fierce and unbreathing vigour, but they seemed
to make but little head against the men of the ship. Here and there
a boarder was to be seen, to hang to the ship for a moment in his
death-grasp, while blood and brain gushed from his cloven head to balance
a moment in mid-air, and then fall heavily into the sea.
“Hurrah! hurrah!”—the cries of victory rose on board the British
vessel, as assailant after assailant was precipitated into the deep,
or sunk under the blows of the men on deck. Now the survivors rushed,
for security, into the shrouds; now they clung to the ropes with teeth
and feet, while, with their pikes, they kept at bay the opponents on
deck. Like famished tigers, that would have their morsel or die, they
fought, falling, dying, and almost dead: no shout, no word escaped
them, but they did their work in terrible silence. On, on, the English
sailors pressed. The shout of victory again rose; but three of the
assistants remained—they were partly sheltered in the chains, and fierce
as leopards at bay, they felled all that dared approach them; their
companions were all cut down or driven over board; perspiration ran down
their brawny breasts; blood and foam bubbled from their mouths; and, with
eyes as dry and lurid as the famished Panther, they slashed at their
hard pressing opponents. Suddenly a loud cheer was heard; it rang over
the ocean like the roar of a distant cataract; the still resisting three
heard it: a hoarse cry came from their parched and husky throats.
“The ‘Periagua,’”[1] one of them cried, and a long canoe-like boat was
seen rapidly approaching from the schooner.
[1] _See_ Appendix A.
[Transcriber’s Note: There isn’t an Appendix A, either in this
volume or in Volume 2. The term ‘periagua’ was originally
used to describe the long, narrow dugout canoes used in the
Caribbean and in Central and South America. By the date of
this book, it was also applied to small, flat-bottomed sailing
vessels.]
The captain of the schooner himself stood in the stern, cool and
collected, with determination marked on every feature. The boat
approached nearer and nearer—two strokes more, and she was alongside.
“Now save yourselves or perish:” so saying, the captain drew a plug from
the bottom—the water gushed in—the boat began to sink; with the courage
of desperation, the pirates sprang on to the sides of the vessel. Their
swords glittered in the air, their pikes were worked with the rapidity
of lightning, the shouts of the attacked, the yells of the pirates, the
splash of the killed, as they fell headlong into the deep, rose wild and
appalling on the ear.
The men of the ship received this new attack with firmness: but they had
already fought long; they began to yield; their blows fell less rapidly.
“On—on!” cried the captain, and in a moment he himself was on the deck.
With a wild yell the pirates followed. The men of the ship now cried
for mercy: but the slaughter went on. Revenge directed every blow—every
stroke carried death. The voice of the chief was at last heard above the
confusion and death-cries.
“Enough: spare and secure your prisoners.”
The word arrested the sword that was raised to deal the last fatal blow,
and stayed the pike that had destruction on its point. Every pirate
gnashed his teeth because his vengeance was stopped—but who dared disobey?
“Cut the halliards:” ’twas done; and the masts of the ship in a moment
stood bare, and she lay floating like a log on the waves.
The deck was crimson and slippery with blood; the sailors of the ship,
that had defended her so bravely, lay in heaps, dead and dying.
The commander of the merchantman himself was stretched lifeless on the
deck. He had rushed on the captain of the pirates as soon as the latter
had gained the deck, and wielding with both hands a ponderous sword,
made such a blow at him as would have cut him through; but by a slight
movement the intended victim escaped the stroke, and before the commander
could recover from the impetus of his own blow, the captain pierced him
to the heart with his poniard. Without a groan he fell dead.
As soon as the ship was captured, the captain issued his orders to his
men, that their wounded companions should be properly attended to;
and the boat which, although it had been swamped, on account of its
lightness, had not sunk, should be secured.
These commands were immediately attended to. The pirates forthwith picked
up their disabled companions, that still clung to the wrecks of the first
boat: or those who, as yet, grasped, in a desperate effort for life, the
lower riggings of the ship of which they had laid hold in their fall from
the bulwarks or the deck.
The hatches were raised, and they began to examine the cargo. The captain
himself, with two sturdy sailors after him, descended the steps that led
to the cabin.
Here were three persons apparently overcome with terror. A man of about
middle age leant on the panelling of the cabin, with a long musket,
surmounted with a rusty bayonet, in his hands, which trembled so much
from extreme fear that they were utterly unable to raise the weapon which
they sustained. On the floor lay a young lady in a swoon, while over
her bent an aged priest, anxiously awaiting the appearance of returning
animation.
“Mercy, mercy on us!” cried the first individual, as the captain entered
the cabin; “take our money; I have gold there; yes, there is gold in my
cabin: but, for God’s sake, spare our lives: for the sake of my children
and my family, spare an aged man, whose blood can avail you nothing,” and
the suppliant fell on his knees, still grasping the unavailing musket.
“Get up, man: kneel not to me,” said the captain, indifferently. The
voice struck the prostrate man like an electric shock; with a sudden
start he raised his head, and gazed at the man before him.
“What voice was that?” he cried, and passed his trembling hands over
his brow; and like him who labours, by one violent and forcible effort
of the mind, to recall a thousand widely distant events; or like him on
whom dawns the recollection of some long-passed, but horrible deed, he
remained fixed to the spot, with staring eyes and fallen jaws. Again and
again, he passed his hands over his brow,—“it was her voice!—what do I
hear?—what do I see?—No, it cannot be—yet so like her:—no—yes—yes;—it
is—my son.” He started, like one in frenzy, from the cabin floor, and
rushed on the pirate chief. The latter drew back.
“Keep away,” he said: “I am, indeed, your son!—secure that man,” turning
to his men; and, while giving them this order, passed to the upper part
of the cabin, at the same time casting a look of the bitterest scorn on
him who had recognised him as his son.
So intent was the aged priest on watching the recovery of the young lady
under his care, that he did not even raise his eyes from her face during
the above unexpected recognition of father and son. But when the captain
approached the object of his solicitude, he suddenly rose, and, throwing
himself at his feet, implored him, in the most moving accents, to spare
the innocence and honor of the young and helpless lady.
The captain, with what could be construed into a smile, bade him be
re-assured.
“Fear not, old man,” he said, “for the innocence and honor of any one on
my account; I value my time much, and cannot spare a moment of it, either
to blight the innocence or rob the honor of damsels;—continue your
attention to the young lady.” He then walked up to the seat at the top of
the cabin table, and deliberately and coolly sitting down, ordered his
men to search for the ship’s papers and bring them to him.
There was not much difficulty in discovering these, for the steward,
who had carefully concealed himself in his pantry during the attack,
seeing that there was no longer any bloodshed, now crept out of his
hiding-place, and offered his services to the searching pirates, on
condition that his life should be spared. By means of his assistance, the
papers of the captured vessel were immediately rummaged out, and handed
to the pirate captain.
He glanced over them for a time, and at length musingly said, as if
speaking to himself,—“The owners are rich, and they can afford to yield
up this cargo to better men than themselves.” He then delivered the
papers to one of his men, and ordered the passengers’ luggage to be
searched. In the trunks of these were found large sums in doubloons and
other gold coins,—money that had, no doubt, been destined to the buying
of many a European luxury.
The search went on; and when the cabin had been completely rifled of
every thing that was valuable, the captain proceeded on deck, and was
followed by his men, and the passengers, who were now prisoners.
The pirates had, by this time, thoroughly examined the cargo of the
vessel, and had found it to consist principally of the staple productions
of the West Indies—sugar and rum—together with a small quantity of other
minor commodities, such as tobacco and indigo. A great portion of these
light things was already collected on the deck, where the pirates were
assembled, waiting for their chief.
“What has she?” inquired this personage, when he gained the deck.
“Sugar and rum, your excellency,” one of the officers answered, and
remained in silence before his superior, awaiting his orders.
The captain seemed to consider awhile, and then replied: “Stay here, and
retain a man with you.”
The men were immediately ordered to get the boats ready to shove off to
the schooner. Whatever light things the pirates could stow away were put
into them. The wounded of their party were carefully lowered, from the
decks of the captured ship, into the boats. The sailors of the ship,
that had survived the action, were placed in the bows of the Periagua;
and the prisoners, who, with the exception of the individual who had
recognized the captain as his son, were without restraint, permitted to
sit in the stern-sheets with the captain; and the young lady, who had now
recovered from her fainting sickness, received all the attentions which
the most perfect civility could offer, and which were evidently shown
with the purpose of smoothing down the strange position in which she
found herself. The boats were pushed off from the ship, that was left,
sluggishly rolling on the waves, under the charge of the two men.
The pirates shortly gained the schooner, which, during and after the
action, continued to lie to the wind, at a short distance from the prize.
Lorenzo, in whose command she was left, when the captain headed the party
of the Periagua, stood ready at the gangway to receive his superior. No
noise was heard on board of the captured ship or the schooner since the
fight: the bonds of the same marvellous discipline seemed, unknowingly
to themselves, to control the pirates, even at the moment of victory
and exultation; but when the boats came alongside the schooner, human
nature, it would appear, refused to contain itself any longer: and those
fierce men, who had abandoned the entire world for the narrow space of
their small vessel, and the inhabitants of the vast universe for the few
kindred spirits who were their associates—that had separated themselves,
by their deeds, from the world, the world’s sympathy, and the world’s
good and bad, that had actually turned their hand against all men, and
had expected, as they had probably frequently experienced, that the
hand of all men should be turned against them, could not restrain their
feelings of welcome, and three loud and prolonged cheers resounded, far
and wide over the silent ocean, as they were wafted, in undying echoes,
over the crests of the heavy and heaving billows. As comrade rejoined
comrade, their grim and bearded faces appeared to relax from their wonted
habit of ferocity, under the influence of a prevailing sense of joy: such
a joy, those, alone, can experience who have seen every natural tie break
asunder around them—who have felt the heavy hand of a crushing destiny,
or have been hunted and driven, by the injustice and persecution of
friend or relative, to seek shelter in that desperate solitude, which is
relieved, but, by the presence, and cheered, but, by the sympathy of the
few, who, like themselves, have been picked out by fate, to suffer, to be
miserable, and to be finally, cast forth from the society of mankind.
The captain endeavoured not to restrain the joy of his men; but he sat
stern, collected, and unaffected as ever, in the stern-sheets of the
boat. No sign of pleasure or displeasure was written on his features:
but if any change could be read, it was the passing shadow of a deep
melancholy that rested, for a moment, on his resolute brow. Perhaps the
reminiscences of some bygone period were playing on his memory; perhaps
the recollection of other days led him, in imagination, to some cherished
spot, where he was wont to hear the joyful greetings of parent, friend,
or lover. Perhaps the remembrance of that one moment, when, even the
most unhappy, and the most perverse of men, feel for once, the soothing
influence of those mysterious feelings of our nature, that melt, that
soften, that gladden, and remain for ever in our recollection, the lonely
stars of comfort in the heavy darkness of misfortunes. Perhaps the
remembrance of such a moment, now flitted across the memory of the pirate
captain.
Whatever was the feeling that cast its hue over his brow, like the
passing shadow of a fleeting cloud, it came—in the twinkling of an eye,
it passed away; and he remained, again, the inscrutable individual, that
he ever was.
The captain, on gaining the deck of the schooner, ordered that the
prisoners should be properly treated: “Let, however, that man,” pointing
to the person who had recognized him as his son, “be kept in close
custody.”
Having said this, he looked around him on the schooner, where the same
order reigned as before the attack, and went down into his cabin.
The day was now nearly spent, the sun was setting red, round, and fiery,
as it sets only in the tropics.
The light goods, which the pirates had brought with them from the
captured ship, and the prisoners, were transhipped into the schooner. The
boats were hoisted into their places. The schooner herself lay in the
same position—motionless, under its counteracting sails.
Some time had already elapsed since the captain went below, and no orders
had, as yet, been given for the night. The officer, whose watch it was,
walked the deck in anxious expectation of commands.
The captured ship rolled at some distance from the schooner, and it was
apparent that it was necessary to provide for her safety during the night
that was now setting in.
The short tropical twilight had nearly passed away, and darkness was
gathering on the expanse of the waters, when one of the negro boys, whom
the reader may recollect, sought the cabin of the chief officer, and
delivered to him the same ring by which, it may be remembered, he, once
before, gained admittance into the captain’s cabin. As soon as Lorenzo
received the ring, he proceeded to the after part of the vessel and
gained admittance to his chief.
The latter was still in his dark uniform and was sitting by the large
table that occupied the centre of the apartment. A chart was before him;
by its side were, also, the papers which had been brought from the ship.
“Lorenzo,” said the chief to the officer, after pointing to one of the
ottomans, “it is my will that our prize be manned, and sailed to St.
Thomas, where we shall sell the cargo. To-morrow, we shall deal with
our prisoners, and divide the spoils already gathered. Let a sufficient
number of men be sent on board the ship to-night, so that she may be
properly manned, in case of any change of the weather. Let the schooner,
in the mean time, be kept lying to, under her jib; and let the prize
remain in the same position—a quarter of a mile from us. At dawn of day,
let all the men assemble on the main deck, and wait for me.”
The officer rose and bowed, to depart.
“Stop, Lorenzo,” resumed the chief, “drink some wine:” a spring was
pressed, and immediately one of the boys in attendance brought in a
richly cut decanter and the necessary accompaniments. Lorenzo and the
captain, respectively, filled themselves a goblet and quaffed it off in
silence; after which the officer left the cabin.