WE CRUISE OFF CARTHAGENA AWAITING THE GALLEON, AND I FALL INTO THE
HANDS OF THE SPANIARDS
In three days after leaving the Samballas Islands, we had beat so
far to the norwest, that we counted upon being rather to windward
of Carthagena, and from nine to twelve leagues distance from the
coast. The west winds blow here with very little intermission,
the land-breeze being very slight when it does come, which is but
seldom. It was necessary now to determine exactly upon our mode of
proceeding, and this was the plan we adopted. The prize which we
expected was a private Patache, or treasure-ship, which, not waiting
the convoy of the great fleet which sails once in every three years
from the West Indies for Spain, intended, as we were informed by
Mr. Pratt’s prisoner, to risk the chances of the homeward passage
unprotected. Now, it was clear, that the first thing which we had to
do, was to ascertain whether the Patache, or galleon, was still in
Carthagena, and if so, when she would probably come out. Our next
care would be to keep to sea, and watch the coast and the harbour,
so as, if possible, to prevent the galleon putting off unknown to
us; while, at the same time, we managed so as to prevent any alarm
being excited upon the coast. With this view, we would, of course,
run in tolerably close with the land at nights, keeping further in
the offing during the day, and showing as little sail as possible.
But our first business, as I have said, was clearly to ascertain that
the mouse was actually in the hole; and that we might be sure, we
determined to venture well in towards the harbour that very night,
and, if possible, capture some small coasting craft or fisherman,
who could give us the information which we required. Accordingly, we
turned the schooner’s head to the southward, and ran along with a
pleasant breeze abeam. By sunset we saw the land; and so correct was
our reckoning, and so skilful our pilots, that John Clink and Captain
Jem, who knew the coast well, pronounced the hummock, on which we
were gazing, to be a high hill just behind the city of Carthagena, on
which there stands a cathedral, which boasts of a very rich shrine,
dedicated to the Holy Virgin, and of which more hereafter. Carthagena
itself is principally built upon a small sandy island in a bay. The
city lies upon the seaward side of the island, which is connected, by
a long wooden bridge, with the suburbs or faubourgs along the main
coast, the strait being, as may be supposed, a mere belt of shallow
water. Well, by ten o’clock, we saw the lights of Carthagena quite
plainly ahead of us; and afraid of venturing too near, we hove to,
and kept a good look out around us. But the sea was as shipless,
as though it heaved round a desolate island. The breeze was light
and fitful, and we lay tossing on the long swell, our bows plunging
deeply, and our gaffs and sails creaking and surging in perfect
solitude. One by one the lights on shore disappeared, as the citizens
went to bed, quite unwitting who was watching the gleam from their
casements; and, presently, the dusky line of the shore was unbroken
even by the twinkling of a single lantern. All at once, however, we
saw a bright glow begin to shine forth from the top of the hill which
I have mentioned. At first, we thought it a fire breaking out in a
large and lofty house; but, presently, I discerned that it was the
cathedral of _Nuestra a Senora de Papa_, lighted up for some night
service. It was very brave to trace the outline of the great arched
windows, all shining, as it were, with different-coloured fire, by
reason of the stained glass, covered with the figures of martyrs, and
angels, and saints; but when I was intently gazing at this glorious
sight, John Clink, the boatswain, suggested that we might well run in
closer. ‘For,’ quoth he, ‘all the people of the town will be at their
devotions, this place being the very Loretto of the West Indies.’
The boatswain’s advice was followed, and we edged in with the land,
until we could hear the sound of the surf very distinctly, and made
out furthermore—the stars shining out somewhat—that there were
several large ships and many smaller craft in the bay. Not daring to
approach these too closely in the schooner, the shallop was got out
with little noise, and I was appointed to go in her to reconnoitre.
I made the men muffle their oars with canvas, and we agreed that the
schooner should show two lights, one above the other, for a space of
thirty seconds, every ten minutes, until we returned. I also took
a dark-lantern in the boat, and we pulled silently away from the
schooner towards the land. Presently the white glimmer of the surf
could be seen plainly, close ahead of us; and so we pulled leisurely
along the outer edge, making for that part of the bay where the
shipping lie, somewhat to the westward of the town. We paused on our
oars now and then, and listened very attentively for sounds of alarm.
But none came. There was a holy calm abroad upon the night, and the
stars shone down through the stirless air. The coast seemed like a
dark cloud lying on the water, except where, at its highest ridge,
the festival tapers gleamed from out the great cathedral. We sat as
men spell-bound, gazing on the beauty of it. Presently, it appeared
as though great folding doors had been flung open, a burst of light,
like a glory, streamed forth from what was a vision of pillars and
arches, and great gleaming aisles; and falling on the broad steps
leading to the portals, streamed over a dusky crowd of worshippers,
men and women, kneeling with almost prostrate forms upon the marble
ledges; and at the same instant, the mighty swell of a great organ,
and the deep peal of a thousand mingled voices, rose solemnly up,
overflowing, as it were, the very atmosphere, and mingling with the
dim surf-music, as though both sea and land would join their tones
in that great harmony. So, rude sailors as we were, we could not but
listen, and in our hearts, adore. It was a Latin chant the people
sung. Sometimes it fell so low, that we could hear but a faint and
distant hum. Anon it rose, and pealed, and rung so gloriously out,
that I could discern the very syllables of that mighty chorus, of
‘Jubilate, Jubilate, Jubilate. Amen.’
At length the organ ceased, and there was silence.
‘Very well sung,’ said Simon Radley, who pulled the stroke-oar, ‘and
a very good psalm.’
Our solemn moods seldom lasted long. Howbeit, I was sunk in musing.
The grave and solemn season of a tranquil night invokes like
thoughts. I looked at our muffled oars, and thought how, darkling,
we skulked upon the water, watching for our prey; and, as I mused,
I could not help hearing, as it were, in my ears, the echo of a
hollow sing-song voice, the utterance of that good man, but somewhat
wearisome preacher, the Rev. Michael Wylieson, of Kirk Leslie, in
Fife, who loved to take for his text the verse which speaks of a
certain coming, as like unto the coming of a thief in the night. But
all this lasted only for a minute; I started up, crying—
‘Pull, my men, pull—we’ve come to seek a rich galleon, and not to
list the droning of chests full of whistles.’
And so we stole cautiously on, until there rose, cutting the starry
skies ahead of us, the tall masts of several ships of price. Which
of these was the patache? We gazed and whispered, and while we
whispered, there suddenly rose, as it seemed from the water, not
a score fathoms ahead of us, a loud voice singing, in the Spanish
language, and presently we discovered a small dark object, like a
canoe, very low in the water, with the form of one man on board. As
we gazed, the figure moved and turned; then appearing to observe the
boat, the man stopped in his song, and bursting into a laugh, so that
one could discern he was a negro, called out to us in bad Spanish,—
‘You may as good go home to your hammocks, the pisareros (that is a
kind of fish) will not bite till the tide turn, or the moon rises.’
‘All is well, he suspects nothing,’ I whispered; ‘let us make sure
of him.’ And so, as my comrades bent to their oars, I replied with a
sort of imitation of the song which the fisherman, for such he was,
had been singing, and at which he laughed again in his peculiar
manner. But his mirth did not last long. Just as the shallop came
with somewhat of a rude surge against the canoe, a couple of muscular
hands grasped the poor negro by neck and arm, while I said in
Spanish,—
‘Not a cry—not a sound—if you value your life.’
Immediately the poor man was pulled—all trembling and gasping in
his bewilderment—into our boat, where he sat in the bottom, his
white teeth chattering, and his eyes gleaming and rolling, while he
sputtered out broken prayers in mingled Spanish and Latin.
‘Now,’ said I, still speaking the former language, ‘answer truly what
is asked of you, and you shall come to no harm; but if you try to
deal falsely by us, your blood be on your own head.’
At this the poor fellow gasped out, that he would do anything, if we
would spare his life. I then questioned him concerning the galleon,
or treasure-ship, and he answered very readily that she was in the
harbour, being one of the vessels before us; that her freight was
well nigh aboard, and that she would sail in two days at farthest.
This was good news, and we hugged ourselves on our luck.
‘Then they are not afraid of French or English adventurers in these
seas?’ I said.
‘Surely not,’ answered the negro. ‘For a fleet of armadilloes hath
swept, as they think, the pirates clear away. So they conclude to set
out on the voyage to Old Spain without more ado.’
Having said this much, the negro appeared to bethink himself—and
bursting into great lamentations—besought us never to reveal that we
had heard aught from him; ‘otherwise,’ quoth he, ‘there is no death
so cruel my master would not put me to.’
But we bade him to be of good cheer, seeing that now his masters were
altogether changed, and he was in the service of brave privateersmen,
instead of skulking Spaniards; but that, indeed, if he proved a
gallant trustworthy fellow, and would give us all the information he
could, he was no man’s slave but his own master. On this he plucked
up a little, and said that if it would be a satisfaction to us, we
could row close up to the galleon, and view her, as the Spaniards,
being in fancied security, kept but slack watch; and, indeed, the
greater part of the crew had gone to the cathedral on the hill, to a
great High Mass. This was just what we wanted, but first there was a
small job to be done. Whispering to Radley, we grasped the gunwale of
the canoe, and by a vigorous push, surged the light shell-like thing
fairly bottom upwards.
The negro looked on in consternation. ‘Why do you do that?’ he said,
at length.
‘Look you, Pedro,’ for such was his name: ‘Look you, Pedro,’ says
I, ‘suppose both you and your boat disappear—what will your master
think to-morrow morning? a cockle-shell made of bark like that will
not sink, therefore you could not have foundered. A hurricane has not
carried you out to sea, because neither has there been, nor is there
likely to be, any hurricane—ergo, both boat and man have been somehow
spirited away. Such being the case, there must be enemies—pirates
you call them—on the coast; and there being pirates on the coast, it
would be mighty rash for the good galleon to sail. But then, Pedro,
when your worthy master sees the canoe bottom-upward, tumbled by
the surf upon the beach, the case will be different. An accident
has happened,’ he will say, “My poor Pedro, so faithful a slave,
and so profitable a fisherman, hath somehow, in his zeal to catch
pisareros, doubtless, overbalanced himself, and capsized this light
canoe. Woe is me, Pedro sleeps among sea-weed.” But Pedro sleeping
among sea-weed will not prevent the anchors of the galleon from being
lifted to her bows—you see.’
At this the poor fellow, understanding the device, looked up
pitifully in my face—
‘I have a wife,’ quoth he, ‘and she will also think——’ Here his voice
failed him, and the honest creature began to whimper.
‘Come—come,’ I broke in: ‘you may go back to your wife, Quashy, if
you like, after we have the galleon, but till then you are one of
us.’ I think the negro had sense to see, that whining would not make
his case any the better, for he dried up his eyes, and pointing
ahead, told us, that the ship riding nearest the shore was the
galleon.
Slowly and cautiously we rowed, describing a great circle round to
seaward, so as to keep out of the way of the outermost ships. Their
lights fell in long rays across the water, and we could hear the
voices of the men aboard as they talked. Once we were hailed, and
I ordered Pedro to reply—saying we were fishermen returning from
catching pisareros, to have them ready for the early market—but
no one offered to interrupt us, until the shallop floated in the
shadow of the great carved quarter galleries of the galleon. The
ship appeared well nigh deserted. The lap of the water against her
sides, and the cheep of the rudder, as it moved a little way to and
fro in the calm, were all the sounds about her. Had there been but
a slight puff of wind from the shore we might have cut her cable,
boarded her, and fairly carried her away; but in a calm such an
enterprise was out of the question. So, we were preparing to push
off, well satisfied with our reconnoitring, when a light suddenly
fell upon the carved figure of a saint, which formed one of the stern
ornaments, and at the same time I could hear, though faintly, men’s
voices in conversation. It would appear that some one had entered
the great cabin with a light, and one of the windows being open,
advertised us of the circumstance. All at once it occurred to me
that, if I heard somewhat of the conversation, it was just possible
that I might pick up some information as to the exact time the ship
would sail, and the exact track she would follow; or perhaps the
vision of a rope left carelessly dangling from the quarter into the
water, had something to do with the notion. Catching the cord, I
found it firmly attached above, and so, communicating in a whisper
to the crew of the shallop my intention, I swung myself up, and
presently gained footing amid the great masses of carved work, being
wreaths and coronals of flowers, and graven figures and symbols of
war and peace, with which the Spaniards overload the sterns of their
ships, going to great cost for little utility; and then a slight
further exertion brought me into a gallery running round the great
cabin, and fenced in with a sort of massive and curiously wrought and
fretted railing. Then, crouching down, I crept to the window from
whence came the voices and the light. There was a carved saint very
handy, close by the casement, and favoured by his wooden holiness,
I looked securely into the cabin. It was very brave in its devices
and ornaments, and spacious in size. The ceiling was gilded until it
glittered again in the light of the great silver lamp which swung
above the table, and draperies and hangings of silk, all embroidered
and passamented with gold lace, depended both from starboard and
larboard, showing strangely beside the great ponderous breeches, and
the strong tackle of two cannons, which you might see peeping from
amid the silken bravery. The mizen-mast passed through this great
cabin, and it was incrusted as it were with small weapons—pistols
and daggers, most richly mounted and hilted—while below was a great
buffet, all set out with glimmering crystal and plate—flagons and
vases of burnished silver, and curiously-shaped goblets of sparkling
glass. But, although I had never seen such splendour on board ship,
or indeed, for that matter, anywhere else, I gazed with the greatest
interest on the two men who occupied this floating palace; they sat
on either side of the table, with a great crystal bottle, almost full
of wine, and two long-stemmed glasses, before them. One was rather
old and fat, with dark garments and grey grizzled hair. He had little
pig-like eyes, and a sly greasy-looking face, and was altogether not
pleasant to look on. But his companion was a handsome gaillard, as
you might see in a summer’s day, and most bravely dressed. He had
a very bronzed face, with jet-black moustaches, which were curled,
and oiled, and crisped; and hair flowing about his shoulders in
such dainty fashion as I warrant you cost the barber many an hour’s
labour; his eye was bright and flashing; his nose and mouth well cut;
and, altogether, his head would have been a fortune for a painter to
copy, only there was a leer about the eye, and a curl about the lip,
which gave the lie to whoso would say, ‘Here be a gentle cavalier.’
Round his neck he wore great masses of lace, among which precious
stones glittered; his cloak was of the richest velvet; and the arm
which he stretched out to hold the drinking glass, showed a hand
daintily gloved and sparkling with rings. On the table before him lay
a rapier, sheathed and ornamented with ribbons, and beside it was a
great straw hat, or sombrero, looped up with floss of gold and silk.
‘I would I were to see Madrid as soon as you,’ said the young
cavalier; ‘there is a balcony I would fain be under but now with a
mandoline,’ and, so saying, he set himself to hum, making as though
he were playing an instrument.
‘Truly, Don José,’ answered the other, with a grating voice, ‘there
are balconies enough in Carthagena, rivals enough to be fought with,
and husbands enough to be deceived.’
‘Pshaw,’ said Don José, ‘colonial conquests give a man as little
credit as trouble. I warrant you, you would have me—as successful a
gallant as any at the court, be the second who he may,’ and here my
gentleman curled his moustaches, and leant back with an air of mighty
complacency,—‘you would have me waste time and incense on the female
savages of this pestilent corner of the world.’
‘Well,’ answered the old man, ‘you ought to have bridled your valour,
and not have drawn upon a gentleman in waiting in the precincts
of the Escurial. You have no one to blame for your banishment but
yourself. Zounds, for one, court-bred as you are, and a most learned
doctor in that grave science of etiquette which rules the king who
rules the double empire of Old and New Spain,—you showed yourself a
singular pattern of discretion.’
‘Who could help it, most grave and tricksy Senor Davosa?’ said the
other; ‘what blood of Old Castile would not have boiled over to
hear an upstart, who knows not the name of his grandfather, dispute
precedence with me—an Hidalgo of fifteen pure and unblemished
descents? By my faith—if I had any—were the guards not all the
quicker, the mushroom would speedily have been cropped from the
earth, and that, by this very piece of steel,’ and the speaker
touched his rapier.
‘Well,’ answered the other, ‘I hope such are not the terms of the
memorial I am to carry home for you; if they be, I am likely to have
but a bootless errand.’
‘Fear nothing, man; fear nothing,’ cried Don José; ‘I know what
belongs to a memorial—I know how to tickle the ears of a king. The
parchment but sets forth in words that would move the mainmast of
this floating-box, which you merchants and seafaring people call
ship, my frenzied groupings and stumblings in this outer darkness,
where no sun of royalty shines to cheer or warm my forlorn spirit.
There are excellent phrases, man, excellent phrases in the thing;
until I invented them I never thought I had been so ill used. When I
read my own composition it affected me to tears—to tears, Davosa—as I
hope it will the king. And now, when do you sail? Be speedy, my good
dove, be speedy, and bring me back an olive branch as a sign that the
waters are abated.’
‘We count to weigh anchor to-morrow evening,’ replied the old
merchant. ‘The freight was long of coming, the mules here being but
slow-footed, otherwise we should scarce have tarried so long. Every
day brings more and more risk of these accursed pirates, French and
English, who so often mar our best ventures.’
‘What! fearful, after the last pair of candlesticks you have bestowed
on yonder lady, in her house upon the hill?’
‘Blaspheme not holy things,’ interposed the older man.
‘Oh, I cry thee pardon, good Gull,’ replied the other; ‘I forgot
me you had as big a swallow as the rest. Ah, yes, to be sure, Our
Lady of the Hill! Verily, a valorous and a venturesome dame. It
was a brave device of señors the canons, that last miracle; a most
surpassing feat, truly. Here is a blessed image of the blessed
Virgin, dressed out as never was doll before; petticoats of cloth
of gold, I warrant me, and stiff, absolutely stiff, with diamonds,
pearls, rubies, and what not. Well! here comes an English man-of-war
into these seas—the “Oxford,” I think, they call her. Bah! how
these barbarous names stick in a gentleman’s throat; and so, by
misadventure, this man-of-war, this heretical “Ox—Ox—Oxford,” taking
fire, no doubt by reason of sparks from—from purgatory, to say
the very least of it—this man-of-war blowing up, what say señors
the canons? Down rush they from the shrine, all through the city,
clamouring, “A miracle! A miracle!” Straightway the most greasy and
gullible mob throng to the sanctuary—and what see they there? The
Virgin, the doll, that is, in its place behind the altar, but all
bemudded, all bedraggled, her gay clothes drenched with salt water,
the gold embroidery torn away in flakes, the diamonds, and pearls,
and rubies, all dropped and gone from stomacher and skirt; in fact, a
very mutilated memorial of her yesterday’s glory. Great ejaculations
of surprise and consternation! Mighty invocations to every saint
in and out of the calendar! Evidently, a most dread secret, a most
mighty mystery—a matter of holy wonder to the faithful!’
‘Don José! Don José!’ interrupted the old man, who had listened very
impatiently to this tirade; ‘the tongue is an unruly member. Take
heed what you utter. The holy office hath ears which hear afar, and
hands which smite afar. Who knows who may be even now listening to
you? For my part I would not breathe to myself what you have spoken
aloud, even were I alone in a boat fivescore miles from land.’
‘Good Señor Davosa, it is no more your vocation to be fearless,
than it is mine to be cowardly,’ replied the brisk gallant. ‘The
cobwebs of the holy office were spun to catch blue bottles, man, not
hornets. But I must tell you the story out. It is true, man, true,
every word of it, as the bills of lading you send with this galleon.
The people, then, wondered and worshipped, but could make nothing
of the matter. Not so the canons. By the soul of the Cid, but they
are dexterous fellows, the holy canons, and they caught the clue to
the secret in brief time.’ “See you, my brethren,” said the head of
the black cassocked brigands, “see you here. An heretical, a very
heretical and damnable ship, called the ‘Oxford,’ hath been clean
destroyed by fire, kindled no one knows how. Immediately after,
coming to say our early prayers, what find we? This sacred effigy
bedraggled and besmirched, as you see. How came this so? My brethren,
the thing shall be clear unto you. The burning of the ‘Oxford’ is a
very apparent and notable miracle. It was Our Lady’s hand held the
torch. In the darkness of the night, when no eye saw it, she left her
shrine. Many a league hath she walked over land and sea; as, indeed,
the state of her garments may well make clear unto you all. Doubtless
she hath scaled great mountains, and crested great waves, going with
speed, so as to return by daylight to this her temple. The proof
is very clear. The ‘Oxford’ hath perished; Our Lady hath spoiled
her clothes; therefore hath Our Lady clean destroyed the ‘Oxford.’”
And so, “Ave Maria Purissima,” shout the crowd, grovelling in their
credulity. But the best—the very cream of the joke is behind—good
Davosa, as thou shalt hear. “Good brethren and faithful,” quoth the
chief canon again, “it seemeth clear unto me, that after such a
miracle wrought in our favour, the least we can do—I mean you can
do—is to restore the gold, and the diamonds, and the pearls, and
the rubies, thus spoiled and lost by our good Lady. And look ye, it
may well be that you shall thus be clear gainers; for if our Lady
had not destroyed the ‘Oxford,’ mayhap the ‘Oxford’ would have
destroyed Carthagena, and thus would you have been all clean ruined
and undone.” So, “Gloria in Excelsis,” again shouted the poor fleeced
mob; and the image is to have new jewels, and the canons to have the
old ones, as well they deserved them for their ingenuity.’
And so saying, Don José drank off a full glass of wine, and leaned
back, laughing lustily. His comrade arose—
‘That I have listened thus long to you, Don José,’ he said, ‘you
owe to personal courtesy, not to any sympathy with your heathenish
spirit, so full of unbelief and mockery. Have you any further
commands?’
‘No: none—none,’ answered the cavalier, still laughing. ‘But thou
knowest, Davosa, that in your heart, man—at the bottom of that cold
deep well you call a heart—you are laughing with me in very cordial
merriment.’
The old man rose up. ‘If you have no further commands,’ he was
beginning, when Don José, who had got upon his feet, and was assuming
his rapier and sombrero, while he repeated—‘No—none at all,’ suddenly
stopped, and said, laughingly—
‘Hold—yes, one. You have heard of Don Octavio y St. Jago—every duenna
in Madrid knows him to her cost. Well, he and I are close friends;
I have writ to him. The letter is in the packet you hold; but one
material circumstance I have forgotten. It is an old paction between
us, that each should inform the other of all his love passages, so
that, as it were, we should mutually act as spurs to each other’s
gallantry, and so keep up our reputation.’
The merchant at this shrugged up his shoulders. ‘But,’ quoth he, ‘I
thought you deemed the ladies on this side the great ocean no better
than savages.’
‘Well, well, my good Davosa, and, if I did, know you not that
there may be, for once in a way, a certain savour and tastiness
about savagedom which speaks to the palate? Look you, the man
palled with nectarines and peaches may well pluck a bramble as he
loiters in the field. And so, pray find means to inform my friend
that there dwelleth in Carthagena a very ripe, and not altogether
untempting bramble, having the shape of a very innocent-hearted
and simple-souled damsel, who having rejected one or more of my
courtesies, put me in the mind to tame and humble her completely;
that unto this end I have gained over her mother, who is a widow and
also a fool, believing very firmly in the saints, and a great number
of other phenomena, myself among the number; and that—that—in fact
I shall impart to him the conclusion of the tale when we meet at
Madrid.’
The old man drily promised to observe the message, and then both
drunk to the success of the voyage.
‘To-morrow evening, then, you turn your faces eastward?’ said the
cavalier.
‘If there be but a breath to clear us of the land, I trust we may say
our vespers at sea,’ replied the merchant.
‘And if there be but that same breeze,’ I whispered to myself, ‘you
may chance say your matins aboard the Will-o’-the-Wisp.’
Then as the couple walked towards the cabin-stairs, I lowered myself
into the shallop in safety, whispering to my comrades the good news I
had overheard. They could scarce refrain from shouting, but caution
overmastering joy, we pulled swiftly away. To some degree, however,
our good fortune had made us bold, and instead of rowing out straight
to sea, we made for the principal cluster of ships, as they lay in
the line of our progress towards the schooner. We had passed several,
when we suddenly heard the dash of several oars, vigorously pulled,
close aheap.
‘Santa Maria!’ cried the negro, springing up, for he was terribly
frightened at being found with us, ‘Santa Maria—the guard-boat!’
And, true enough, just round the bows of a large tartan came a
great launch, impelled by six oarsmen, and with a glitter of arms
and lanterns shining out of her. Well, we had hardly time to gasp,
when, with a great clamour at our sudden appearance, and all her
crew starting up from their oars, the Spanish boat ran right into
the starboard quarter of the shallop, hitting us a blow, which well
nigh swamped the light craft; the Spaniards roaring out to curse
our stupidity in not having got out of the way. For all this, we
might have got clear off, they taking us, in the dark and confusion,
for one of their own boats, had not Simon Radley shouted out
involuntarily a great oath, cursing them for clumsy Spanish thieves,
that knew not where they rowed. At this, a Spaniard aboard, who, it
seems, knew the sound of our language, cried out—‘Los Ingleses—los
Ingleses!’ and straightway our enemies, yelling and screeching like
madmen, jumped up with intent to board us. Half-a-dozen pistol shots
went off in a minute, as I shouted to my small crew to pull for their
lives, and the boat started forward, scraping past the oars of the
launch. Just then we gave a loud hurrah, as Englishmen love to do, to
show their mettle. The bowman of the Spanish boat made a desperate
leap, alighting with a surge on the stern of our shallop. Even while
he was in the air, I started up to grapple with him. Our arms grasped
each other’s doublets. I felt his hot breath on my cheek. We stood
erect but for a moment, twining, as it were, around each other’s
limbs, and then both of us, linked with brawny muscles together, fell
splash into the sea, amid a great shout, which mingled in my ears
with the rushing and gurgling of the water, into which we plunged.
For a brief space I thought we must be drowned together, so desperate
was the clutch with which we clung round each other’s throats; but
rising in a minute to the surface, I found myself amid the blades of
the Spanish oars, and, so clinging to them, I fought with my foeman,
seeking to cast off his grip. At the same time I looked about for
the shallop, but she was not to be seen, having evidently got off
clear. And so, when the Spaniards grasped me to haul me into their
boat, I fought and struggled desperately, that the shallop might have
the greater start, in case they pursued her. At length, however,
being mastered, I was dragged into the guard-boat, just as, half
an hour before, the negro was dragged aboard the shallop, and cast
violently down on my face in the stern sheets, while my hands were
fastened behind me. This done, one of my captors gave me a kick,
and told me to sit up, which I did, in the centre of a circle of
ferocious-looking sailors and soldiers, who all began to question
me at once, with the most savage oaths and curses; to all of which
I replied never a word, but shook my head, as though quite ignorant
of the language. So presently, the officer in command, thinking, no
doubt, that it might be so, ordered silence, and then saying that
it was useless to chase the small boat in the dark, and that the
prisoner must be taken ashore, and given up to the alcaide, bade his
men stretch to their oars, which they did; and, presently, passing
close by the galleon, my old friend Davosa called out to know what
was the matter. The officer who steered answered, that they had come
upon an English boat lurking in the harbour, and had captured one of
her crew, and that he suspected there were more of the rogues not far
off. Then presently, coming to a quay or jetty, they forced me up the
slippery steps, and being guarded by two soldiers, each with a drawn
sword they marched me away.