WORK.
"Skeleton hounds that will never be fatter,
All the domestic tribes of hell,
Shrieking for flesh to tear and tatter,
Bones to shatter,
And limbs to scatter,
And who it is that must furnish the latter,
Those blue-looking men know well!"
When the pirate stood in his saloon on the morning subsequent to the
pleasurable events of the Sunday previous, he, as well as his saloon,
presented altogether a different aspect. The apartment had been stripped
of all its rare and costly furniture, cabinets, candelabra, plate,
china, and glass, and nothing of value was left save the camphor trunks
on the floor, the cane-bottomed settee, a few chairs, and a table. All
the beautiful things, ornamental as well as useful, had disappeared,
even to the rich packages of merchandise in the great vault beneath. The
late possessor, however, of all that worldly wealth did not appear to be
at all discomposed, or to cherish the faintest pang of regret at his
loss. In truth, he seemed to be relieved from an uncomfortable load of
responsibility; and feeling assured, perhaps, that in roaming about the
world he could collect a still more valuable collection--only give him
time--and he would exercise his critical taste with every pleasing
variety. It was thus he consoled himself as he stood there in his now
denuded room, attired in a pair of coarse canvas trowsers, a red flannel
shirt, with a short sharp hanger on his hip, and a double-barreled
pistol in his belt--quite the costume in which he so singularly shocked
Dona Lucia, whose lovely miniature once hung there on the wall in
company with the other miserable victims of his lust.
Captain Brand had just entered his dwelling, having been up and actively
occupied ever since we last parted with him. Now he had come for a cup
of tea and dry toast; and, while Babette was bringing that simple
breakfast, the pirate stood, tall, erect, and powerful, with one
muscular arm resting high above his head on the side of the doorway, and
the other lying lightly on the shark's-skin hilt of his cutlass, looking
out to seaward--a very model, as he was, of a cool, prudent, desperate
villain.
"Ah! there you go, you crafty old miser, in your guarda costa! Take
care, my compadre, of that reef. If that felucca's keel touches one of
those coral ledges there won't be a tooth-pick left of her in ten
minutes. San Antonio! but that was a close shave! How the sharks would
rasp your bones, for there's no flesh on them! Grazed clear, eh?
_Bueno!_ now you're in blue water, you rapacious scoundrelly old wretch,
and make the most of it."
Captain Brand waved his hand in adieu to the felucca, which, with the
wind off shore, had crept through the coral gateway, and, with her great
lateen sail and green glancing bottom, was rising and falling on the
long swell as she slipped away to the eastward. He then gulped down his
tea, made one or two savage bites at his toast, and again walked out to
the veranda, descended the ladder, and took his course toward the
basin.
There, too, the scene had changed; and instead of the tranquil, shelly
shore, only agitated by the musical rippling from the pure little inlet,
the faint cry of a sea-gull, or the chirps of the lizards in the
crevices of the rocks across the basin, those sounds had given place to
the nimble feet and voices of busy sailors. The "Centipede," also, had
been towed from her moorings to a jetty which projected into the water
from the shore, and there she lay, careened down, her keel half out of
the water, with a dozen of her crew scrubbing her lean sides till the
green-coated copper came flashing out in the sunlight like burnished
gold. With her slanting masts lashed to the jetty, carpenters were
engaged reducing the length of the fore-mast, and trimming out a spar
for a new bowsprit. The long gun, with its carriage, lay near, and
artisans were at work at a temporary forge, hammering out bolts and
straps to replace those which were weakened by long service. On the
shore, too, were a score or more of the piratical gang--Spaniards,
negroes, Indians, Italians, and who not--ferocious-looking scoundrels,
busy as bees, splicing and knotting ropes, stretching new rigging,
cutting running gear from the coils of hemp or Manilla-grass rope, or
making spun-yarn and chafing-mats; while beneath the low mat sheds hard
by, sail-makers were stitching away with their shining needles, making a
set of square sails for the changed rig of the "Centipede," or repairing
old sails. But this was not all; for in a shed beyond was the armorer,
with a few hands, grinding pikes and cutlasses, and cleaning small arms;
while farther still was the gunner and his mate, filling powder-cases
for the long gun and swivels, and making up musket and pistol
ball-cartridges.
In the midst of all these busy throngs moved Captain Brand, hither and
thither, from vessel to forge, from sails to rigging, giving clear,
sharp directions in various languages--commendation here, reproof
there--inspecting with his own cold eyes every thing; judging of all;
quick, active, ready; never at a loss for an expedient, and urging on
the work like a thorough-bred seaman as he was, who knew his own duty
and how to make others do theirs. So went on the refitting of the
"Centipede," all through the burning hot tropical day; and while the
half-exhausted crew took a respite in the scorching noon for dinner,
still their leader toiled on. Or, if he took a rest, it was in closely
scrutinizing the progress made by his men, in puffing a cigar like to a
small high-pressure engine, or in clambering up the steep face of the
crag to the signal-station, where he would peer away in all directions
around the island--never missing the glance of a pelican's pinion or the
leap of a fish out of water. Then he would return to the cove and begin
anew the work. It was no longer the elegant Captain Brand, in
knee-breeches, point-lace sleeves, and velvet doublet, seated at his
luxurious table, groaning under splendid plate, fine wines, and
brilliant wax-lights, and dispensing a profuse hospitality, but Captain
Brand the pirate, in tarry rig, amid sailors, sails, and cordage,
munching a bit of hard biscuit at times, or a cube of salt-junk out of a
mess kid, but ever ready, never weary, and always up to the professional
mark.
At the first gray blush of dawn on the following day Captain Brand was
astir again, and before the sun went down behind the waves the schooner
"Centipede" had been transformed into a brigantine, her fore-mast
reduced, new standing rigging fitted for it, with a new bowsprit and
head-booms, her rail raised four or five feet by shifting bulwarks, and
a temporary house built on deck over the long gun. She was also painted
afresh, with a white streak; and, with false head-boards on her bows to
hide her snakelike snout of a cutwater, no one, unless in the secret,
could have known that the clumsy box of a merchantman lying there was
once the low, swift, piratical schooner which had made so notorious a
name in the West Indies. Still the work was driven on with scarcely any
intermission--a few hours' repose for the crew at night, and an hour for
dinner in the day; but as for Captain Brand, he never slept at all--a
doze for an hour or two, perhaps, on his settee in the saloon, and a cup
of tea in the morning, with cigar-smoke, satisfied his frugal
requirements. The next day, by noon, the water and stores were got on
board the brigantine, her magazine stowed, the dunnage of the crew
transferred from the sheds, the captain's camphor trunks on board and
cabin in order, the sails bent, anchors on the bows, and, swinging to a
hawser made fast to the rocks, the vessel was ready to put to sea at any
moment.
"Pedillo," said Captain Brand, as his vigilant gaze took in all around
him and then rested on the "Centipede"--"Pedillo, you may warp the
vessel down to the mouth of the Tiger's Trap so soon as you've strewed
some fagots ready for lighting in the sheds. When you get to the Trap,
tell the gunner to take a gang of hands and give that battery a good
coat of coal tar, plug the vents of the guns, and bury carriages and
all in the sand beside the magazine. Tell him to destroy the powder, and
pitch overboard all he can't conceal; and let him bear a hand about it,
for we shall sail with the last of the sea-breeze toward sunset.
"And, Pedillo"--here the pirate's voice dropped to a whisper--"come back
after the vessel is secured, and bring that Maltese fellow without a
nose with you. It will be as well, perhaps, for you to provide yourself
with a few fathoms of raw-hide strips, as we may have occasion to use
it. _Quien sabe?_"
Senor Pedillo's black wiry beard fairly bristled as he grinned
understandingly at his superior; and, getting into a bit of a canoe at
the jetty, he paddled off to the brigantine to execute his orders.
Meanwhile Captain Brand slowly bent his steps toward the house under the
crag, and entered his spacious saloon for the last time. On the bare
table, too, was his last dinner, served on a few odd dishes and cracked
plates.
"Babette, old girl!" said he, as he sat down to this repast, "you have a
bottle of good Madeira, and a flask of Hock left? No?"
The negress shook her head violently, made the sign of the cross, and by
other telegraphic motions gave her master to understand that Padre
Ricardo had dropped in, drained both bottles, and then had reeled off on
board the brigantine.
"The drunken selfish beast!" muttered Captain Brand; "it will be the
last taste of wine he will swallow for a long time."
The pirate was quite correct in his schemes for the padre's reform, for
the next copious draught the holy father imbibed was the briny salt
water from the Caribbean Sea.
"Well, my Baba, a drop of water, then! Thank you, old lady. Here's to
your health while I am gone. There--you need not blubber so over my
hand--good-by!" And so passed away from Captain Brand's sight the only
creature in the wide world who loved him.