Читать книгу Captain Brand of the "Centipede" - H. A. Wise - Страница 10

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“The busy deck is hushed, no sounds are waking But the watch pacing silently and slow; The waves against the sides incessant breaking, And rope and canvas swaying to and fro. The topmost sail, it seems like some dim pinnacle Cresting a shadowy tower amid the air; While red and fitful gleams come from the binnacle, The only light on board to guide us––where?”

On went the “Martha Blunt” with no fears of danger near. The bell struck eight, the watch had been called, and the captain, taking a satisfactory look all around the horizon, glanced at the compass, and, with a slight yawn, said,

“Well, Mr. Binks, I believe I’ll turn in for a few hours; keep the brig on her course, and at daylight call me. It will be time enough then to bend the cables, for I don’t think we shall want the anchors much afore noon to-morrow. Where’s the corvette?”

“There she is, sir, away off on the port beam. She made more sail a few minutes ago, and now she appears to be edging off the wind, and steering across our forefoot. I s’pose she’s enjoying of herself, sir, and exercisin’ the crowds of chaps they has on board them craft.”

“Well, good-night, matey”––pausing a moment, however, as the honest old skipper stepped down the companion-way, and half communing with himself, and then, with his head just above the slide, he added, “I say, Mr. Binks, there’s no need, p’r’aps, but you may as well have a lantern alight and bent on to the ensign halliards there under the taffrail, in case you want to signalize the corvette. Ah, Banou! that you, old nigger? Good-night!”

So Captain Blunt went slowly down below, and at the same time the black went aft, coiled himself down on the deck, and made a pillow of the brig’s ensign.

Mr. Binks wriggled himself upon the weather rail, where, with a short pipe in his mouth, he kicked his heels against the bulwarks, and while the old brig plunged doggedly on, he indulged himself with a song, the air, however, being more like the growl of a bull-dog than a specimen of music:

25

“If lubberly landsmen, to gratitude strangers, Still curse their unfortunate stars; Why, what would they say did they try but the dangers Encounter’d by true-hearted tars? If life’s vessel they put ’fore the wind, or they tack her, Or whether bound here or there, Give ’em sea-room, good-fellowship, grog, and tobaker, Well, then, damme if Jack cares where!”

“What d’ye think of that, Ben?” said Mr. Binks, as he finished his ditty, and sucked away on his pipe.

“Why, Mr. Mate,” replied Ben, as he gave the wheel a spoke or two to windward and glanced at the binnacle, “the words is first-rate, but it seems to me your singing gear is a bit out o’ condition, and I thought you wos a prayin’; but the fact is,” concluded Ben, apologetically, “that whenever I hears grog and tobaker jined together, I likes to see them in my fist.”

“Oh! you would, eh? Well, shipmate, turn and turn about is fair play; so here, just take a pull at the pipe, and I’ll step to the cuddy for the bottle, and we’ll have a little sniffler all around!”

Saying this, Mr. Binks swung off the rail, handed Ben the pipe, and after an absence of a few moments, he returned with a square case-bottle and a pewter mug.

“Now, Ben,” said he, “this ’ere is not a practice, as you know, I often is guilty of; but you bein’ a keerful hand and a stiddy helmsman, and port here close aboard, I’ve no objections to take a toss with ye.” Then pouring out a moderate quantity of the fluid, the mate handed it to Ben, who, taking the pipe out of his mouth, and with one hand on the king-spoke of the wheel and one eye at the compass-card, threw his head back and pitched the dram down his throat.

“My sarvice to ye, sir!” said Ben, as he smacked his lips and then shut them tight together, fearful lest a breath of the precious liquid might escape; “a little of that stuff goes a great ways.”

Mr. Binks hereupon measured himself off an allowance, and touching Ben on the shoulder, raised the pewter to his lips. Before, however, draining the cup, he tuned his pipes once more, and croaked forth in this strain:

“While up the shrouds the sailor goes, Or ventures on the yard, The landsman, who no better knows, Believes his lot is hard. But Jack with smiles each danger meets; Casts anchor, heaves the log, Trims all the sails, belays the sheets, And drink his can of grog!”

“Here comes the corvette, sir!” broke in Ben, as he stood on tiptoe, holding on to the spokes of the wheel, and taking his eyes off 26 the binnacle a moment to get a clear view over the rail. “Here she comes, with her starboard tacks aboard, athwart our bow, and moving like an albatross!”

The man-of-war had for an hour or more crept well to windward, and then, wearing round, she came down close upon the wind under royals, and her three jibs and spanker as flat as boards. As she whirled on across the brig’s bow, a few cables’ length ahead, the sharp ring of the whistles was again heard, and the moment after the head-sails fluttered and shook in the wind, the sheets and blocks rattled, and with a clear order of “Main-sail haul!” the after-yards swung round like magic, the sails filled, and without losing headway the head-yards were swung, and she gathered way on the other tack. On she came, with the spray flying up into the weather leech of her fore-sail, the dark mazes of her rigging marked out in clear lines against her white canvas, and the watch noiselessly coiling up the ropes on her decks. As she pushed her sharp snout through the water, and grazed along the brig’s lee quarter, an officer on the poop gave a rapid and searching glance around, peered sharply along the brig’s deck, waved his trumpet to the mate, and resumed his rapid tramp to windward. In ten minutes after she had passed the brig’s wake nothing was seen of her save a dark, dim outline; a light halo reflected on the water from her white streak, and an occasional luminous flash of foam as it bounded away from her lean bows.

Half an hour went by. The mate was sitting on the weather rail droning out an old sea-song to himself, and the four or five men of the watch were dozing away along the bulwarks. Presently, however, Ben, the helmsman, happened to let his eyes wander away from the compass-card for a moment, as he steadied the wheel by his legs and bit a quid from his plug of niggerhead to last him to suck for the remainder of the watch, when, glancing beneath the bulging folds of the lee clew of the main-sail, he clapped both hands again on the steering spokes, and shouted,

“Mr. Mate, here’s a sail close under our lee beam!”

“Where?” said Binks. But, before he had fairly time to run over to the other side of the vessel and take a look for himself, a quick rattle of oars was heard as a boat grated against the brig’s side, and, before you could think, a swarm of fellows started up like so many shadows above the rail. In five seconds they had jumped on the deck, Ben fell like a bullock from a blow from the butt-end of a pistol, the helm was jammed hard down, the lee braces let fly, and, as the old brig gave a lurching yaw in bringing her nose to windward, the weather leeches shivered violently in the wind, and, taking flat aback, the studding-sail booms snapped short off at the irons, and, with the sails, fell slamming and thumping below.

THE PIRATES BOARDING THE BRIG.

Meanwhile the mate had barely time to spring to the companion-way 29 and sing out, “We’re boarded by pirates, Captain Blunt!” when he, too, received an ugly overhand lick from a cutlass on his skull, and went senseless and bleeding down the hatchway like a scuttle of coals.

At the first noise, however, the black Banou sprang to his feet, and, as he caught a glimpse of the fellows swarming over the side, he snatched hold of the ensign halliards where the signal lantern had been bent on, and in an instant it was dancing away up to the gaff, shrouded from view to leeward of the vessel by the spread of the spanker. In another moment the black leaped to the deck cabin and darted through the door. But in less time than it has taken to tell it, the “Martha Blunt” had changed hands.

There, on the quarter-deck, stood in groups some sixteen barefooted villains, in coarse striped gingham shirts, loose trowsers, and skull-caps, and all with glittering, naked knives or cutlasses, and pistols in their belts and hands. In the midst of this cluster of swarthy wretches, near the companion-way, stood a burly, square-built ruffian, with a pistol in his right hand, and his dexter paw pushing up a brown straw hat as he ran his fingers across his dripping forehead and a tangled mass of carroty, unshorn locks. There was a wisp of a red silk kerchief tied in a single knot around his bare bull neck; the shirt was thrown back, and exposed a tawny, hairy chest, as a ray of light flashed up from the binnacle. He looked––as indeed he was––the lowest type of a sailor scoundrel. His companions were of lighter build, and their dress, complexion, and manner––to say nothing of their black hair and rings in their ears––indicated a birth and breeding in other and hotter climes.

“Well, my lads,” said the big fellow, who seemed to be in command, “the barkey is ours, and we’ve cheated that infarnal cruiser handsomely. Go forward, Pedro, and gag them lubbers, and then tell the boys to trim aft them jib sheets; and round in them after-braces, some of you, so we can keep way with the schooner and take things easy.”

Here he laughed in a husky, spirituous, low chuckle, and then went on: “This will make up for lost time, amigos! Christo! there may be some ounces on board. But who’s left in the boat, Gomez?” This was addressed to a bow-legged, beetle-browed individual, with a hare-lip, which kept his face in a perpetual and skeleton-like grin, who hissed out from between his decayed front tusks,

“El Doctor Señor, con tres de nosotros.” “Bueno! all right; three of the chaps will do to look out for her; but tell the doctor to drop the boat astern, and veer him a rope from the gangway. There! that’s well with the braces! Keep her off a point; so––that’ll do.”

As the orders were promptly obeyed, and the crew of the brig 30 gagged, and the vessel surged slowly on her course, the same speaker turned to his men and said,

“Now, my hearties! let’s have an overhaul of the skipper. Hand him up here, will ye? or, never mind,” he added, “I’ll just step down and have a growl with him myself.”

As the mate pitched head foremost down the companion ladder, two of the pirates jumped after him, and, dealing him another cruel stab with a knife deep into the back, they passed on into the lower cabin. There was a brief struggle, the sound of voices mingled with curses and threats, and then all quiet again.

In pursuance of his expressed purpose, the stout ruffian slewed himself round, took a sweep about the horizon, then sticking his pistol in its belt, he slowly descended the ladder, gave the wounded and dying mate a kick, and with a hoarse laugh entered the cabin.

There, on a small sofa abaft, between the two stern air-ports, sat Captain Blunt. Blood was trickling down in heavy drops from a lacerated bruise on his forehead; but, notwithstanding the swelling and pain of the wound, his features were calm, stern, and honest. On either side of him sat as villainous a brace of mongrel Portuguese or Spaniards as ever infested the high seas; and his arms were pinioned by a stout cord to the bolt above the transom.

“My sarvice to you, sir!” said the leader of the gang, with a devilish smile of derision, as he stuck his arms akimbo and squirted some tobacco-juice from his filthy mouth across the cabin table at the pinioned prisoner.

“I s’pose you know by this time that you’re a lawful prise, captured by an hindependent constable of the West Indies, notwithstandin’ ye had sich safe escort and convoy all the arternoon?”

Here he chuckled, squirted more juice over the table, then dropped down on a sea-chest cleated to the deck, took off his hat, and scratched his yellowish red hair. The poor captain said not a word, but shook a great clot of blood from his brow.

“Well, now, my old hearty, the first thing for you to do is to poke out your manifest, and any other little matters of vallew ye may have stowed away; and be quick, mind ye, for you haven’t much time to sail in this ’ere craft. Howsoever, I s’pose ye can swim?”

“You’ll find the manifest and the ship’s papers there, inside that instrument-box; and all the money in the vessel is in that locker; and I trust in Heaven it may burn your hands to cinders, you devils!”

“Ho! smash my brains! keep a stopper on your jaw, or I’ll squeeze your dead carcass through that ’ere starn port.”

The fellow rose as he spoke, and, stepping up to the narrow state-cabin near by, he jerked open the upper drawer of a small bureau affair, and pulling out a canvas bag, sealed at the mouth, tossed it 31 on to the cabin table. The coin fell with the heavy dead sound peculiar to gold, and the ruffian, after taking it up again and weighing it tenderly, growled out, “This chink will do for a yapper, at any rate! So now let’s have a peep at what the cargo consists on.”

Then stepping a second time to the berth, he gave a kick to the instrument-box, the lid flew off, and diving in his fist he drew out a bundle of papers. Once more seating himself at the table beneath the swinging lamp, he clumsily undid the papers and spread them before him.

“What a blessed thing is edication,” muttered he to himself, “and what a power o’ knowledge reading ’riting does for a man!” Putting his fat stumpy finger on each line of the manuscript as he slowly began to spell out the contents, he began, “Man-i-fest of Brig ‘Martha Blunt’––Ja-cob Blunt, master:” here he paused, and, squirting more tobacco-juice over at the skipper, as if to attract his attention, he suddenly ejaculated, “Hark ye! Master Blunt, what was the name of that man-o’-war vessel as was lyin’ by you this morning?”

“The ‘Scourge,’ ” replied the skipper, faintly, as he shook another great drop of blood from his brow.

“The what? The ‘Scourge!’ That Yankee snake! Smash my brains! D’ye know that that ship has been a hangin’ about the north side of Cuba for ever so long, interruptin’ our trade? And you an Englishman, to go and ax him to purtect ye! take that!”

Here he snatched a pistol from his sash, and, taking aim full at the skipper’s breast, he pulled the trigger. Fortunately, the weapon snapped and did not explode. The ruffian held it a moment in his hand, and then letting it rest upon the table, he said, with a horrible imprecation,

“Ye see you wos not born to be shot; but we’ll try what salt water will do for ye by-and-by.”

Taking out his knife at the conclusion of this speech, he picked the flint of his pistol, opened the pan, shook the priming, and then shoved the weapon back in his belt. The mention of the “Scourge,” however, had evidently caused him some trepidation, for when he resumed the perusal of the manifest it was in a hurried, agitated sort of way, and not at all at his ease.

Smoothing the papers again before him, he went on, making running commentaries as he read: “Eighty-six cases of silks––light, and easily stowed away; twenty-nine tons bar iron; sixty-four sugar-kettles! it will help to sink the brig; forty pipes of Bordeaux; two hundred baskets Champagne; three hundred and fifty boxes of claret––sour stuff, I warrant you; two casks Cognac brandy––but I say, you Blunt,” said the fellow, looking up, “where’s your own private bottle? It’s thirsty work spellin’ out all this ’ritin’, and my mouth’s as dry as a land-crab’s claws. Howsoever,” he continued, as he caught 32 the glance of satisfaction which came over the swarthy faces of his companions beside the captain, “wait a bit, and we’ll punch a hole in a fresh barrel presently.”

Having run through the manifest, he opened another paper and exclaimed, “Hallo! what have we here? List of passengers––Madame Rosalie Piron and––ho! that’s a French piece, I knows by the name. Where is she? Hasn’t died on the v’yage, has she? D’ye hear there, ye infarnal Blunt?”

The captain’s face was troubled, and his head dropped down on his breast without replying; but one of the scoundrels at his side struck him a brutal blow with the back of his knife-hilt on the mouth, and jerking up, he said, with an effort,

“Yes, we have a female passenger on board, with a helpless child; but I pray you, in God’s name, to leave the innocent woman in peace. You’ve robbed and ruined me and my poor old wife––turn me adrift if you like, drown or hang me, but don’t harm the poor lady.”

The tears blinded him as he spoke, and mingled with the bloody stream which trickled down his cheeks. The ruffian’s ugly face and bloodshot eyes lighted up with a devilish and sinister satisfaction as the skipper began his appeal, but before he had well finished speaking he broke in,

“Avast your jaw! will ye? You’ll have enough to look out for your own gullet, my lad, without mindin’ any body else’s; so turn to and say your prayers afore eight bells is struck, because there’s sharks off Jamaiky.”

Then addressing his own scoundrelly myrmidons, he exclaimed, “Look out sharp for that old chap, my lads, while I goes to sarch for the woman passenger!” As he turned, however, to leave the cabin, one of his subordinates began to rummage about in a locker, when the burly brute said, “Tonio, don’t get to drinkin’ too airly, boy, for ye know it’s agin the law till the prize is snug in harbor, or sunk, as the case may be.”

“Si, señor,” replied the man, with a nod and a grin, and he resumed his seat again; but no sooner had their leader left the cabin than a bottle and glasses were placed upon the table, and they fell to with a will, complimenting the bound and wounded prisoner by pitching the last drops from their tumblers into his face.