“I only hope the harbour-watch may be as drunk as they are. It’s our best chance to get them aboard without a row. There’s her light Eugène. If the sky would lift a little, you might make out her spars, the beauty! but I’m almost afraid now you’ll have to wait for dawn.”
The harbour-watch was drunk, or at least fast asleep in the sentry-box on wheels that afforded him shelter, and the sky did not lift in the least degree; so very soon after the waving of the lantern a boat from ‘The Bashful Maid’ touched the stone steps of the quay, having been cunningly impelled thither by a screw-driving process, worked with one oar at the stern, and which made far less noise than the more powerful practice of pulling her with even strokes.
Two swarthy ill-looking fellows sat in the boat, and a scowl passed over their features when they saw their Captain’s attitude of precaution, with one hand on the pistol he wore at his belt. Perhaps they were disappointed not to be able to elude his vigilance, and have one more run on shore before they sailed. It was no use trying to “gammon the skipper,” though. They had discovered that already, and they lent their aid with a will, when they found it must be so, to place their future comrades in the same predicament as themselves.
The whole affair was managed so quietly that, even had the harbour-guard, a brandy-faced veteran of sixty, remained wide-awake and perfectly sober, he might have been excused for its escaping his vigilance. Bob himself, standing with his empty cart on the quay, could hardly hear the dip of the oars as his late guests were pulled cautiously away. He did not indeed remain there very long to listen. He had done with them one and all—for was not the score paid? and it behoved him to return home and prepare for fresh arrivals. He turned, therefore, with a well-satisfied glance towards the light in the foretop of the brigantine, and wished ‘The Bashful Maid’ a good voyage, while at the same moment Beaudésir stumbled awkwardly up her side. To the latter this was, indeed, a new and startling phase of life, but it was full of excitement, and consequently very much to his taste. Captain George, taking him below, and pointing out a couch in his cabin on which to pass the rest of the night, though he had seen a good deal of worse material for a privateer’s-man, or even a pirate, than this pale gentle young adventurer, late of the Grey Musketeers.
Covered by a boat-cloak, and accommodated with two or three cushions, Eugène’s bed was quite as comfortable as that which he occupied at the Fox and Fiddle. It was long past sunrise when he awoke, and realising his position he ran on deck with a landsman’s usual conviction that he was already miles out at sea. It was startling, and a little disappointing, to observe the quay, the straggling buildings of the town, the lighthouse, and other well-known objects within musket-shot, and to find that the brigantine, in spite of her lively motions, still rode at anchor, not half a cable’s length from a huge, smooth, red buoy, which was dancing and dipping in the morning sun as if it were alive. There was a fresh breeze off shore, and a curl on the green sparkling water that, far away down Channel, beyond the point, swelled into a thousand varying lines of white, while a schooner in the offing might be observed standing out to sea with a double reef in her topsails. One of the crew, sluicing the deck with a bucket of water, that eddied round Eugène’s feet, pointed her out to his mate with an oath, and the mate, a tall strong negro, grinning hideously, replied “Iss! very well!”
‘The Bashful Maid’ herself, rising buoyantly to each succeeding wave, ere with a dip and toss of her bows she sent the heavy spray-drops splashing over her like a seabird, seemed chafing with eagerness to be off. There was but little of the bustle and confusion on board usually produced by clearing out of port. The deck, though wet and slippery, was as clean as a dinner-plate, the yards were squared, the ropes coiled, new sails had been bent, and the last cask of fresh water was swinging over the hold: trim and taut, every spar and every sheet seemed to express “Outward bound,” not to mention a blue-Peter flying at the fore.
All this Eugène observing, began to suffer from an uncomfortable sensation in the pit of his stomach, which parched his mouth, depressed his spirits, and destroyed his appetite. He was not, however, so much affected by it but that he could take note of his fellow-voyagers, an occupation sufficiently interesting when he reflected on the probable result of their preparations. In his experience of life he had never yet seen such an assemblage. The crew had indeed been got together with considerable care, but with utter disregard to nationality or uniformity of any kind. The majority were Englishmen, but there were also Swedes, Dutch, French, Portuguese, a negro, and even a Spaniard on board. The brigantine was strongly manned for her size, and the hands, with scarcely an exception, were stout daring fellows, capable of any exploit and a good many enormities, but such as a bold commander, cool, judicious, and determined, might bring into a very efficient state of discipline. Eugène could not but remark, however, that on the face of each was expressed impatience of delay, and an ardent desire to be in blue water. The liberty to go on shore had been stopped, and indeed the pockets of these gentlemen-adventurers, as the humblest of them called themselves, were completely cleaned out. Obviously, therefore, it would be well to lose no time in refilling them.
Leaning over the side, lazily watching the lap and wash of the leaping water, Eugène was rapidly losing himself in his own thoughts, when, rousing up, he felt the Captain’s hand on his shoulder, and heard the Captain’s voice whisper in his ear:—
“Come below with me; I shall want your assistance by-and-by, and you have had no breakfast yet.”