CHAPTER XXIII.
WORK.
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“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 Doña 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! 151 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 152 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 153 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.