And where was our ancient one-eyed mariner, formerly in command of the colonial guarda costa felucca, the “Panchita,” named after his fat banana of a sposa? Oh, the Don––simply Ignaçio now––had had a quiet confab with the deputy administrador all about some treasure which he knew was concealed, and where––for he had seen with his bright eye the light of a torch in a cleft of a crag––and he would go shares with that official if he would give him a little assistance.
“Oh, cierto!” Why not? And there was an old launch, with a torn lateen sail, which Columbus might have been proud to command; and, in this fine weather, he might sail back to Port Palos in her.
Oh yes! But, to keep all secret, he would merely take old Pancha, his wife, for crew. And so, with a few bundles of paper cigars, and some dried fish and water––the only property they possessed, save his eye and a pack of cards, and those valuables rescued with difficulty––they sailed the night before the blessed Sunday. He never came back, though. No blame attributable to the eye––that was as bright and wary an old burning spark of suspicious fire as ever; but then old Pancha held the cards, and this time she won. Very singular it was, cierto. If Ignaçio had not gone back again for another bag which was not there, why, the sota of a knave being the next card––Ah! we won’t anticipate.
But we are all alive yet, except those murdered women, whose white coral head-stones still stand up there in the cactus, and poor Binks, and those slashing blades of the poisonous, many-legged “Centipede,” who were eaten by the sharks––all alive the rest of us, and wide awake!
CHAPTER XLIX.
THE ROPE LAID UP.
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“The captain is walking his quarter-deck With a troubled brow and a bended neck; One eye is down the hatchway cast, The other turns up to the truck on the mast.” “The breeze is blowing––huzza, huzza! The breeze is blowing––away, away! The breeze is blowing––a race, a race! The breeze is blowing––we near the chase.” |
Well, the positions of all hands were simply these. The icy-eyed man, without snuff-box, or ring on that mutilated flipper, with two under pockets in his shirt, and something in them, a pair of filthy old canvas trowsers, and no hanger by his side, where there had been so much hanging in the good old times, slipped overboard like a conger eel, and swam on shore at St. Jago de Cuba. Without a real of wages––for he was to work his passage––and because he didn’t feel inclined to work, the capitano in command assisted his agile subordinate to kick him all the voyage.