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.