“That’s Cark,” said Satan. “Told you we’d find him here—damn swab!”
“Well, I couldn’t have believed it,” said Ratcliffe. He remembered the sailing of the Juan, presumably for Havana, and though he had sized up Sellers and Carquinez for what they were worth, still, the evidence of their duplicity, here before his eyes, came as a shock.
In a moment it was blotted out by the sun, washed away in the blazing, seething ocean of light that sprang on them as if to the blast of a trumpet.
Satan swung his head over his shoulders. Ratcliffe followed his gaze. The sea to westward was empty, not a sign of a sail.
“Cleary’s gone,” said Ratcliffe.
“Oh, he’ll be nosin’ along soon,” said Satan. “He’s sure to come close enough to see Cark’s topmasts, and then he’ll pounce.”
He put the helm over, and the Sarah payed off to the north so as to round the northern spur of the reef.
“That’s the wreck,” said Satan, “that line like a lump of rock.”
Ratcliffe, shading his eyes, could now see the reef, long and foam-flecked, stretching from north to south, the line of rock absolutely unsuggestive of a wreck, beyond the reef the Juan’s masts and spars, and about the reef-spurs the gulls flitting and wheeling; but, despite the movement of the gulls and the splendor of the morning, the place struck him as the most desolate he had ever seen.
“Nothing stirring,” said Satan, as they rounded the north spur and the boom came over. “Them lowsy Spaniards are all in their bunks. Rap on the deck for Jude. Hi, Jude, y’lazy dog, show a leg! What you doin’!”