But the Captain did not share the common feeling. “I knew it!” he cried. “I expected it, and blow my old eyes out if I don’t catch ‘em this time!”
“What?” cried Brandon.
But the Captain did not hear. Instantly his whole demeanor was changed. He sprang to the companion-way. He spoke but one word, not in a loud voice, but in tones so stern, so startling, that every man in the ship heard the word:
“Zangorri!”
All knew what it meant. It meant that the most blood-thirsty pirate of these Eastern seas was attacking some ship behind that veil of fog.
And what ship? This was the thought that came to Brandon. Could it by any possibility be the one which passed by him when he strove so earnestly to gain her attention!
“Out with the long-boat! Load the carronade! Man the boat! Hurry up, lads, for God’s sake!” And the Captain dashed down into the cabin. In an instant he was back again, buckling on a belt with a couple of pistols in it, and calling to his men, “Don’t shout, don’t cheer, but hurry, for God’s sake!”
And the men rushed about, some collecting arms, others laboring at the boat. The Falcon was well supplied with arms, as the Captain had said. Three guns, any quantity of smaller arms, and a long Tom, formed her armament, while the long-boat had a carronade in her bows. Thanks to the snug and orderly arrangement of the ship, every thing was soon ready. The long-boat was out and afloat. All the seamen except four were on board, and the Captain went down last.
“Now, pull away, lads!” he cried; “no talking,” and he took the tiller ropes. As he seated himself he looked toward the bows, and his eyes encountered the calm face of Brandon.
“What! you here?” he cried, with unmistakable delight.