"Beat the Sea-Horse—beat his Majesty's galley!" cried the little commander, stamping his feet on the deck. "Corpo di Baccho! if any man on board, save yourself, signor, had even hinted that such a thing was possible, I would have dropped him from the yard-arm with a forty-pound shot at his heels: I would, this instant—I, Gandolfo Guevarra."
After this outburst, I did not venture on another remark; and we walked up and down in silence. Between us and Cape Pillari, a swift little Maltese schooner, of a most rakish cut, was flying through the water, with her snow-white canvass shining in the sun, and bellying out to the breeze; while her flashing sweeps were moving, stroke for stroke, with those of the galley, which she was evidently leaving astern. She was low-built, almost level with the water, which she cleft like an arrow.
"Ola! the boatswain," cried Guevarra, perspiring with rage, which made every fibre of his little body quiver, while he twisted his long moustachios and looked fierce as a rat at bay. "By the blood of Gennaro! that villainous craft is leaving us astern. Shall a runaway of Malta, laden with base merchandize, beat his Majesty's galley the Sea-Horse? No, no—Madonna! Quick, rascal, there! fly-flap the shoulders of the oarsmen, or your own shall smart before sunset.—And you, signor—master-gunner."
"Si signor illustrissimo."
"Ready—the gun there, forward; to teach these vagabonds to keep their distance, and not attempt to rival those who sail under his Majesty's pennant."
The forecastle-piece was double-shotted and cleared away for action; while the boatswain and his mates flew from stem to stern, lashing unmercifully the bare shoulders of the slaves, with as little remorse as one would the flanks of a vicious horse. Tremendous curses and horrible blasphemies followed this application of the rattans, and the unhappy wretches toiled until their swarthy skins were deluged in perspiration, which mingled with the blood streaming from their lacerated backs. The storm of maledictions soon died away, their exhausted strength requiring that they should work in silence; and I looked on, in pity and disgust, while the miserable beings toiled at the ponderous oars, with measured action which strained every muscle to its utmost power of tension. On glancing along the rows of black-browed, unshaven, and lowering visages, I read one expression in them all—a fearful one! Of what demoniac minds were those stern eyes the index! A thirst for vengeance, rather than for freedom, animated their savage Italian hearts: every bosom was a hell of pent-up passion; every man a chained fiend.
The sweeps were moved by each gang rising simultaneously from their bench, and then resuming the sitting position; again rising, and again sitting, without a moment's respite from toil; and if any man failed to exert himself sufficiently, every slave at that particular sweep received the same number of blows as the delinquent. Such, Guevarra informed me, was the unjust rule in his Majesty's galleys. One poor wretch dropped dead; and while a shower of blows was distributed to his four comrades, to make them work harder, the iron-hearted boatswain, unlocked with a master-key the padlock which held the chain, and the body was flung into the deep. Many a glance of envy followed it, as it disappeared beneath the bright green water; and once more groans of grief and growls of smothered rage broke forth: but, though the slaves toiled on till the galley seemed to fly through the water, the little scampavia still kept ahead of her.
"Work! work! or beware the scurlada," cried the boatswain, who now flourished a gigantic whip, beneath the whisk of which every slave cowered instinctively. "Ahi, Frà Maso, different work this from mumbling latin at Palermo," he cried, bestowing a burning lash on the back of one who had been a priest; "work, work, sloths, if you wish not your hides flayed off. Ola! you, there, with the nose like Ovid, and face like the O of Giotto, dost think thou art selling paste buckles at Messina once more? Bend to the oar Maestro Naso, or feel that!"
A yell burst from the unhappy Israelite, as the terrible lash ploughed up his tender skin, while the task-master continued:—"Work, work! pull away larboard and starboard: give way, my beauties, if you would have life left you to behold the sun set. Bravo, my merry little devil at the bow-oar; you seem a very Cicero, and look as if born with the sweep in your hand."
A laugh, rising into a yell, at the bow, attracted my attention, and on going forward I perceived the hunchback, Gaspare Truffi, tugging away at the first oar, which he pulled in conjunction with three men: his strength being deemed equal to that of two slaves.