We now made but little progress: the breeze had died away; the heat of the day was intense, for the sirocco was abroad, and the air was flittering with sulphury particles, blown, probably, from the peak of Etna. Wearied with their late exertions, the over-tasked slaves, exposed to the broiling sun, sat gazing listlessly, with their glaring and bloodshot eyes, on the glassy sea; and even the rattan of the drowsy and perspiring boatswain failed to rouse them from their apathy. The little way we made was solely owing to the large square mainsail; and, though the galley lay close to the scarcely perceptible current of air, our progress was not a mile an hour: yet, long before the setting sun began to redden the blue Ionian Sea, Guevarra had the mortification to see the little Maltese pull with her sweeps round the promontory and disappear.
During the weary noon of that scorching day, while the wretched slaves sat naked at their oars, exposed to the fierce bright sun, Guevarra and his officers were seated under a cool awning on the poop, enjoying their siesta, after a luncheon of light fruits and lighter wines; while the boatswain, his mates, the gunner and his mates, chewed their maccaroni and drank cold water under a similar contrivance on the forecastle. Miserable was the plight of the poor unpitied slaves: chained to the oaken bench, which formed their seat when they toiled and their bed when they slept; and on which they were alternately exposed by noon to the broiling heat of an Italian meridian, and by night to the chill blasts of the ocean; half naked, continually suffering castigation, fed on the worst and coarsest food, and packed so closely that dreadful diseases were continually breaking out among them.
The day became closer: not a breath stirred the languid breezeless air; the sea-birds floated on the still bosom of the glassy deep, and the mainsail flapped heavily on the mast as the galley rolled on the slow heaving ground swell. She was drifted shoreward by the currents: in the afternoon we were close to the land, and I began to fear that my journey to Crotona would be of longer duration than the general expected.
CHAPTER XVII.
THE REVOLT OF THE GALLEY SLAVES.
It was night—beautiful night! The cold pale moon gleamed on the waste of waters, on the silent shore, on the hills of Magna Græcia, and on the wide Ionian sea. Ten thousand luminous animalculæ glittered in its briny depth, as if to rival the bright stars above; while the white columns on a distant promontory—the last relics of a people, a power, and a creed that have passed away—the wooded mountains and the pebbled beach, and Albanian Bova, the towers of Theodosia, LaBianca, and other towns, rose in succession on our view, all glittering in the radiance of that broad and lovely moon.
A guitar broke the silence, accompanied by a clear voice: it was young Vinoni chanting a verse of Pignotti's Novella, beginning with "Donne leggiadre, allorche," &c.
"Woman enchanting! when I look on thy form,
And behold the soft graces of lip, cheek, and hair;
And thy bosom of snow, nature's loveliest charm,
Ah! who would not kiss it, and love to die there?
"Sweet to behold the unsullied snow!
The dark eye that rolls——"
"Come, come, caro tenente, stop your twangling, and make sail on the galley!" cried Guevarra, starting up from the sleep he had enjoyed under the awning since dinner. "Corpo di Baccho! here comes the breeze at last," he continued, snuffing it over the quarter; "and the tunny-fish—ah! the fine fellows, see how they are passing us in shoals."
Humming "Donne leggiadre," &c., the lieutenant relinquished his guitar, and looked intently over the quarter.