He said every thing he could think of to assure them that the ship they had seen was quite an optical illusion; and his arguments, though they might have been convincing enough to the old Dominican friar, Antonio Minasi, who thrice saw the Fata Morgana in the Straits of Messina, or to Sir David Brewster, they totally failed to assure Tattooed Tom, old Probart our carpenter, Jack Burnet the cook, and others, that it was merely a natural phenomenon, to be accounted for through some form of dioptrical refraction, by means of which a ship sailing on one part of the ocean might be reflected on another, or, as we had just seen, even on the land itself.
"I assure you, my lads," he continued, "she was the representation of a vessel now under sail elsewhere. You all saw that the sea and bay were calm as glass, that the ship was braced sharp to the wind, with her port tacks aboard, while we had none, not even a catspaw on the water, or a leaf stirring on shore. You saw that she careened, as if beneath its influence, and rose and fell as if running through a heavy sea. You saw the cabin lights go out, and the flying-jib hoisted. Thus it was quite evident that by something indescribable in the state of the atmosphere, her form and motions were taken up elsewhere, and mirrored here."
"I don't understand all this fine talk," said Tom Lambourne, sulkily, "and I don't care if I never do. I ain't a scholar, but a hardworking foremast-man, that has seen every land under the sun. So by your leave, or without it, we shall make the long-boat ready for sea. Come, my lads; we shall fill the watercasks at the spring yonder, and get what remains in the bread bags, with all the other stuff we've collected, aboard."
"Hurrah!" cried the crew, "hurrah for blue water!"
"Get the mast stepped, and all the gear ready; we'll be at sea in an hour, or my name ain't Tattooed Tom Lambourne."
"Rodney," said Hislop, turning to me, bitterly, "Goethe says that painting and tattooing are natural symptoms—the savage hankering after the brute—and faith, I begin to think so."
Old Tom Lambourne only half understood the remark; but it stung him deeply.
"I don't deserve this at your hands, Master Hislop," said he; "and it ain't manly to upbraid a poor fellow with his misfortunes when shipwrecked among savages, and I tell you so—for all your book-learning," he added, bitterly.
"You are right, Tom, and I am wrong. Pardon me, old ship-mate," said Hislop, as they shook hands.
So thoroughly were our companions scared by the recent spectral appearance, which they connected in some way with the dreadful character of Antonio el Cubano, that they at once commenced with alacrity the preparations for putting to sea.