"Do you see that craft in the clear offing, bearing away north and by east?"
"A ship!" I exclaimed.
"Ay, a ship," he added, gnashing his teeth; "and may she never lift tack or sheet till she and all her crew are moored in the jaws of hell!"
On looking round, I saw plainly enough a large brig bout twelve miles distant, bearing off under a full spread of canvas, that shone white as snow in the full splendour of the risen moon, which contested for precedence with the fading light of sunset on the sea.
"She is a privateer, the George Third, of Bristol, carrying sixteen 12-pounders and three hundred men. Men do I call them? d—n them for a gang of lubberly cowards to let their grogswilling tyrant of a captain maroon a poor devil here as he did me; and tied to a post too, without a chance for life."
"For what did he do this?"
"Mutiny—or madness he called it."
"When did this happen?"
"This very morning."
"Heavens!" I exclaimed, stung with disappointment.