In truth, there was no intention in my heart to banter the man or jest with such a brute, only I had to let him know of my presence there, and one way seemed to me as good as another.
Instead of starting up, as I had thought he might do, and, perhaps, discharging a pistol at me, he turned his head towards the door, put that head between his two hands, and peered between them towards where I stood.
"Who is't?" he asked. "I cannot see you. Is it Martin come back from the isles with the sloop?"
This gave me an idea that there were some comrades expected--perhaps from some other villainies! but I had just now no time for pondering on such things, so I replied:
"No, 'tis not Martin. But, 'Captain' Alderly, you should know me; you drank a health to me not long ago. I am Lieutenant Crafer of the Furie."
"I do not know you," he replied; "I never heard of you. Yet you must be dry in the throat. Come in and drink."
In other circumstances I might have thought this to be a ruse--now I could not deem it such. Beyond all doubt he was mad--my only wonder was that such a desperado should not be more ferocious. Perhaps, however, this might be to come.
I sat me down opposite to him and regarded him fixedly in that gloomy light, and it seemed as though I brought by my presence some glimmer of reason to the wandering brain.
"Crafer!" he exclaimed. "Ah yes, Crafer! Drink, Crafer, drink. So thou hast join'd us. 'Tis well, and better than serving Phips. We have more wealth here than ever Phips dreamed of--if we could but get it away. Away! Yes! away! What might we not do if we could but get it to England! We might all be gallant, topping gentlemen with coaches and horses, and a good house, and see ridottos and--but stay, Crafer, you must know my friends." And here the creature stood upon his feet--I standing, too, not knowing but what he was going to spring at me, though he had no such intention--and began naming his phantom friends to me and presenting them, so to speak.
"This," says he, "is Peter Hynde, a gay boy and a good sailor. Also he is our musicianer of nights--he singeth too a sweet song. Stand up, Hynde, and make your service. And this is Will Magnus, with a good heart, but ever lacking money till he joined us. A brave lad! 'Tis he who has cut many a throat! Barbara, my dear, throw thy golden mane back and kiss the brave gentleman--she was but a child, sir, when we found her, yet now, now, she--Ha! again that wound! How the thrust of the steel bites!"