The men were immediately ordered to get the boats ready to shove off to the schooner. Whatever light things the pirates could stow away were put into them. The wounded of their party were carefully lowered, from the decks of the captured ship, into the boats. The sailors of the ship, that had survived the action, were placed in the bows of the Periagua; and the prisoners, who, with the exception of the individual who had recognized the captain as his son, were without restraint, permitted to sit in the stern-sheets with the captain; and the young lady, who had now recovered from her fainting sickness, received all the attentions which the most perfect civility could offer, and which were evidently shown with the purpose of smoothing down the strange position in which she found herself. The boats were pushed off from the ship, that was left, sluggishly rolling on the waves, under the charge of the two men.
The pirates shortly gained the schooner, which, during and after the action, continued to lie to the wind, at a short distance from the prize.
Lorenzo, in whose command she was left, when the captain headed the party of the Periagua, stood ready at the gangway to receive his superior. No noise was heard on board of the captured ship or the schooner since the fight: the bonds of the same marvellous discipline seemed, unknowingly to themselves, to control the pirates, even at the moment of victory and exultation; but when the boats came alongside the schooner, human nature, it would appear, refused to contain itself any longer: and those fierce men, who had abandoned the entire world for the narrow space of their small vessel, and the inhabitants of the vast universe for the few kindred spirits who were their associates—that had separated themselves, by their deeds, from the world, the world’s sympathy, and the world’s good and bad, that had actually turned their hand against all men, and had expected, as they had probably frequently experienced, that the hand of all men should be turned against them, could not restrain their feelings of welcome, and three loud and prolonged cheers resounded, far and wide over the silent ocean, as they were wafted, in undying echoes, over the crests of the heavy and heaving billows. As comrade rejoined comrade, their grim and bearded faces appeared to relax from their wonted habit of ferocity, under the influence of a prevailing sense of joy: such a joy, those, alone, can experience who have seen every natural tie break asunder around them—who have felt the heavy hand of a crushing destiny, or have been hunted and driven, by the injustice and persecution of friend or relative, to seek shelter in that desperate solitude, which is relieved, but, by the presence, and cheered, but, by the sympathy of the few, who, like themselves, have been picked out by fate, to suffer, to be miserable, and to be finally, cast forth from the society of mankind.
The captain endeavoured not to restrain the joy of his men; but he sat stern, collected, and unaffected as ever, in the stern-sheets of the boat. No sign of pleasure or displeasure was written on his features: but if any change could be read, it was the passing shadow of a deep melancholy that rested, for a moment, on his resolute brow. Perhaps the reminiscences of some bygone period were playing on his memory; perhaps the recollection of other days led him, in imagination, to some cherished spot, where he was wont to hear the joyful greetings of parent, friend, or lover. Perhaps the remembrance of that one moment, when, even the most unhappy, and the most perverse of men, feel for once, the soothing influence of those mysterious feelings of our nature, that melt, that soften, that gladden, and remain for ever in our recollection, the lonely stars of comfort in the heavy darkness of misfortunes. Perhaps the remembrance of such a moment, now flitted across the memory of the pirate captain.
Whatever was the feeling that cast its hue over his brow, like the passing shadow of a fleeting cloud, it came—in the twinkling of an eye, it passed away; and he remained, again, the inscrutable individual, that he ever was.
The captain, on gaining the deck of the schooner, ordered that the prisoners should be properly treated: “Let, however, that man,” pointing to the person who had recognized him as his son, “be kept in close custody.”
Having said this, he looked around him on the schooner, where the same order reigned as before the attack, and went down into his cabin.
The day was now nearly spent, the sun was setting red, round, and fiery, as it sets only in the tropics.
The light goods, which the pirates had brought with them from the captured ship, and the prisoners, were transhipped into the schooner. The boats were hoisted into their places. The schooner herself lay in the same position—motionless, under its counteracting sails.
Some time had already elapsed since the captain went below, and no orders had, as yet, been given for the night. The officer, whose watch it was, walked the deck in anxious expectation of commands.