First he glances ahead, then over the port-side, and again in the direction of the vessel’s course. What sees he there to make such an impression upon him? A high promontory stretching out into the ocean, almost butting against the bows of his ship! It is Punta Marietta! He knows the headland, but knows, too, it should not be on the bow had his instructions been attended to.
“Que cosa!” he cries in a bewildered way, rubbing his eyes, to make sure they are not deceiving him; then to the helmsman:
“What does this mean, sir? You’ve been keeping too close inshore—the very contrary to what I commanded! Helm down—hard!”
Striker grumblingly obeys, bringing the barque up close to wind. Then the skipper turning angrily upon him, demands to know why his orders have not been carried out.
The ex-convict excuses himself, saying, that he has just commenced his trick, and knows nothing of what has been done before. He is keeping the vessel too on the same course she was on, when he took her from the last steersman.
“Who was the last?” thunders the irate skipper.
“Gil Gomez,” gruffly replies Striker.
“Yes; it was he,” says the first mate, who has come aft along with the captain. “The watch was Señor Padilla’s, and Gomez has just left the wheel.”
“Where is Gomez?” asks the captain, still in a towering passion, unusual for him.
“Gone forward, sir: he’s down in the forecastle.”