The Madman and the Pirate

by R. M. Ballantyne

A trusty chief had been placed in charge of the village by Tomeo before he left. This man now disposed his warriors in commanding positions as they came trooping in, obedient to the call, and bade them keep out of sight and watch his signals from the beach.

But now let us see what vessel it was that caused such commotion in Ratinga.

She was a brig, with nothing particularly striking in her rig or appointments—a mere trading vessel. But on her bulwarks at the bow and on the heel of the bowsprit was gathered a group that well deserves notice, for there, foremost of all, and towering above the others, stood Antonio Zeppa, holding on to a forestay, and gazing with intensity and fixedness at the speck of land which had just been sighted. Beside him, and not less absorbed, stood his valiant and amiable son; while around, in various attitudes, sat or stood the chiefs Tomeo and Buttchee, Rosco and Ebony, Ongoloo and Wapoota, and little Lippy with her mother!

But the native missionary was not there. He had positively refused to quit the desert which had so unexpectedly and suddenly begun to blossom as the rose, and had remained to water the ground until his friends should send for him.

The chief and prime minister of the Mountain-men were there because, being large-minded, they wished to travel and see the world; and Lippy was there because Zeppa liked her; while the mother was there because she liked Lippy and refused to be parted from her.

Great was the change which had come over Zeppa during his convalescence. The wild locks and beard had been cut and trimmed; the ragged garments had been replaced by a suit belonging to Orley, and the air of wild despair, alternating with vacant simplicity, which characterised him in his days of madness, had given place to the old, sedate, sweet look of gentle gravity. It is true the grey hairs had increased in number, and there was a look, or, rather, an effect, of suffering in the fine face which nothing could remove; but much of the muscular vigour and the erect gait had been regained during those months when he had been so carefully and untiringly nursed by his son on Sugar-loaf Island.

It was not so with the ex-pirate. Poor Rosco was a broken man. The shock to his frame from the partial burning and the subsequent amputation of his feet had been so great that a return to anything like vigour seemed out of the question. But there was that in the expression of his faded face, and in the light of his sunken eye, which carried home the conviction that the ruin of his body had been the saving of his soul.

“I cannot tell you, Orley, how thankful I am,” said Zeppa, “that this trader happened to touch at the island. As I grew stronger my anxiety to return home became more and more intense; and to say truth, I had begun to fear that Captain Fitzgerald had forgotten us altogether.”

“No fear of that, father. The captain is sure to keep his promise. He will either return, as he said, or send some vessel to look after us. What are you gazing at, Ebony?”

“De steepil, massa. Look!” cried the negro, his whole face quivering with excitement, and the whites of his eyes unusually obtrusive as he pointed to the ever-growing line of land on the horizon, “you see him?—glippering like fire!”