That was the first and last occasion on which the poor madman experienced intrusion from the natives in his mountain retreat.
Chapter Eight.
Let us return, now, to our miserable and half-hearted pirate, far out upon the raging sea.
It must not be supposed that the Pacific Ocean is always peaceful. No—there are days and nights when its winds howl, and its billows roar, and heave, and fume, with all the violence and fury of any other terrestrial sea.
On one such night, the pirate’s barque was tossed like a cork on the Pacific’s heaving bosom, while the shrieking winds played, as it were, fiendishly with the fluttering shreds of sails which they had previously blown to ribbons.
Richard Rosco stood beside the weather-bulwarks holding on to one of the mizzen back-stays. His mate Redford assisted the man at the wheel.
Upwards of three years of Rosco’s rule had subdued Redford to the condition of a hypocritical and sly, but by no means a submissive, savage. One or two spurts at the commencement of their career had satisfied the mate, as well as the men, that the only way to overcome Rosco was to take his life; and as Redford had not sufficient courage, and the men no desire, to do that, they pursued their evil courses in comparative harmony. Nevertheless, the pirate captain knew well that the savage Redford was more acceptable to the pirates than himself so he determined to carry out intentions which had been simmering in his brain for some time, and rid the pirate crew of his presence.
“We will sight the island to-morrow afternoon, sir, if this holds,” said the mate.