He called to Jimmy to bring a chair from the cabin, and placed it for her in some square of shadow cast by the canvas. The crew of the brig, saving the two men over the side, were collected in the bows, and talked eagerly, and often looked our way and then at the island. Yan Bol, pipe in mouth, towered among the men.
CHAPTER XVII.
THE SHIP IN THE CAVE.
Greaves read Spanish, but spoke it ill. He was a North-countryman, and was without musical accents for soft or swelling or voweled tongues. On seating the lady, he looked at her and pronounced some words in her speech. My ear told me they were barbarous. They might have been Welsh or Erse.
“This man,” said I, pointing to one of the Spanish seamen who stood near, “understands English.”
Greaves was about to address the sailor; he broke off, and beckoned to Bol. The lumbering Dutchman came pitching aft like one of the bum-bowed boats of his own country over a swell.
“Station a man on the fore royal yard, Bol,” said Greaves, “to instantly report anything that may heave into view.”
“Ay, ay, sir.”
The Dutchman went forward again, and a minute later the sailor named Meehan ran patting aloft.
“Fielding, should a sail be reported when I am ashore,” said Greaves, speaking as though the lady and the Spanish seamen were not present, “fill on your topsail and stand away under easy canvas in a direction opposite to what the stranger may be taking. Keep your eye on her, and haul in again for the island as she settles away. Nothing must observe us hanging about here until we have got what we have come to take. I do not think it likely that anything will heave into view. I give you these directions while they are present to my mind.”
I replied in the customary affirmative of the sea.