“No,” answered Duff. “What do you mean?”
“Take that glass, and look at the outer bastion of Port Ricasoli. What do you see there?”
“Four figures, which are hanging by their necks from gibbets,” answered Duff. “What are they?”
“Those are four Englishmen,—at least, one, by the way, was a Yankee, their master,—who turned pirates, and tried to scuttle another English brig, and to drown the people. It’s too long a story to tell you now. But old King Tom got hold of them, and treated them as you see.”
“That fellow, Delano, the Yankee master, was a terrible villain,” observed Captain Bowse, shuddering. “It was not the first black deed of the sort he had done, either. One doesn’t know what punishment is bad enough for such scoundrels. It’s a hundredfold worse when such-like acts are done by our countrymen, than when Greeks or Moors do them, because one does not expect anything better from their hands. But I see, sir, you are casting an eye at one of those strange-looking native crafts standing in for the land with the sea breeze.”
Raby had the telescope at his eye, and he was pointing it towards a sail which was rapidly approaching the shore. So broad and lofty was the canvass, that the hull looked like the small car of a balloon, in comparison to it, as if just gliding over the surface of the blue and unruffled sea.
The view both up and down the harbour, and in every direction, was very interesting. Directly facing them was Port Ricasoli, with its tiers of guns threatening any invader, and the black, wave-washed rocks at its base. A little to the right, in a sort of bay between it and Port Saint Angelo, appeared the white and elegant buildings of the Naval Hospital; and further on, towering upwards from the water, the last-mentioned fort, with its numerous rows of heavy guns, having behind it the Dockyard creek, or Galley harbour, where, in the days of yore, the far-famed galleys of the knights were drawn up, and secure from attack. On either side were white stone walls and buttresses, glittering in the sunshine; overhead a sky of intense blueness; and below, a mirror-like expanse of waters, reflecting the same cerulean hue, on which floated innumerable crafts, of all shapes, sizes, and rigs, from the proud line-of-battle ship which had triumphantly borne the flag of England through the battle and the breeze, to the little caique with its great big eyes in its bow and strange-shaped stem and high outlandish stern, filled with its swarthy, skirmish crew of vociferating natives. Among the merchantmen, the ensigns of all nations might be seen—the stars and stripes of Uncle Sam’s freedom-loving people alongside the black lowering eagle of Russia; the cross of the Christian Greek, and the crescent of the infidel Turk; there was the banner of the Pope, and of Sardinia, and of various other Italian States; but outnumbering them all, by far, was the red flag of Britain. Far out to the eastward, where the sky and sea formed the horizon, there was a slight, gauze-like, whitish haze, through which could be seen the lofty canvas of several vessels, rising, as it were, like spirits from the watery deep, and just catching the rays of the sun declining in the opposite direction, which gave an unusual brilliancy to their wide-spread sails. But the craft which most attracted the attention of our friends was the one Raby had been looking at.
He pointed her out to his brother midshipman, and handed him the telescope.
“What do you think of her?” he asked. “She is a rum one to look at, isn’t she?”
Duff burst into a fit of laughter.