 | CHAPTER VII. The wing-and-wing, or, Le Feu-follet |  |
7. CHAPTER VII.
And feel the curse to have no natural fear,
Nor fluttering throb, that beats with hopes or wishes,
Or lurking love of something on the earth.”
Manfred.
By this time, the day had materially advanced, and there
were grave grounds for the uneasiness which Cuffe began so
seriously to feel. All three of the ships were still in the Bay
The Proserpine, the deepest embayed, the Terpsichore, and
the Ringdove, having hauled out towards Campanella, as soon
as satisfied nothing was to be seen in-shore of them. The
heights, which line the coast, from the immediate vicinity of
the town of Salerno, to the head-land that ends near Capri,
have long been celebrated, not only for their beauty and
grandeur, but in connection with the lore of the middle ages.
As the Proserpine had never been in this bay before, or never
so near its head, her officers found some temporary relief
from the very general uneasiness that was felt on account
of their prisoner, in viewing scenery that is remarkable even
in that remarkable section of the globe. The ship had gone
up abreast of Amalfi, and so close in, as to be less than a
mile from the shore. The object was to communicate with
some fishermen, which had been done; the information received
going to establish the fact, that no craft resembling
the lugger had been in that part of the Bay. The vessel's
head was now laid to the southward and westward, in waiting
for the zephyr, which might soon be expected. The gallant
frigate, seen from the impending rocks, looked like a
light merchantman, in all but her symmetry and warlike
guise; nature being moulded on so grand a scale all along
that coast, as to render objects of human art, unusually diminutive
to the eye. On the other hand, the country-houses,
churches, hermitages, convents, and villages, clustered all
along the mountain sides, presented equally delusive forms,
though they gave an affluence to the views, that left the
spectator in a strange doubt, which most to admire, their
wildness, or their picturesque beauty. The little air that
remained, was still at the southward, and as the ship moved
slowly along this scene of singular attraction, each ravine
seemed to give up a town, each shelf of rock, a human habitation,
and each natural terrace, a villa and a garden.
Of all men, sailors get to be the most blazés in the way of
the sensations produced by novelties, and fine scenery. It appears
to be a part of their calling, to suppress the emotions of
a greenhorn; and, generally, they look upon anything that is
a little out of the ordinary track, with the coolness of those
who feel it is an admission of inferiority to betray surprise.
It seldom happens with them, that anything occurs, or anything
in trade, the last voyage, did not at least furnish a
parallel; usually the past event, or the more distant object,
has the advantage. He who has a sufficient store of
this reserved knowledge and experience, it will at once be
seen, enjoys a great superiority over him who has not, and
is placed above the necessity of avowing a sensation as humiliating
as wonder. On the present occasion, however,
but few held out against the novelty of the actual situation
of the ship; most on board being willing enough to allow
that they had never before been beneath cliffs that had such
a union of the magnificent, the picturesque, and the soft;
though a few continued firm, acting up to the old characters,
with the consistency of settled obstinacy.
Strand, the boatswain, was one of those who, on all such
occasions, “died hard.” He was the last man in the ship
who ever gave up a prejudice; and this for three several
reasons: he was a cockney, and believed himself born in
the centre of human knowledge; he was a seaman, and understood
the world; he was a boatswain, and stood upon his
dignity.
As the Proserpine fanned slowly along the land, this personage
took a position between the knight-heads, on the
bowsprit, where he could overlook the scene, and at the
same time hear the dialogue of the forecastle; and both with
suitable decorum. Strand was as much of a monarch forward,
as Cuffe was aft; though the appearance of a lieutenant,
or of the master, now and then, a little dimmed the
lustre of his reign. Still, Strand succumbed completely to
only two of the officers—the captain and the first-lieutenant;
and not always to these, in what he conceived to be purely
matters of sentiment. In the way of duty, he understood
himself too well, ever to hesitate about obeying an order;
but when it came to opinions, he was a man who could
maintain his own, even in the presence of Nelson.
The first captain of the forecastle, was an old seaman of
the name of Catfall. At the precise moment when Strand
occupied the position named, between the knight-heads, this
personage was holding a discourse with three or four of the
forecastle-men, who stood on the heel of the bowsprit,
inboard — the etiquette of the ship not permitting these worthies
party had his arms folded; each chewed tobacco; each had
his hair in a queue; and each occasionally hitched up his
trousers, in a way to prove that he did not require the aid
of suspenders in keeping his nether garments in their proper
place. It may be mentioned, indeed, that the point of division
between the jacket and the trousers, was marked in
each by a bellying line of a clean white shirt, that served to
relieve the blue of the dress, as a species of marine facing.
As was due to his greater experience and his rank, Catfall
was the principal speaker among those who lined the heel
of the bowsprit.
“This here coast is mountainious, as one may own,”
observed the captain of the forecastle; “but what I say is,
that it 's not as mountainious as some I 've seen. Now,
when I went round the 'arth with Captain Cook, we fell in
with islands that were so topped off with rocks, and the like
o' that, that these here affairs, alongside on 'em, wouldn't
pass for anything more than a sort of jury mountains.”
“There you 're right, Catfall,” said Strand, in a patronizing
way; “as anybody knows as has been round the Horn.
I didn't sail with Captain Cook, seeing that I was then the
boatswain of the Hussar, and she couldn't have made one
of Cook's squadron, being a post-ship, and commanded by
a full-built captain; but I was in them seas when a younker,
and can back Catfall's account of the matter by my largest
anchor, in the way of history. D—e, if I think these hillocks
would be called even jury mountains, in that quarter
of the world. They tell me there's several noblemen's and
gentlemen's parks near Lunnun, where they make mountains
just to look at; that must be much of a muchness with
these here chaps. I never drift far from Wappin', when
I'm at home, and so I can't say I 've seen these artifice
hills, as they calls them, myself; but there's one Joseph
Shirk, that lives near St. Katharine's Lane, that makes
trips regularly into the neighbourhood, who gives quite a
particular account of the matter.”
“I dare to say it's all true, Mr. Strand,” answered the
captain of the forecastle, “for I 've know'd some of them
travelling chaps who have seen stranger sights than that.
No, sir, I calls these mountains no great matter; and as to
you might say you could see two on some of the desert
islands—”
A very marvellous account of Cook's Discoveries was
suddenly checked by the appearance of Cuffe on the forecastle.
It was not often the captain visited that part of the
ship; but he was considered a privileged person, let him go
where he would. At his appearance, all the “old salts”
quitted the heel of the spar, tarpaulins came fairly down to
a level with the bag-reefs of the shirts, and even Strand
stepped into the nettings, leaving the place between the
knight-heads clear. To this spot Cuffe ascended with a
light, steady step, for he was but six-and-twenty, just touching
his hat, in return to the boatswain's bow.
A boatswain, on board an English ship-of-war, is a more
important personage than he is apt to be on board an American.
Neither the captain nor the first-lieutenant disdains
conversing with him, on occasions; and he is sometimes
seen promenading the starboard side of the quarter-deck, in
deep discourse with one or the other of those high functionaries.
It has been said that Cuffe and Strand were old shipmates,
the latter having actually been boatswain of the ship
in which the former first sailed. This circumstance was
constantly borne in mind by both parties, the captain seldom
coming near his inferior, in moments of relaxation, without
having something to say to him.
“Rather a remarkable coast, this, Strand,” he commenced,
on the present occasion, as soon as fairly placed between
the knight-heads; “something one might look for a week, in
England, without finding it.”
“I beg your pardon, sir, but I'm not of the same way of
thinking. I was just telling the forecastle lads, down there,
that there's many a nobleman and gentleman, at home, as
has finer hills than these, made by hand, in his parks and
gardens, just to look at.”
“The d—l you have!—And what did the forecastle
lads, down there, say to that?”
“What could they, sir? It just showed the superiority
of an Englishman to an Italian; and that ended the matter.
Don't you remember the Injees, sir?—”
“The Indies! — Why the coast between Bombay and
Calcutta is as flat as a pancake, most of the distance.”
“Not them Injees, sir, but t' other — the West, I mean.
The islands and mountains we passed and went into in the
Rattler; your honour was only a young gentleman, then,
but was too much aloft to miss the sight of anything—and
all along America, too.”
As Strand was speaking, he glanced complacently round,
as if to intimate to the listeners what an old friend of the
captain's they enjoyed in the person of their boatswain.
“Oh! the West-Indies—you 're nearer right there, Strand;
and yet they have nothing to compare to this. Why, here
are mountains, alive with habitations, that fairly come up to
the sea!”
“Well, sir, as to habitations, what's these to a street in
Lunnun? Begin on the starboard hand, for instance, as
you walk down Cheapside, and count as you go; my life
for it, you 'll reel off more houses, in half an hour's walk,
than are to be found in all that there village yonder.
Then you 'll remember, sir, that the starboard hand only has
half, every Jack having his Jenny. I look upon Lunnun as
the finest sight in nature, Captain Cuffe, after all I have
seen in many cruises!”
“I don't know, Mr. Strand.—In the way of coast, one
may very well be satisfied with this. Yonder town, now,
is called Amalfi; it was once a place of great commerce,
they say.”
“Of commerce, sir!—why it's nothing but a bit of a village,
or at most, of a borough, built in a hollow.—No haven,
no docks, no comfortable place, even, for setting up the
frame of a ship on the beach. The commerce of such a
town must have been mainly carried on by means of mules
and jackasses, as one reads of in the trade of the Bible.”
“Carried on as it might be, trade it once had.—There
does not seem to be any hiding-place, along this shore, for
a lugger like the Folly, after all, Strand.”
The boatswain smiled, with a knowing look, while, at the
same time, the expression of his countenance was like that
of a man who did not choose to let others into all his
secrets.
“The Folly is a craft we are not likely to see, again,
Captain Cuffe,” he then answered, if it were only out of
respect to his superior.
“Why so?—The Proserpine generally takes a good look
at everything she chases.”
“Ay, ay, sir; that may be true, as a rule, but I never
knew a craft found, after a third look for her. Everything
seems to go by thirds, in this world, sir; and I always look
upon a third chase as final. Now, sir, there are three
classes of admirals, and three sets of flags; a ship has three
masts; the biggest ships are three deckers; then there are
three planets—”
“The d—l there are!—How do you make that out,
Strand?”
“Why, sir, there's the sun, moon and stars; that makes
just three, by my count.”
“Ay, but what do you say to Jupiter, Saturn, Venus, and
all the rest of them, the earth included?”
“Why, sir, they 're all the rest of the stars, and not
planets, at all. Then, sir, look around you, and you 'll find
everything going by threes. There are three topsails, three
jibs, and three top-gallant-sails—”
“And two courses,” said the captain, gravely, to whom
this theory of the threes was new.
“Quite true, sir, in name, but your honour will recollect
the spanker is nothing but a fore-and-aft course, rigged to a
mast, instead of to a jack-yard, as it used to be.”
“There are neither three captains nor three boatswains,
to a ship, Master Strand.”
“Certainly not, sir; that would be oppressive, and they
would stand in each other's way; still, Captain Cuffe, the
thirds hold out wonderfully, even in all these little matters.
There's the three lieutenants; and there's the boatswain,
gunner and carpenter—and—”
“Sail-maker, armourer, and captain of the mast,” interrupted
Cuffe, laughing.
“Well, sir, you may make anything seem doubtful, by
bringing forward a plenty of reasons; but all my experience
says, a third chase never comes to anything, unless it turns
out successful; but that after a third chase, all may as well
be given up.”
“I fancy, Lord Nelson holds a different doctrine, Strand.
He tells us to follow a Frenchman round the earth, rather
than let him escape.”
“No doubt, sir. Follow him round three earths, if you
can keep him in sight; but not round four. That is all I
contend for, Captain Cuffe. Even women, they tell me,
take what is called their thirds, in a fellow's forti'n.”
“Well, well, Strand, I suppose there must be some truth
in your doctrine, or you wouldn't hold out for it so strenuously;
and, as for this coast, I must give it up, too, for I
never expect to see another like it; much less a third.”
“It 's my duty to give up to your honour; but I ask permission
to think a third chase should always be the last
one. That 's a melancholy sight to a man of feelin', Captain
Cuffe, the object between the two midship-guns, on the
starboard, side of the main-deck, sir?”
“You mean the prisoner?—I wish, with all my heart, he
was not there, Strand. I think I would rather he were in
his lugger again, to run the chances of that fourth chase of
which you seem to think so lightly.”
“Your hanging ships are not often lucky ships, Captain
Cuffe. In my judgment, asking your pardon, sir, there
ought to be a floating gaol in every fleet, where all the courts
and all the executions should be held.”
“It would be robbing the boatswains of no small part of
their duty, were the punishments to be sent out of the different
vessels,” answered Cuffe, smiling.
“Ay, ay, sir—the punishments, I grant, your honour;
but hanging is an execution, and not a punishment. God
forbid that, at my time of life, I should be ordered to sail in
a ship that has no punishment on board; but I'm really getting
to be too old to look at executions with any sort of
pleasure. Duty that isn't done with pleasure, is but poor
duty, at the best, sir.”
“There are many disagreeable, and some painful duties
to be performed, Strand; this of executing a man, let the
offence be what it may, is among the most painful.”
“For my part, Captain Cuffe, I do not mind hanging a
mutineer so very much, for he is a being that the world
ought not to harbour; but it is a different thing with an
enemy, and a spy. It's our duty to spy as much as we
too hard on such as does their duty. With a fellow that
can't obey orders, and who puts his own will above the
pleasure of his superiors, I have no patience; but I do not
so much understand why the gentlemen of the courts are so
hard on such as do a little more reconn'itrin' than common.”
“That is because ships are less exposed to the attempts
of spies than armies, Strand. A soldier hates a spy, as
much as you do a mutineer. The reason is, that he may
be surprised by an enemy through his means, and butchered
in his sleep. Nothing is so unpleasant to a soldier as a
surprise; and the law against spies, though a general law of
war, originated with soldiers, rather than with us sailors, I
should think.”
“Yes, sir, — I dare say your honour is right. He's a
rum 'un a soldier, at the best; and this opinion proves it.
Now, sir, Captain Cuffe, just suppose a Frenchman of about
our own metal, took it into his head to surprise the Proserpine,
some dark night: what would come of it, after all?
There's the guns, and it's only to turn the hands up, to set
'em at work, just the same as if there wasn't a spy in the
world. And should they prefer to come on board us, and
to try their luck at close quarters, I rather think, sir, the
surprise would meet 'em face to face. No—no—sir; spies
is nothing to us, though it might teach 'em manners to keelhaul
one, once-and-a-while.”
Cuffe now became thoughtful and silent, and even Strand
did not presume to speak, when the Captain was in this
humour. The latter descended to the forecastle, and walked
aft, his hands behind his back, and his head inclining
downward. Every one he met made way for him, as a
matter of course; in that mood, he moved among the throng
of a ship of war, as a man tabooed. Even Winchester respected
his commander's abstraction, although he had a
serious request to make, which it is time to explain.
Andrea Barrofaldi and Vito Viti remained on board the
frigate, inmates of the cabin, and gradually becoming more
accustomed to their novel situation. They did not escape
the jokes of a man-of-war, but, on the whole, they were well
treated, and were tolerably satisfied; more especially as the
of course, they were apprised of the condition of Raoul,
and, both kind and benevolent men in the main, they were
desirous of conversing with the prisoner, and of proving to
him that they bore no malice. Winchester was spoken to
on the subject, but before he granted the permission, he
thought it safest to consult the Captain in the matter. At
length an opportunity offered, Cuffe suddenly rousing himself,
and giving an order in relation to the canvass the ship
was under.
“Here are the two Italian gentlemen, Captain Cuffe,”
observed Winchester, “desirous of speaking to the prisoner.
I did not think it right, sir, to let him have communication
with any one, without first ascertaining your pleasure.”
“Poor fellow!—His time is getting very short, unless we
hear from Clinch; and there can be no harm in granting
him every indulgence. I have been thinking of this matter,
and do not possibly see how I can escape ordering the
execution, unless it be countermanded from Nelson himself.”
“Certainly not, sir. But Mr. Clinch is an active and
experienced seaman, when he is in earnest; we may still
hope something from him. What is to be done with the
Italians, sir?”
“Let them, or any one else that poor Yvard is willing to
see, go below.”
“Do you mean to include old Giuntotardi and his niece,
Captain Cuffe? — and this deserter of our own, Bolt, — he,
too, has had something to say of a wish to take leave of his
late shipmate?”
“We might be justified in denying the request of the
last, Mr. Winchester, but hardly of the others. Still, if Raoul
Yvard wishes to see even him, his desire may as well be
granted.”
Thus authorized, Winchester no longer hesitated about
granting the several permissions. An order was sent to
the sentinel, through the corporal of the guard, to allow any
one to enter the prisoner's room, whom the latter might wish
to receive. A ship was not like a prison on shore, escape
being next to impossible, more especially from a vessel at
sea. The parties accordingly received intimation that they
to receive them.
By this time, something like a general gloom had settled
on the ship. The actual state of things was known to all
on board, and few believed it possible that Clinch could reach
the Foudroyant, receive his orders, and be back in time to
prevent the execution. It wanted now but three hours of
sunset, and the minutes appeared to fly, instead of dragging.
The human mind is so constituted, that uncertainty increases
most of its sensations;—the apprehension of death even,
very usually exciting a livelier emotion than its positive
approach. Thus it was with the officers and people of the
Proserpine: had there been no hope of escaping the execution,
they would have made up their minds to submit to the
evil, as unavoidable; but the slight chance which did actually
exist, created a feverish excitement that soon extended
to all hands; and this as completely as if a chase were in
sight, and each individual was bent on overtaking her. As
minute after minute flew by, the feeling increased, until it
would not much exceed the bounds of truth to say, that,
under none of the vicissitudes of war, did there ever exist so
feverish an hour, on board his Britannic Majesty's ship, the
Proserpine, as the very period of which we are now writing.
Eyes were constantly turned towards the sun, and several
of the young gentlemen collected on the forecastle, with no
other view than to be as near as possible to the head-land,
around which the boat of Clinch was expected to make her
re-appearance, as behind it she had last been seen.
The zephyr had come at the usual hour, but it was light,
and the ship was so close to the mountains, as to feel very
little of its force. It was different with the two other
vessels. Lyon had gone about in time, to get clear of the
highest mountains, and his lofty sails took enough of the
breeze, to carry him out to sea, three or four hours before;
while the Terpsichore, under Sir Frederick Dashwood, had
never got near enough in with the land, to be becalmed at
all. Her head had been laid to the south-west, at the first
appearance of the afternoon wind; and that frigate was now
hull-down to sea-ward—actually making a free wind of it,
as she shaped her course up between Ischia and Capri. As
for the Proserpine, when the bell struck three, in the first
of the Sirens, the western breeze now beginning to die
away, though, getting more of it, the ship was drawing
ahead, faster than she had been since the turn of the day.
Three bells, in the first dog-watch, indicate the hour of
half-past five. At that season of the year, the sun sets a
few minutes past six. Of course, there remained but little
more than half-an-hour, in which to execute the sentence of
the law. Cuffe had never quitted the deck, and he actually
started, when he heard the first sound of the clapper. Winchester
turned towards him, with an inquiring look;
for every thing had been previously arranged between
them; he received merely a significant gesture in return.
This, however, was sufficient. Certain orders were privately
issued. Then there appeared a stir among the fore-top-men,
and on the forecastle, where a rope was rove at the
fore-yard-arm, and a grating was rigged for a platform—
unerring signs of the approaching execution.
Accustomed as these hardy mariners were to brave dangers
of all sorts, and to witness human suffering of nearly
every degree, a feeling of singular humanity had come over
the whole crew. Raoul was their enemy, it is true, and he
had been sincerely detested by all hands, eight-and-forty
hours before; but circumstances had entirely changed the
ancient animosity into a more generous and manly sentiment.
In the first place, a successful and a triumphant
enemy was an object very different from a man in their
own power, and who lay entirely at their mercy. Then,
the personal appearance of the young privateersman was
unusually attractive, and altogether different from what it
had been previously represented, and that, too, by an active
rivalry, that was not altogether free from bitterness. But
chiefly, was the generous sentiment awakened by the conviction
that the master-passion, and none of the usual inducements
of a spy, had brought their enemy into this
strait; and though clearly guilty, in a technical point of
view, that he was influenced by no pitiful wages, even allowing
that he blended with the pursuit of his love, some of
the motives of his ordinary warfare. All these considerations,
coupled with the reluctance that seamen ever feel to
having an execution in their ship, had entirely turned the
between two and three hundred active and formidable enemies,
he might almost be said now to have as many sympathizing
friends.
No wonder, then, that the preparations of the fore-top-men
were regarded with unfavourable eyes. The unseen
hand of authority, nevertheless, held all in restraint. Cuffe
himself did not dare to hesitate any longer. The necessary
orders were given, though with deep reluctance, and then
the captain went below, as if to hide himself from human
eyes.
The ten minutes that succeeded were minutes of intense
concern. All hands were called, the preparations had been
completed, and Winchester waited only for the re-appearance
of Cuffe, to issue the order to have the prisoner placed
on the grating. A midshipman was sent into the cabin,
after which, the commanding officer came slowly, and with
a lingering step, upon the quarter-deck. The crew was
assembled on the forecastle and in the waists; the marine
guard was under arms; the officers clustered around the
capstan; and a solemn, uneasy expectation, pervaded the
whole ship. The lightest foot-fall was audible. Andrea
and his friend stood apart, near the taffrail, but no one saw
Carlo Giuntotardi, or his niece.
“There is yet some five-and-twenty minutes of sun, I
should think, Mr. Winchester,” observed Cuffe, feverishly
glancing his eye at the western margin of the sea, towards
which the orb of day was slowly settling, gilding all that
side of the vault of heaven with the mellow lustre of the
hour and the latitude.
“Not more than twenty, I fear, sir,” was the reluctant
answer.
“I should think five might suffice, at the worst; especially,
if the men made a swift run.” This was said in a half
whisper, and thick, husky, tones, the Captain looking
anxiously at the lieutenant the while.
Winchester shrugged his shoulders, and turned away
unwilling to reply.
Cuffe now had a short consultation with the surgeon, the
object of which was to ascertain the minimum of time a man
might live, suspended by the neck at the yard-arm of a
to bring forth the prisoner.
Raoul came on deck, in charge of the master-at-arms,
and the officer who had acted as prevost-martial. He was
clad in his clean white lazzarone garb, wearing the red
Phrygian cap already mentioned. Though his face was
pale, no man could detect any tremor in the well-turned
muscles that his loose attire exposed to view. He raised his
cap courteously to the group of officers, and threw an understanding
glance forward, at the fearful arrangement on
the fore-yard. That he was shocked, when the grating and
the rope met his eye, is unquestionable; but, rallying in an
instant, he smiled, bowed to Cuffe, and moved towards the
scene of his contemplated execution, firmly, but without the
smallest signs of bravado in his manner.
A death-like stillness prevailed, while the subordinates
adjusted the rope, and placed the condemned man on the
grating. Then the slack of the rope was drawn in, by
hand, and the men were ordered to lay hold of the instrument
of death, and to stretch it along the deck.
“Stand by, my lads, to make a swift run, and a strong
jerk, at your first pull,” said Winchester in a low voice, as
he passed down the line. “Rapidity is mercy, at such a
moment.”
“Good God!” muttered Cuffe, “can the man die in this
manner, without a prayer; without even a glance towards
heaven, as if asking for mercy?”
“He is an unbeliever, I hear, sir,” returned Griffin. “We
have offered him all the religious consolation we could; but
he seems to wish for none.”
“Hail the top-gallant yards once more, Mr. Winchester,”
said Cuffe, huskily.
“Fore-top-gallant yard, there!”
“Sir?”
“Any signs of the boat—look well into the bay of Naples
—we are opening Campanella now sufficiently to give you
a good look up towards the head.”
A pause of a minute succeeded. Then the look-out aloft
shook his head in the negative, as if unwilling to speak.
Winchester glanced at Cuffe, who turned anxiously, mounted
a gun, and strained his eyes in a gaze to the northward.
“All ready, sir,” said the first-lieutenant, when another
minute elapsed.
Cuffe was in the act of raising his hand, which would
have been the signal of death, when the dull, heavy report
of a distant gun, came booming down from the direction of
the town of Naples.
“Stand fast!” shouted Cuffe, fearful the men might get
the start of him. “Make your mates take their calls from
their mouths, sir. Two more guns, Winchester, and I am
the happiest man in Nelson's fleet!”
A second gun did come, just as these words were uttered:
then followed a breathless pause of half a minute, when a
third, smothered, but unequivocal report succeeded.
“It must be a salute, sir,” Griffin uttered, inquiringly.
“The interval is too long. Listen! I hope to God, we
have had the last!”
Every ear in the ship listened intently, Cuffe holding his
watch in his hand. Two entire minutes passed, and no
fourth gun was heard. As second after second went by,
the expression of the captain's countenance changed, and
then he waved his hand in triumph.
“It's as it should be, gentlemen,” he said. “Take the
prisoner below, Mr. Winchester. Unreeve the rope, and
send that d—d granting off the gun. Mr. Strand, pipe
down the people.”
Raoul was immediately led below. As he passed through
the after-hatch, all the officers on the quarter-deck bowed to
him; and not a man was there in the ship, who did not feel
the happier for the reprieve.
| CHAPTER VII. The wing-and-wing, or, Le Feu-follet | |