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Scott, Michael, 1789-1835

"Tom Cringle's Log"


I watched my opportunity as she pulled up alongside, and called out,
leaning well over the nettings, "Get back to your ship! treachery! get
back to your ship!"
The little French serpent was at my side with the speed of thought, his
long clear knife glancing in one hand, while the fingers of the other were
laid on his lips. He could not have said more plainly, "Hold your tongue
or I'll cut your throat;" but Sneezer now startled him by rushing between
us, and giving a short angry growl.
The officer in the boat had heard me imperfectly; he rose up--"I won't go
back, my good man, until I see what you are made of; and as he spoke he
sprung on board, but the instant he got over the bulwarks he was caught by
two strong hands, gagged and thrown bodily down the main hatchway.
"Heave," cried a voice, "and with a will!" and four cold 32--pound shot
were hove at once into the boat alongside, which crashing through her
bottom, swamped her in a moment, precipitating the miserable crew into the
boiling sea. Their shrieks still ring in my ears as they clung to the
oars and some loose planks of the boat.
"Bring up the officer, and take out the gag," said Williamson.
Poor Walcolm, who had been an old messmate of mine, was now dragged to the
gangway half--naked, his face bleeding, and heavily ironed, when the
blackamoor, clapping a pistol to his head, bid him, as he feared instant
death, hail "that the boat had swamped under the counter, and to send
another.


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