Still the skipper, who I
expected every moment to see puffed away from the tiller like smoke, held
upon deck as if he had been bullet--proof, and seemed to escape the hellish
tornado of missiles of all sorts and sizes by a miracle.
"He is in league with the old one, Paul," said I; "howsoever, you must be
nabbed, for you see the ship is forereaching on you, and you can't go on
t'other tack, surely, with these pretty eyelet holes between wind and water
on the weather side there? Your captain is mad why will you, then, and all
these poor fellows, go down, because he dare not surrender, for some good
deed of his own, eh?"
The roar of the cannon and noise of the musketry made it necessary for me
to raise my voice here, which the small scuttle, like Dionysius's ear,
conveyed unexpectedly to my friend, the captain, on deck.
"Hand me up my pistols, Paul."
It had struck me before, and I was now certain, that from the time he had
become so intensely excited as he was now, he spoke with a pure English
accent, without the smallest dash of Yankeeism.
"So, so; I see--no wonder you won't strike, you renegade," cried I.
"You have tampered with my crew, sir, and abused me," he announced, in a
stem, slow tone, much more alarming than his former fierceness, "so take
that, to quiet you;" and deuce take me if he did not, the moment he
received the pistols from his mate, fire slap at me, the ball piercing the
large muscle of my neck on the right side, missing the artery by the merest
accident.
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