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Scott, Michael, 1789-1835

"Tom Cringle's Log"

The only ray of hope that shot
into my mind, through all this gloom, came from the respect the thieves,
one and all, paid the Captain; and, as I had reaped the benefit of
assuming an outward recklessness and daring, which I really did not at
heart possess, I screwed myself up to maintain the same port still, and
swaggered along, jabbering in my broken Spanish, right and left, and
jesting even with the most infamous--looking scoundrels of the whole
lot, while, God he knows, my heart was palpitating like a girl's when
she is asked to be married. Obed led the way up a ladder into the loft,
where we found several messes at dinner; and passing through various
rooms, in which a number of hammocks were slung, we at length arrived at
the eastern end, which was boarded off into an apartment eighteen or
twenty feet square, lighted by a small port--hole in the end, about ten
feet from the ground. I could see several huts from this window, built
just on the edge of the high wood, where some of the country people
seemed to be moving about, and round which a large flock of pigs and
from twenty to thirty bullocks were grazing. All beyond, as far as the
eye could reach, was one continuous forest, without any vestige of a
living thing; not even a thin wreath of blue smoke evinced the presence
of a fellow--creature; I seemed to be hopelessly cut off from all
succour, and my heart again died within me.
"I am sorry to say you must consider yourself a prisoner here for a few
days," said Obed.


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