Captain Canot; Or, Twenty Years of an African Slaver
coast, and accordingly took precaution to furnish himself in advance
with a regular "fishing license." All hands were forthwith set to work
to make our key and _rancho_ conform to this calling, and, in a few
days, the canvas roof of our hut was replaced by a thatch of leaves,
while every dangerous article or implement was concealed in the
thicket of a labyrinthine creek. In fact, our piscatory character
could not be doubted. In our persons and occupation, we looked as
innocent and rustic as a pic-nic party on a summer bivouac for fresh
air and salt bathing. Nor was the transformation less real in regard
to our daily tasks. We became, in reality, most industrious fishermen;
so that we had more than a thousand of the finny tribe piled up and
dried, when the hounds signalled the arrival of the expected
officials.
Breakfast was on the table when they landed, but it was the _banyan_
meal of humble men, whose nets were never filled with aught but the
_scaly_ products of the sea. Our inspector was regaled with a scant
fish-feast, and allowed to digest it over the genuine license. Rafael
complained sadly of hard times and poverty;--in fact, the drama of
humility was played to perfection, and, finally, the functionary
signed our license, with a certificate of our loyalty, and pocketed a
moderate "gratification" of _five ounces_!
* * * * *
Six long, hot, and wretched weeks passed over my head before any
striking occurrence relieved the monotony of my life. During the whole
of this period, our fishing adventure was steadily pursued, when
information was mysteriously brought to the key that a richly-laden
French vessel had run ashore on the Cayo Verde, an islet some forty
miles east of the Cruz del Padre. That afternoon, both of our large
boats were filled with armed men, and, as they departed with _every_
wrecker aboard, I alone was left on the islet to guard our property
with the dogs.
The thought and hope of escape both swelled in my breast as I saw the
hulls dwindle to a dot and disappear behind the horizon. In a moment,
my plan was conceived and perfected. The sea was perfectly smooth, and
I was expert in the use of oars. That very night I launched our
canoe,--the only vessel left in the cove,--and placing the sail,
scullers, and grappling-hook within it, returned to the _rancho_ for
clothing. As it was dark, I lighted a candle, when, on looking into
the clothes-chest beneath my bed, I found inscribed on the lid, in
fresh chalk-marks, the words "PATIENCE! WAIT!"
This discovery made me pause in my preparations. Was it the
warning--as it was certainly the handwriting--of Rafael? Had he
purposely and honorably left me alone, in order to escape this scene
of blood? Did he anticipate my effort to fly, and endeavor to save me
from the double risk of crossing to the mainland, and of future
provision for my comfort? I could not doubt its being the work of my
friend; and, whether it was superstition or prudence, I cannot say,
but I resolved, unhesitatingly, to abandon a scheme in regard to which
I hesitated. Instead, therefore, of attempting to pass the strait
between the key and Cuba, I went to bed, and slept more comfortably in
my utter abandonment than I had done since I was on the island.
Next day, at noon, I descried a small pilot-boat sailing inside the
reef, with all the confidence of a perfect master of the channel. Two
persons speedily landed, with provisions from the mainland, and stated
that, on his last visit to Cuba, Don Rafael engaged them to take me to
Havana. This, however, was to be done with much caution, inasmuch as
his men would not assent to my departure until they had compromised my
life with theirs by some act of desperate guilt. The pilots declined
taking me then without my guardian's assent;--and, in truth, so fully
was I convinced of his intention to liberate me in the best and
speediest way, that I made up my mind to abide where I was till he
returned.
For three days more I was doomed to solitude. On the fourth, the
boats came back, with the pilot's cutter, and I quickly saw that a
serious encounter had taken place. The pilot-boat appeared to be
deeply laden. Next day, she was taken to the mazes of the winding and
wooded creek, where, I learned, the booty was disembarked and hidden.
While the party had gone to complete this portion of their enterprise,
the Frenchman, who was wounded in the head and remained behind, took
that opportunity to enlighten me on passing events. When the wreckers
reached Cayo Verde, they found the French vessel already taken
possession of by "fishermen" of that quarter. Anticipated in their
dirty work, our comrades were in no mood to be sociable with the
fortunate party. An affray was the natural result, in which knives had
been freely used, while Mesclet himself had been rescued by Rafael,
pistol in hand, after receiving the violent blow on his head from
which he was now suffering. Having secured a retreat to their boats,
they were just beginning to think of a rapid departure, when the
friendly pilot-boat hove in sight. So fortunate a reinforcement
renerved our gang. A plan of united action was quickly concerted. The
French vessel was again hoarded and carried. Two of the opposite party
were slain in the onslaught; and, finally, a rich remnant of the cargo
was seized, though the greater part of the valuables had, no doubt,
been previously dispatched ashore by the earlier band of desperadoes.
"Thank God!" added the narrator, "we have now the boat and the
assistance of Bachicha, who is as brave as Rafael: with his
'_Baltimore clipper_,' we shall conduct our affairs on a grander scale
than heretofore. _Sacre-bleu!_ we may now cruise under the Columbian
flag, and rob Peter to pay Paul!"
In fact, the "clipper" had brought down an ample store of ammunition,
under the innocent name of "provisions," while she carried in her
bowels a long six, which she was ready to mount amidships at a
moment's notice.
But poor Mesclet did not live to enjoy the fruits of the larger
piracy, which he hoped to carry on in a more elegant way with
Bachicha. The _roue_ could not be restrained from the favorite
beverages of his beautiful France. His wound soon mastered him; and,
in a month, all that was mortal of this gallant Gaul, who, in earlier
years, had figured in the best saloons of his country, rested among
sand-graves of a Cuban key.
"Ah!" growled Gallego, as they came home from his burial, "there is
one less to share our earnings; and, what is better, claret and brandy
will be more plentiful now that this sponge is under the sand!"
* * * * *
In a few days, the boats were laden with fish for the mainland, in
order to cover the real object of our _patron's_ visit to Cuba, which
was to dispose of the booty. At his departure, he repeated the
cherished promise of liberty, and privately hinted that I had better
continue fishing on good terms with Senor Gallego.
It required some time to repair the nets, for they had been rather
neglected during our late fishing, so that it was not, in fact, until
Rafael had been three days gone that I took the canoe with Gallego,
and dropped anchor outside the reef, to take breakfast before
beginning our labor.
We had hardly begun a frugal meal when, suddenly, a large schooner
shot from behind a bend of the island, and steered in our direction.
As the surly Spaniard never spoke, I had become accustomed to be
equally silent. Unexpectedly, however, he gave a scowling glance from
beneath his shaggy brows at the vessel, and exclaimed with unusual
energy: "A Columbian privateer!"
"We had best up anchor, and get inside the reef," continued he, "or
our sport will be spoiled for the day."
"Pshaw!" returned I, "she's not making for us, and, even if she were,
I wouldn't be such a coward as to run!" Indeed, I had heard so much of
"Columbian privateers" and the patriot service, that I rather longed
to be captured, that I might try my hand at lawful war and glory. The
impulse was sudden and silly.
Still Gallego insisted on retreating; until, at length, we got into an
angry controversy, which the cook, who was in the bow of the boat,
attempted to end by cutting the anchor-rope. As he was drawing his
knife to execute this purpose, I swiftly lifted an oar, and, with a
single blow, laid him senseless in the bottom of the canoe. By this
time the schooner was within pistol-shot; and, as she passed with a
three-knot breeze, the captain, who had witnessed the scene, threw a
grappling-iron into our skiff, and taking us in tow, dragged the boat
from its moorings.
As soon as we got into deeper water, I was ordered on deck, while
Gallego, still quite insensible, was hoisted carefully on board. I
told the truth as to our dispute, reserving, however, the important
fact that I had been originally urged into the quarrel by my anxiety
"to ship" on board a privateer.
"I want a pilot for Key West," said the master, hurriedly, "and I have
no time to trifle with your stupid quarrels. Can either of you perform
this service?"
By this time Gallego had been somewhat roused from his stupor, and
pointing feebly towards me, uttered a languid:--"Yes, and an
_excellent_ one."
Mistaking the word "_pilote_," which in Spanish signifies "navigator,"
the French captain, who spoke the Castilian very badly, translated it
into the more limited meaning attached to that peculiar profession,
one of whose ministers he was anxious to secure.
"_Bon!_" said the master, "put the other fellow back into his skiff,
and make sail at once under charge of this youngster."
I remonstrated, protested, declaimed, swore, that I knew nothing of
Key West and its approaches; but all my efforts were vain. I was a
pilot in spite of myself.
The malicious cook enjoyed the joke of which I had so hastily become
the victim. As they lowered him again into the boat, he jeered at my
incredulity, and in ten minutes was towed to the edge of the reef,
where the scamp was turned adrift to make for the island.
When the schooner was once more under full sail, I was ordered to give
the course for Key West. I at once informed the captain, whose name I
understood to be Lamine, that he really labored under a mistake in
translating the Spanish word _pilote_ into _port guide_, and assured
him that Gallego had been prompted by a double desire to get rid of
him as well as me by fostering his pernicious error. I acknowledged
that I was a "_pilot_," or "navigator," though not a "_practico_," or
harbor-pilot; yet I urged that I could not, without absolute
foolhardiness, undertake to conduct his schooner into a port of which
I was utterly ignorant, and had never visited. Hereupon the first
lieutenant or mate interposed. This fellow was a short, stout-built
person of thirty-five, with reddish whiskers and hair, a
long-projecting under-jaw, and eye-teeth that jutted out like tusks.
To add to his ugliness, he was sadly pitted by small-pox, and waddled
about on short duck legs, which were altogether out of proportion to
his long body, immense arms, and broad, massive shoulders. I do not
remember a more vulgarly repulsive person than this privateering
lieutenant.
"He is a liar, Captain Lamine, and only wants to extort money for his
services," interjected the brute. "Leave him to me, sir; I'll find a
way to refresh his memory of Key West that will open the bottom of the
gulf to his eyes as clearly as the pathway to his piratical hut on the
sand key! To the helm, sir--to the helm!"
What possible object or result could I gain by resistance amid the
motley assemblage that surrounded me on the deck of the "CARA-BOBO?"
She was a craft of about 200 tons; and, with her crew of seventy-five,