Among the men who lay sleeping in various easy, off-hand attitudes on the schooner's deck, was one who merits special attention—not only because of the grotesque appearance of his person, but also because he is one of the principal actors in our tale.
He was a large, powerful man, of that rugged build and hairy aspect that might have suggested the idea that he would be difficult to kill. He was a fair man, with red hair, and a deeply sun-burned face, on which jovial good humor sat almost perpetually enthroned. At the moment when we introduce him to the reader, however, that expression happened to be modified in consequence of his having laid him down to sleep in a sprawling manner on his back—the place as well as the position being, apparently, one of studied discomfort. His legs lay over the heel of the bowsprit, his big body reposed on a confused heap of blocks and cordage, and his neck rested on the stock of an anchor so that his head hung down over it, presenting the face to view with the large mouth wide open, in an upside-down position. The man was evidently on the verge of choking, but, being a strong man, and a rugged man, and a healthy man, he did not care. He seemed to prefer choking to the trouble of rousing himself and improving his position.
How long he would have lain in this state of felicity it is impossible to say, for his slumbers were rudely interrupted by a slight lurch of the schooner, which caused the blocks and cordage attached to the sheet of the jib to sweep slowly, but with rasping asperity, across his face. Any ordinary man would have been seriously damaged—at least in appearance—by such an accident; but this particular sea-dog was tough in the skin,—he was only awakened by it—nothing more. He yawned, raised himself lazily, and gazed round with that vacant stare of unreasonable surprise which is common to man on passing from a state of somnolence to that of wakefulness.
Gradually the expression of habitual good-humor settled on his visage, as he looked from one to another of his sleeping comrades, and at last, with a bland smile, he broke forth into the following soliloquy:
"Wot a goose, wot a grampus you've bin, John Bumpus: firstly, for goin' to sea; secondly, for remainin' at sea; thirdly, for not forsakin' the sea; fourthly, for bein' worried about it at all, now that you've made up your mind to retire from the sea; and fifthly—"
Here John Bumpus paused as if to meditate on the full depth and meaning of these polite remarks, or to invent some new and powerful expression wherewith to deliver his fifth head. His mental efforts seemed to fail, however; for, instead of concluding the sentence, he hummed the following lines, which, we may suppose, were expressive of his feelings, as well as his intentions:—
"So good-by to the mighty ocean,
And adoo to the rollin' sea.
For it's nobody has no notion
Wot a grief it has bin to me."
"Ease off the sheets and square the topsail yards," was at that moment said, or rather murmured, by a bass voice so deep and rich that, although scarcely raised above a whisper, it was distinctly heard over the whole deck.
John Bumpus raised his bulky form with a degree of lithe activity that proved him to be not less agile than athletic, and, with several others, sprang to obey the order. A few seconds later the sails were swelled out by a light breeze, and the schooner moved through the water at a rate which seemed scarcely possible under the influence of so gentle a puff of air. Presently the breeze increased, the vessel cut through the blue water like a knife, leaving a long track of foam in her wake as she headed for the coral-island before referred to. The outer reef or barrier of coral which guarded the island was soon reached. The narrow opening in this natural bulwark was passed. The schooner stood across the belt of perfectly still water that lay between the reef and the shore, and entered a small bay, where the cairn water reflected the strip of white sand, green palm, and tropical plants that skirted its margin, as well as the purple hills of the interior.
Here she swept round in a sudden but graceful curve, until all her canvas fluttered in the breeze, and then dropped anchor in about six fathoms water.
CHAPTER II.
Bumpus Is Fiery and Philosophical—Murderous Designs Frustrated
The captain of the schooner, whose deep voice had so suddenly terminated the meditations of John Bumpus, was one of those men who seem to have been formed for the special purpose of leading and commanding their fellows.
He was not only unusually tall and powerful,—physical qualities which, in themselves, are by no means sufficient to command respect,—but, as we have said, he possessed a deep, full-toned bass voice, in which there seemed to lie a species of fascination; for its softest tones riveted attention, and when it thundered forth commands in the fiercest storms, it inspired confidence and a feeling of security in all who heard it. The countenance of the captain, however, was that which induced men to accord to him a position of superiority in whatever sphere of action he chanced to move. It was not so much a handsome as a manly and singularly grave face, in every line of which was written inflexible determination. His hair was short, black, and curly. A small mustache darkened his upper lip, but the rest of his face was closely shaven, so that his large chin and iron jaw were fully displayed. His eyes were of that indescribable blue color which can exhibit the intensest passion, or the most melting tenderness.
He wore a somber but somewhat picturesque costume,—a dark-colored flannel shirt and trousers, which latter were gathered in close round his lower limbs by a species of drab gaiter that appeared somewhat incongruous with the profession of the man. The only bit of bright color about him was a scarlet belt round his waist, from the side of which depended a long knife in a brown leather sheath. A pair of light shoes, and a small round cap resembling what is styled in these days a pork-pie, completed his costume. He was about forty years of age.
Such was the commander, or captain, or skipper of this suspicious-looking schooner,—a man pre-eminently fitted for the accomplishment of much good, or the perpetration of great evil.
As soon as the anchor touched the ground, the captain ordered a small boat to be lowered, and, leaping into it with two men, one of whom was our friend John Bumpus, rowed toward the shore.
"Have you brought your kit with you, John?" inquired the captain, as the little boat shot over the smooth waters of the bay.
"Wot's of it, sir," replied our rugged seaman, holding up a small bundle tied in a red cotton handkerchief, "I s'pose our cruise ashore won't be a long one."
"It will be long for you, my man,—at least as far as the schooner is concerned, for I do not mean to take you aboard again."
"Not take me aboard agin!" exclaimed the sailor, with a look of surprise which quickly degenerated into an angry frown and thereafter gradually relaxed into a broad grin as he continued: "Why, capting, wot do you mean to do with me then? for I'm a heavy piece of goods, d'ye see, and can't be easily moved about without a small touch o' my own consent, you know."
Jo Bumpus, as he was fond of styling himself, said this with a serio-comic air of sarcasm, for he was an exception to the general rule of his fellows. He had little respect for, and no fear of, his commander. Indeed, to say truth (for truth must be told, even though the character of our rugged friend should suffer), Jo entertained a most profound belief in the immense advantage of muscular strength and vigor in general, and of his own prowess in particular.
Although not quite so gigantic a man as his captain, he was nearly so, and,