Leonard Lindsay ; $b or, the story of a buccaneerReach, Angus B. (Angus Bethune)
General
Leonard Lindsay ; $b or, the story of a buccaneer
Reach, Angus B. (Angus Bethune)
Buccaneers -- Fiction; Historical fiction
With that I flung the man upon the floor, so as partially to stun
him, and then, with the aid of some ratline stuff, which sailors
go seldom without, and which was in the pocket of my old doublet,
I both bound and gagged him, not very completely, it is true, but
sufficiently, as I believed, to prevent any alarm being given until I
had got a good start. It was pitiful to see the impotent spite with
which the manacled creature writhed upon the ground, gibbering with
his speechless mouth, and flashing his green eyes as though he could
have shot blistering venom out of them upon me. But I had little
time to bestow upon the spectacle: with a quick step and a beating
heart I fled along the corridors. During my scuffle with the clerk,
the turnkey’s directions had never ceased to ring in my ears. The
two first turnings to the left, the next to the right, the next to
the left again. The silent passages echoed to my footsteps with a
hollow, ominous sound. There were many nail-studded doors, similar
to that of my own cell, on either side. As I made the last turning,
I had a glimpse, in the distance, of the guard-room into which I had
been at first conducted, and then, looking straight ahead, I saw
before me the narrow street, with its deep, dusty ruts, scorching, as
it were, in the hot sun. The passage terminated in a great gateway,
with pillars and a portico, and on the left side of the door stood
a sentry-box, painted white. Pausing for a moment to assume all
possible coolness, I walked steadily out humming the butt-end of a
Spanish sea-song, which the manners of that nation sing when heaving
the anchor to the bows.
Just as I passed the porch I glanced at the sentry. He was a young
man; his features bronzed almost black with the sun, and wearing
silver earrings, glittering amongst his long greasy curls. The fellow
was sitting leaning against his sentry-box; his musket, with his
bayonet fixed, hung carelessly across his knee. As I strode by, he
half opened his sleepy eyes, and muttered mechanically as though
speaking in a dream.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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