Now that I had settled a plan I was eager to put it into practice--hot
and wild indeed with the impatience and hope of the castaway animated
with the dream of recovering his liberty and preserving his life; and I
was the more anxious to set about the business at once, on account of
the weather being fair and still, for if it came on to blow a stormy
wind again we should be forced as before under hatches. But I had to
wait for the Frenchman to empty his pipe. He was so complete a
sensualist that I believe nothing short of terror could have forced him
to shorten the period of a pleasure by a second of time. He went on
puffing so deliberately, with such leisurely enjoyment of the flavour of
the smoke, that I expected to see him fall asleep; and my patience
becoming exhausted I jumped up; but by this time his bowl held nothing
but black ashes.
"Now," cried he, "to work."
And he rose with a prodigious yawn and seized the lanthorn. Our first
business was to hunt among the boatswain's stores in the run for tackles
to hoist the powder-barrels up with. There was a good collection, as
might have been expected in a pirate whose commerce lay in slinging
goods from other ships' holds into her own; but the ropes were frozen as
hard as iron, to remedy which we carried an armful to the cook-house,
and left the tackles to lie and soften. We also conveyed to the
cook-house a quantity of ratline stuff--a thin rope used for making of
the steps in the shroud ladders; this being a line that would exactly
serve to suspend the smaller parcels of powder in the splits. Before
touching the powder-barrels we put a lighted candle into the bull's eye
lamp over the door and removed the lanthorn to a safe distance. Tassard
was perfectly well acquainted with the contents of this storeroom, and
on my asking for the matches put his hand on one of several bags of
them. They varied in length, some being six inches and some making a big
coil. There was nothing for it but to sample and test them, and this I
told Tassard could be done that evening. The main hatch was just forward
of the gun-room bulkhead; we seized a handspike apiece and went to work
to prize the cover open. It was desperate tough labour; as bad as trying
to open an oyster with a soft blade. The Frenchman broke out into many
strange old-fashioned oaths in his own tongue, imagining the hatch to be
frozen; but though I don't doubt the frost had something to do with it,
its obstinacy was mainly owing to time, that had soldered it, so to
speak, with the stubbornness that eight-and-forty years will communicate
to a fixture which ice has cherished and kept sound.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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