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Updated: June 20, 2025
In the days of tempest, when waves were sweeping the deck from prow to poop, and the sailors were treading warily, fearing that a heavy sea might carry them overboard, Caragol would stick his head out through the door of the galley, scorning a danger which he could not see. The great water-spouts would pass over him, even putting out his fires, but only increasing his faith. "Courage, boys!
In the time of their money-losing navigation, when the captain was making special efforts at economy, Caragol used to keep an especially sharp eye on the great oil bottles in his galley, for he suspected that the cabin boys and the young seamen appropriated it to dress their hair when they wanted to play the dandy, using the oil as a pomade.
The rude pilot had even come to believe that he had detected, while talking to him, a certain feminine perfume like that of their blonde visitor. This news was the most unbelievable of all for Caragol. "Captain Ferragut perfumed!... The captain scented!... The wretch!"
A comfortable warmth began making itself felt in her stomach, drying up the moisture in her eyes and giving new color to her cheeks. Caragol was keeping up his chat, satisfied with the outcome of his handiwork, making signs to the glowering Toni, who was passing and repassing before the door, with the vehement desire of seeing the intruder march away, and disappear forever.
Hidden between two rocks like the hunting crustaceans was the rascaza, the scorpion of the Valencian sea that Ferragut had known in his childhood, the animal beloved by his uncle, the Triton, because of its substantial flesh which thickened the seamen's soup, the precious component sought by Uncle Caragol for the broth of his succulent rice dishes.
Vicente and recollections of the saint were still alive in their chronicles. Caragol proposed to visit this city also when the ship should return to Brest. Brittainy must be very holy ground, the holiest in the world, since the miracle-working Valencian, after traversing so many nations, had wished to die there.
His good humor made him affirm that only the gods should be nourished with rice abanda in their abodes on Mount Olympus. He had read that in books. And Caragol, divining great praise in all this, would gravely reply, "That is so, my captain."
Caragol was in the stern, his loose shirt-tail flapping away as he held one hand to his eyebrows like a visor. "I see it!... I see it perfectly.... Ah, the bandit, the heretic!" And he extended his threatening fist toward a point in the horizon exactly opposite to the one upon which the periscope was appearing.
The officers had shouted their orders with broken swords and bandaged heads. The men had fought on without thinking of their wounds, covered with blood, until they fell down dead. Caragol, hitherto little interested in military affairs, became most enthusiastic when relating this heroic struggle to Ferragut, simply because his new friends had taken part in it.
Even Uncle Caragol, who only concerns himself with his galley, will criticize you.... Perhaps they will obey you because you are the captain, but when they go ashore, you will not be the master of their silence.... Believe me; do not attempt it. You are going to disgrace yourself. You well know for what cause.... Good-by, Ulysses!"
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