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Updated: May 10, 2025
I was received at the gangway by a fine sailorly-looking man, some thirty-five years of age, and of about middle height, sturdily built, and with a frank, alert, pleasant expression of face, who introduced himself to me as the chief mate Murgatroyd by name following up his self-introduction with the information that Captain Dacre had not yet come down from town, but might be expected on board in time for dinner.
"Bueno!" exclaimed a fine, sailorly-looking, elderly man, "all is well; they are undoubtedly English, and we have therefore nothing to fear!" And so saying, he stepped forward and handed me his sheathed sword. As I doffed my hat and held out my hand to receive the weapon, I could not help saying "Pardon, senor, but may I be permitted to ask an explanation of that remark?"
And it must be set down, sad as it is, that, seeing Jodoque coming up the road to claim her, accompanied by a sailorly-looking personage, she went in and shut the door with a deal of vigor. The sailorly-looking personage was young, broad-chested, handsome, and had not been in that part of Prussia for some six years.
Yet she was evidently a passenger ship, for the cabin under her full poop was brilliantly lighted up, and through its open door I caught a glimpse of several men and women so attired as to at once proclaim their status on board; moreover, the quarter-deck was also occupied by a group of men and women, evidently passengers, with two or three sailorly-looking men among them, over whom a party of O'Gorman's people were mounting guard, the remainder being stationed on guard over the fore-scuttle, down which I presumed the barque's crew had been driven.
It was nearly noon next day ere any of the rescued party appeared on deck, the first to do so being a fine, sailorly-looking man of some forty or forty-five years of age, who introduced himself to me as "Captain" Tucker of the late British barque Wyvern, of Bristol, outward-bound to the West Indies with a general cargo of considerable value.
Happily for me, the luggers had disappeared before I grew up. Here is an authentic instance of professional attachment and pride. When I was quite a small boy a brig ran on to the rocks beneath my father's house. The captain was a fine, rollicking, sailorly-looking man, with a fascinating manner.
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