- end_line
- 6945
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T07:57:55.413Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 6918
- text
- of desperadoes, who in the name of liberty did just what they pleased.
They continually fluctuated in their numbers. Sailors, deserting ships
at other islands, or in boats at sea anywhere in that vicinity, steered
for Charles’s Isle, as to their sure home of refuge; while, sated with
the life of the isle, numbers from time to time crossed the water to
the neighboring ones, and there presenting themselves to strange
captains as shipwrecked seamen, often succeeded in getting on board
vessels bound to the Spanish coast, and having a compassionate purse
made up for them on landing there.
One warm night during my first visit to the group, our ship was
floating along in languid stillness, when some one on the forecastle
shouted “Light ho!” We looked and saw a beacon burning on some obscure
land off the beam. Our third mate was not intimate with this part of
the world. Going to the captain he said, “Sir, shall I put off in a
boat? These must be shipwrecked men.”
The captain laughed rather grimly, as, shaking his fist towards the
beacon, he rapped out an oath, and said—“No, no, you precious rascals,
you don’t juggle one of my boats ashore this blessed night. You do
well, you thieves—you do benevolently to hoist a light yonder as on a
dangerous shoal. It tempts no wise man to pull off and see what’s the
matter, but bids him steer small and keep off shore—that is Charles’s
Island; brace up, Mr. Mate, and keep the light astern.”
- title
- Chunk 4