- end_line
- 4724
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T07:57:55.409Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 4654
- text
- began to speed through the sea.
At this juncture, the left hand of Captain Delano, on one side, again
clutched the half-reclined Don Benito, heedless that he was in a
speechless faint, while his right-foot, on the other side, ground the
prostrate negro; and his right arm pressed for added speed on the after
oar, his eye bent forward, encouraging his men to their utmost.
But here, the officer of the boat, who had at last succeeded in beating
off the towing sailors, and was now, with face turned aft, assisting
the bowsman at his oar, suddenly called to Captain Delano, to see what
the black was about; while a Portuguese oarsman shouted to him to give
heed to what the Spaniard was saying.
Glancing down at his feet, Captain Delano saw the freed hand of the
servant aiming with a second dagger—a small one, before concealed in
his wool—with this he was snakishly writhing up from the boat’s bottom,
at the heart of his master, his countenance lividly vindictive,
expressing the centred purpose of his soul; while the Spaniard,
half-choked, was vainly shrinking away, with husky words, incoherent to
all but the Portuguese.
That moment, across the long-benighted mind of Captain Delano, a flash
of revelation swept, illuminating, in unanticipated clearness, his
host’s whole mysterious demeanor, with every enigmatic event of the
day, as well as the entire past voyage of the San Dominick. He smote
Babo’s hand down, but his own heart smote him harder. With infinite
pity he withdrew his hold from Don Benito. Not Captain Delano, but Don
Benito, the black, in leaping into the boat, had intended to stab.
Both the black’s hands were held, as, glancing up towards the San
Dominick, Captain Delano, now with scales dropped from his eyes, saw
the negroes, not in misrule, not in tumult, not as if frantically
concerned for Don Benito, but with mask torn away, flourishing hatchets
and knives, in ferocious piratical revolt. Like delirious black
dervishes, the six Ashantees danced on the poop. Prevented by their
foes from springing into the water, the Spanish boys were hurrying up
to the topmost spars, while such of the few Spanish sailors, not
already in the sea, less alert, were descried, helplessly mixed in, on
deck, with the blacks.
Meantime Captain Delano hailed his own vessel, ordering the ports up,
and the guns run out. But by this time the cable of the San Dominick
had been cut; and the fag-end, in lashing out, whipped away the canvas
shroud about the beak, suddenly revealing, as the bleached hull swung
round towards the open ocean, death for the figure-head, in a human
skeleton; chalky comment on the chalked words below, “_Follow your
leader_.”
At the sight, Don Benito, covering his face, wailed out: “’Tis he,
Aranda! my murdered, unburied friend!”
Upon reaching the sealer, calling for ropes, Captain Delano bound the
negro, who made no resistance, and had him hoisted to the deck. He
would then have assisted the now almost helpless Don Benito up the
side; but Don Benito, wan as he was, refused to move, or be moved,
until the negro should have been first put below out of view. When,
presently assured that it was done, he no more shrank from the ascent.
The boat was immediately dispatched back to pick up the three swimming
sailors. Meantime, the guns were in readiness, though, owing to the San
Dominick having glided somewhat astern of the sealer, only the
aftermost one could be brought to bear. With this, they fired six
times; thinking to cripple the fugitive ship by bringing down her
spars. But only a few inconsiderable ropes were shot away. Soon the
ship was beyond the gun’s range, steering broad out of the bay; the
blacks thickly clustering round the bowsprit, one moment with taunting
cries towards the whites, the next with upthrown gestures hailing the
now dusky moors of ocean—cawing crows escaped from the hand of the
fowler.
- title
- Chunk 28