Chapter 21

Man Ho!

Slowly, fitfully, broke the morning in the East, showing the desolate
brig forging heavily through the water, which sluggishly thumped
under her bows. While leaping from sea to sea, our faithful Chamois,
like a faithful dog, still gamboled alongside, confined to the main-
chains by its painter. At times, it would long lag behind; then,
pushed by a wave like lightning dash forward; till bridled by its
leash, it again fell in rear.

As the gray light came on, anxiously we scrutinized the features of
the craft, as one by one they became more plainly revealed. Every
thing seemed stranger now, than when partially visible in the dingy
night. The stanchions, or posts of the bulwarks, were of rough
stakes, still incased in the bark. The unpainted sides were of a
dark-colored, heathenish looking wood. The tiller was a wry-necked,
elbowed bough, thrusting itself through the deck, as if the tree
itself was fast rooted in the hold. The binnacle, containing the
compass, was defended at the sides by yellow matting. The rigging--
shrouds, halyards and all--was of "Kaiar," or cocoa-nut fibres; and
here and there the sails were patched with plaited rushes.

But this was not all. Whoso will pry, must needs light upon matters
for suspicion. Glancing over the side, in the wake of every scupper-
hole, we beheld a faded, crimson stain, which Jarl averred to be
blood. Though now he betrayed not the slightest trepidation; for what
he saw pertained not to ghosts; and all his fears hitherto had been
of the super-natural.

Indeed, plucking up a heart, with the dawn of the day my Viking
looked bold as a lion; and soon, with the instinct of an old seaman
cast his eyes up aloft.

Directly, he touched my arm,--"Look: what stirs in the main-top?"

Sure enough, something alive was there.

Fingering our arms, we watched it; till as the day came on, a
crouching stranger was beheld.

Presenting my piece, I hailed him to descend or be shot. There was
silence for a space, when the black barrel of a musket was thrust
forth, leveled at my head. Instantly, Jarl's harpoon was presented at
a dart;--two to one;--and my hail was repeated. But no reply.

"Who are you?"

"Samoa," at length said a clear, firm voice.

"Come down from the rigging. We are friends."

Another pause; when, rising to his feet, the stranger slowly
descended, holding on by one hand to the rigging, for but one did he
have; his musket partly slung from his back, and partly griped under
the stump of his mutilated arm.

He alighted about six paces from where we stood; and balancing his
weapon, eyed us bravely as the Cid.

He was a tall, dark