There was
also a large consignment of muskets and ammunition. When Desmond asked
the second mate where they were going, the reply was that if he asked no
questions he would be told no lies.
On this sultry afternoon a group of seamen, clad in nothing but shirt and
breeches, were lolling, lying crouching on the deck forward, circled
around Bulger. Seated on an upturned tub, he was busily engaged in
baiting a hook. Tired of the "Irish horse" and salt pork that formed the
staple of the sailors' food, he was taking advantage of the calm to fish
for bonitos, a large fish over two feet long, the deadly enemy of the
beautiful flying fish that every now and then fell panting upon the deck
in their mad flight from marine foes. The bait was made to resemble the
flying fish itself, the hook being hidden by white rag stuffing, with
feathers pricked in to counterfeit spiked fins.
As the big seaman deftly worked with iron hook and right hand, he spun
yarns for the delectation of his mates. They chewed tobacco, listened,
laughed, sneered, as their temper inclined them. Only one of the group
gave him rapt and undivided attention--a slim youth, with hollow sunburnt
cheeks, long bleached hair, and large gleaming eyes. His neck and arms
were bare, and the color of boiled lobsters; but, unlike the rest, he had
no tattoo marks pricked into his skin. His breeches were tatters, his
striped shirt covered with party-colored darns.
"Ay, as I was saying," said Bulger, "'twas in these latitudes, on my last
voyage but three.
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