There was only one decent thing which still clung to
him in rags and tatters--the fact that he was a Frenchman. He had made
himself hated on the ship--having none of the cunning tact of Bucklaw.
As Phips and Bucklaw went below, a sudden devilry entered into him. He
was ripe for quarrel, eager for battle. His two black eyes were like
burning beads, his jaws twitched. If Bucklaw had but met him without
this rough, bloodless irony, he might have thrown himself with ardour
into the work of the expedition; but he stood alone, and hatred and war
rioted in him.
Below in the cabin Phips and Bucklaw were deep in the chart of the
harbour and the river. The plan of action was decided upon. A canoe was
to be built out of a cotton-tree large enough to carry eight or ten oars.
This and the tender, with men and divers, were to go in search of the
wreck under the command of Bucklaw and the captain of the Swallow,
whose name Phips did not mention. Phips himself was to remain on the
Bridgwater Merchant, the Swallow lying near with a goodly number of men
to meet any possible attack from the sea. When all was planned, Phips
told Bucklaw who was the commander of the Swallow. For a moment the
fellow's coolness was shaken; the sparkle died out of his eye and he shot
up a furtive look at Phips, but he caught a grim smile on the face of the
sturdy sailor. He knew at once there was no treachery meant, and he
guessed that Phips expected no crisis.
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