Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (232 page)

from
his
wrists,
and
rusty
buckles
on
his
pointed
shoes.
He
bore
himself
like
a
dancing-master,
and
had
no
wig,
which
seemed
odd
to
Patterson,
who
gaped
at
a
gingery,
close-shaven
head
revealing
glimpses of
bare
skull
like
pinkish
silk.
The
face
of
this
man
was
long
and
narrow
and
candle-pale,
with
thin,
dry
lips
and
pointed
ears.
His
flickering,
expressionless
eyes
were
green
as
flames;
he
blinked
them
constantly,
showing
whitish,
sandy
lashes.
His
hands
were
long,
blanched, and
delicate,
more
beautiful
than
a
woman's,
and
he
wore
on
one finger
a
huge
diamond
ring,
the
twin
to
that
other
stone
blazing
upon the
finger
of
Doña
Inés.
Patterson,
disconcerted
by
the
cold,
unwavering
eyes,
scrambled
to
his
feet
and
held
out
his
hand.
It
was
ignored, but
the
Captain
bowed
gracefully.

"Captain
Micah
Thunder,
late
of
the
Black
Joke,
and
at
your service."

He
spoke
in
a
high,
affected,
mincing
voice.

"I
have
already,"
Patterson
told
him,
"heard
talk
of
you,
Captain Thunder,
and
am,
therefore,
delighted
to
have
this
opportunity
of meeting
you."

"You're
a
damned
liar,"
replied
Captain
Thunder,
with
a
giggle. "My
fame,
I
understand,
has
not,
through
some
absurd
mischance, been
handed
down
throughout
the
ages,
or
so
Judd
informs
me.
They talk,
I
hear,
of
Flint
and
Kidd—even
of
Blackbeard,
most
clumsy bungler
of
all—but
not
of
Thunder.
And
that,
you
know,
is
mighty odd,
for
without
any
desire
to
boast,
I
can
only
assure
you,
my
young friend,
that
in
the
three
years
preceding
the
mutiny
of
my
crew
I
was dreaded
in
all
ports
as
the
Avenger
of
the
Main,
and,
indeed,
I
recollect
taking
during
that
period
more
than
thirty
merchantmen."

He
sighed,
giggled
once
more,
and
shook
out
the
lace
ruffles
of
his cuffs.

"Indeed,
sir?"
said
Patterson
respectfully.
To
himself
he
thought, in
a
sudden
panic:
"I
must
humor
this
man;
he's
worse
than
any
of them."

For
the
Captain,
with
his
conical,
shaven
head,
his
long,
pale
face, his
deprecating
giggle,
his
cold,
greenish
eyes
and
high,
affected
voice, seemed
as
he
minced
there
in
the
sunshine
most
terribly
like
an
animated
corpse
coquetting,
grotesquely
enough,
in
all
the
parrot-sheen of
silken
taffetas
and
frothing
lace.
This
creature,
this
little
strutting jackanapes,
so
bleached
and
frozen
and
emasculated,
looked,
indeed, as
though
a
hundred
and
more
years
of
living
on
the
island
had drained
away
his
very
life-blood,
leaving
a
dummy,
a
vindictive,
posturing
dummy,
clad
in
fine
raiment,
staring
perpetually
out
to
sea with
greenish,
fishy
eyes.
And
something,
perhaps
the
very
essence of
evil
itself,
a
breath
of
cold
and
effortless
vice,
emanated
from
him
to
stink
in
Patterson's
nostrils
like
a
rank
and
putrid
smell.
The
odor
of
decay,
perhaps;
the
very
spirit
of
decay,
for
surely,
in
spite
of
sanity and
common
sense,
this
man
should
long
ago
have
rotted,
not
in
a coffin,
but
rather
from
a
gibbet
on
Execution
Dock.