Gradually the captain's wrath was appeased; the ship required refitting and watering; he never could have doubled the Cape in the state she was in; the mutiny had prevented his breaking his oath--and now the seamen were obedient.
"Shall we take possession of the land, in the name of his most Christian Majesty?" said Jansen.
"Take possession in the name of his Satanic Majesty," replied Vanderdecken, turning sulkily away.
The captain had not quite recovered his good-humour--he returned to his cabin, mixed a tumbler of brandy and gunpowder, set fire to it, and drank it off--this tisane cooled him down, and when he came out, the crew perceived that all was right, so they went aft and touched their hats.
"Liberty on shore for an hour or two if you please," said they; "it's a long while that we've been treading the planks."
"Yes, you may go; but I'll keelhaul every man who's not off to his work by daylight--recollect that," replied Vanderdecken.
Donder und blitzen--we will all be on board, captain.
"They be queer sort of people in this country," observed Jansen, who had been surveying the shore of the bay with his telescope. "I can't make them out at all. I see them put their heads down close to the ground, and then they stand up again; they wear their breeches very low, and yet they jump remarkably well--Hundred tousend tyfels!" continued he, as he looked through the telescope again; "there's one of them six feet high at least, and he has jumped twenty yards. It can't be a woman--if she is, what a springy partner she would make in a dance!"
"We'll take the fiddle and schnapps on shore, and have a dance with the natives," cried the boatswain.
"Mind you behave civilly and make friends with them," said Vanderdecken; "don't be rude to the women."
"Nein, Mynheer," replied the crew, who now lowered the boats and were very soon pulling for the shore--every man with his pipe in his mouth.
The spectre-crew gained the beach--quitted the boat, and took up a position under a high rock. The pipes were refilled--the schnapps handed round, and very soon they were as jolly as ghosts could be.
"Come, Jansen, give us a song," cried Spielman; "and you, Dirk Spattrel, keep company with your fiddle."