In the case of the English ship Foxhound, the blade penetrated through the most solid part of her hull, the bow; going completely through the copper plates and timbers, and showing for several inches in the hold.  On the return of the ship to London, it was carefully sawn out; and, imbedded in the original wood, like a fossil, is still preserved.  But this was a comparatively harmless onslaught of the valiant Chevalier.  With the Rousseau, of Nantucket, it fared worse.  She was almost mortally stabbed; her assailant withdrawing his blade.  And it was only by keeping the pumps clanging, that she managed to swim into a Tahitian harbor, “heave down,” and have her wound dressed by a ship-surgeon with tar and oakum.  This ship I met with at sea, shortly after the disaster.

At what armory our Chevalier equips himself after one of his spiteful tilting-matches, it would not be easy to say.  But very hard for him, if ever after he goes about in the lists, swordless and disarmed, at the mercy of any caitiff shark he may meet.

Now, seeing that our fellow-voyagers, the little fish along-side, were sorely tormented and thinned out by the incursions of a pertinacious Chevalier, bent upon making a hearty breakfast out of them, I determined to interfere in their behalf, and capture the enemy.

With shark-hook and line I succeeded, and brought my brave gentleman to the deck.  He made an emphatic landing; lashing the planks with his sinewy tail; while a yard and a half in advance of his eyes, reached forth his terrible blade.

As victor, I was entitled to the arms of the vanquished; so, quickly dispatching him, and sawing off his Toledo, I bore it away for a trophy.  It was three-sided, slightly concave on each, like a bayonet; and some three inches through at the base, it tapered from thence to a point.

And though tempered not in Tagus or Guadalquiver, it yet revealed upon its surface that wavy grain and watery fleckiness peculiar to tried blades of Spain.  It was an aromatic sword; like the ancient caliph’s, giving out a peculiar musky odor by friction.  But far different from steel of Tagus or Damascus, it was inflexible as Crocket’s rifle tube; no doubt, as deadly.

Long hung that rapier over the head of my hammock.  Was it not storied as the good trenchant blade of brave Bayard, that other chevalier?  The knight’s may have slain its scores, or fifties; but the weapon I preserved had, doubtless, run through and riddled its thousands.

CHAPTER XXXIII Otard

And here is another little incident.

One afternoon while all by myself curiously penetrating into the hold, I most unexpectedly obtained proof, that the ill-fated captain of the Parki had been a man of sound judgment and most excellent taste.  In brief, I lighted upon an aromatic cask of prime old Otard.

Now, I mean not to speak lightly of any thing immediately connected with the unfortunate captain.  Nor, on the other hand, would I resemble the inconsolable mourner, who among other tokens of affliction, bound in funereal crape his deceased friend’s copy of Joe Miller.  Is there not a fitness in things?