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- At these words the Spaniard turned upon the American one of his sudden,
staring, half-lunatic looks; then, relapsing into his torpor, answered,
“Doubtless, doubtless, Señor.”
Is it, thought Captain Delano, that this hapless man is one of those
paper captains I’ve known, who by policy wink at what by power they
cannot put down? I know no sadder sight than a commander who has little
of command but the name.
“I should think, Don Benito,” he now said, glancing towards the
oakum-picker who had sought to interfere with the boys, “that you would
find it advantageous to keep all your blacks employed, especially the
younger ones, no matter at what useless task, and no matter what
happens to the ship. Why, even with my little band, I find such a
course indispensable. I once kept a crew on my quarter-deck thrumming
mats for my cabin, when, for three days, I had given up my ship—mats,
men, and all—for a speedy loss, owing to the violence of a gale, in
which we could do nothing but helplessly drive before it.”
“Doubtless, doubtless,” muttered Don Benito.
“But,” continued Captain Delano, again glancing upon the oakum-pickers
and then at the hatchet-polishers, near by, “I see you keep some, at
least, of your host employed.”
“Yes,” was again the vacant response.
“Those old men there, shaking their pows from their pulpits,” continued
Captain Delano, pointing to the oakum-pickers, “seem to act the part of
old dominies to the rest, little heeded as their admonitions are at
times. Is this voluntary on their part, Don Benito, or have you
appointed them shepherds to your flock of black sheep?”
“What posts they fill, I appointed them,” rejoined the Spaniard, in an
acrid tone, as if resenting some supposed satiric reflection.
“And these others, these Ashantee conjurors here,” continued Captain
Delano, rather uneasily eying the brandished steel of the
hatchet-polishers, where, in spots, it had been brought to a shine,
“this seems a curious business they are at, Don Benito?”
“In the gales we met,” answered the Spaniard, “what of our general
cargo was not thrown overboard was much damaged by the brine. Since
coming into calm weather, I have had several cases of knives and
hatchets daily brought up for overhauling and cleaning.”
“A prudent idea, Don Benito. You are part owner of ship and cargo, I
presume; but none of the slaves, perhaps?”
“I am owner of all you see,” impatiently returned Don Benito, “except
the main company of blacks, who belonged to my late friend, Alexandro
Aranda.”
As he mentioned this name, his air was heart-broken; his knees shook;
his servant supported him.
Thinking he divined the cause of such unusual emotion, to confirm his
surmise, Captain Delano, after a pause, said: “And may I ask, Don
Benito, whether—since awhile ago you spoke of some cabin passengers—the
friend, whose loss so afflicts you, at the outset of the voyage
accompanied his blacks?”
“Yes.”
“But died of the fever?”
“Died of the fever. Oh, could I but—”
Again quivering, the Spaniard paused.
“Pardon me,” said Captain Delano, lowly, “but I think that, by a
sympathetic experience, I conjecture, Don Benito, what it is that gives
the keener edge to your grief. It was once my hard fortune to lose, at
sea, a dear friend, my own brother, then supercargo. Assured of the
welfare of his spirit, its departure I could have borne like a man; but
that honest eye, that honest hand—both of which had so often met
mine—and that warm heart; all, all—like scraps to the dogs—to throw all
to the sharks! It was then I vowed never to have for fellow-voyager a
man I loved, unless, unbeknown to him, I had provided every requisite,
in case of a fatality, for embalming his mortal part for interment on
shore. Were your friend’s remains now on board this ship, Don Benito,
not thus strangely would the mention of his name affect you.”
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- Chunk 13