- end_line
- 3422
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T07:57:55.409Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 3357
- text
- proclaimed as by mounted kings-at-arms, and escorted as by a Caffre
guard of honor, Captain Delano, assuming a good-humored, off-handed
air, continued to advance; now and then saying a blithe word to the
negroes, and his eye curiously surveying the white faces, here and
there sparsely mixed in with the blacks, like stray white pawns
venturously involved in the ranks of the chess-men opposed.
While thinking which of them to select for his purpose, he chanced to
observe a sailor seated on the deck engaged in tarring the strap of a
large block, a circle of blacks squatted round him inquisitively eying
the process.
The mean employment of the man was in contrast with something superior
in his figure. His hand, black with continually thrusting it into the
tar-pot held for him by a negro, seemed not naturally allied to his
face, a face which would have been a very fine one but for its
haggardness. Whether this haggardness had aught to do with criminality,
could not be determined; since, as intense heat and cold, though
unlike, produce like sensations, so innocence and guilt, when, through
casual association with mental pain, stamping any visible impress, use
one seal—a hacked one.
Not again that this reflection occurred to Captain Delano at the time,
charitable man as he was. Rather another idea. Because observing so
singular a haggardness combined with a dark eye, averted as in trouble
and shame, and then again recalling Don Benito’s confessed ill opinion
of his crew, insensibly he was operated upon by certain general notions
which, while disconnecting pain and abashment from virtue, invariably
link them with vice.
If, indeed, there be any wickedness on board this ship, thought Captain
Delano, be sure that man there has fouled his hand in it, even as now
he fouls it in the pitch. I don’t like to accost him. I will speak to
this other, this old Jack here on the windlass.
He advanced to an old Barcelona tar, in ragged red breeches and dirty
night-cap, cheeks trenched and bronzed, whiskers dense as thorn hedges.
Seated between two sleepy-looking Africans, this mariner, like his
younger shipmate, was employed upon some rigging—splicing a cable—the
sleepy-looking blacks performing the inferior function of holding the
outer parts of the ropes for him.
Upon Captain Delano’s approach, the man at once hung his head below its
previous level; the one necessary for business. It appeared as if he
desired to be thought absorbed, with more than common fidelity, in his
task. Being addressed, he glanced up, but with what seemed a furtive,
diffident air, which sat strangely enough on his weather-beaten visage,
much as if a grizzly bear, instead of growling and biting, should
simper and cast sheep’s eyes. He was asked several questions concerning
the voyage—questions purposely referring to several particulars in Don
Benito’s narrative, not previously corroborated by those impulsive
cries greeting the visitor on first coming on board. The questions were
briefly answered, confirming all that remained to be confirmed of the
story. The negroes about the windlass joined in with the old sailor;
but, as they became talkative, he by degrees became mute, and at length
quite glum, seemed morosely unwilling to answer more questions, and
yet, all the while, this ursine air was somehow mixed with his sheepish
one.
Despairing of getting into unembarrassed talk with such a centaur,
Captain Delano, after glancing round for a more promising countenance,
but seeing none, spoke pleasantly to the blacks to make way for him;
and so, amid various grins and grimaces, returned to the poop, feeling
a little strange at first, he could hardly tell why, but upon the whole
with regained confidence in Benito Cereno.
- title
- Chunk 6