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- 2026-01-30T07:57:55.409Z
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- 4347
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- trim. And no brace or halyard was pulled but to the blithe songs of the
inspirited negroes.
Good fellows, thought Captain Delano, a little training would make fine
sailors of them. Why see, the very women pull and sing too. These must
be some of those Ashantee negresses that make such capital soldiers,
I’ve heard. But who’s at the helm. I must have a good hand there.
He went to see.
The San Dominick steered with a cumbrous tiller, with large horizontal
pullies attached. At each pully-end stood a subordinate black, and
between them, at the tiller-head, the responsible post, a Spanish
seaman, whose countenance evinced his due share in the general
hopefulness and confidence at the coming of the breeze.
He proved the same man who had behaved with so shame-faced an air on
the windlass.
“Ah,—it is you, my man,” exclaimed Captain Delano—“well, no more
sheep’s-eyes now;—look straight forward and keep the ship so. Good
hand, I trust? And want to get into the harbor, don’t you?”
The man assented with an inward chuckle, grasping the tiller-head
firmly. Upon this, unperceived by the American, the two blacks eyed the
sailor intently.
Finding all right at the helm, the pilot went forward to the
forecastle, to see how matters stood there.
The ship now had way enough to breast the current. With the approach of
evening, the breeze would be sure to freshen.
Having done all that was needed for the present, Captain Delano, giving
his last orders to the sailors, turned aft to report affairs to Don
Benito in the cabin; perhaps additionally incited to rejoin him by the
hope of snatching a moment’s private chat while the servant was engaged
upon deck.
From opposite sides, there were, beneath the poop, two approaches to
the cabin; one further forward than the other, and consequently
communicating with a longer passage. Marking the servant still above,
Captain Delano, taking the nighest entrance—the one last named, and at
whose porch Atufal still stood—hurried on his way, till, arrived at the
cabin threshold, he paused an instant, a little to recover from his
eagerness. Then, with the words of his intended business upon his lips,
he entered. As he advanced toward the seated Spaniard, he heard another
footstep, keeping time with his. From the opposite door, a salver in
hand, the servant was likewise advancing.
“Confound the faithful fellow,” thought Captain Delano; “what a
vexatious coincidence.”
Possibly, the vexation might have been something different, were it not
for the brisk confidence inspired by the breeze. But even as it was, he
felt a slight twinge, from a sudden indefinite association in his mind
of Babo with Atufal.
“Don Benito,” said he, “I give you joy; the breeze will hold, and will
increase. By the way, your tall man and time-piece, Atufal, stands
without. By your order, of course?”
Don Benito recoiled, as if at some bland satirical touch, delivered
with such adroit garnish of apparent good breeding as to present no
handle for retort.
He is like one flayed alive, thought Captain Delano; where may one
touch him without causing a shrink?
The servant moved before his master, adjusting a cushion; recalled to
civility, the Spaniard stiffly replied: “you are right. The slave
appears where you saw him, according to my command; which is, that if
at the given hour I am below, he must take his stand and abide my
coming.”
“Ah now, pardon me, but that is treating the poor fellow like an
ex-king indeed. Ah, Don Benito,” smiling, “for all the license you
permit in some things, I fear lest, at bottom, you are a bitter hard
master.”
Again Don Benito shrank; and this time, as the good sailor thought,
from a genuine twinge of his conscience.
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