Monday, the 12th, a terrible storm raged; but in the afternoon, Cambiaso began to send some of the men on shore, as he said, to wash their clothes. This seemed to me a strange proceeding, and I watched his movements in some anxiety. By night about forty-four were landed, and on the last return of the boat, it was hoisted up and put in its place. Cambiaso then, under his own directions, had our four-pounders and swivel gun loaded with two balls each—the swivel gun pointed towards the stern. When this was accomplished, orders were sent to the Eliza Cornish to weigh anchor and go in shore. The Eliza Cornish had but two guns on board, and was not utterly defenceless. It was said by Cambiaso that if the poor mate should attempt to follow the Florida, his brig should be fired into and sunk, while I was ordered to get under way and go to the eastward. I understood his plans now. The men landed at Wood’s Bay were to be left behind to starve or fall a prey to the Indians; the Eliza Cornish and her two hundred passengers were to be left to their fate; while the Florida, (on board of which was all the treasure and Cambiaso’s chief followers,) was to be used to convey the pirates to some place of security. I shrank from being even compelled to be accessory to such cruelty, and ventured to remonstrate with Cambiaso; not, however, on his barbarity,—that, indeed, would have been useless,—but on the risk the Florida would run in attempting such dangerous navigation on a night so thick and murky, with the wind blowing heavily in shore. I told him that it was not safe to start, that I could not answer for our not being ashore before morning; but he would not even listen to me, saying he believed I was a coward, and angrily commanded me to obey orders.
It was, indeed, as much as I could do to keep the vessel from the shore that night, the storm continuing till daylight, and I expected every moment that we should be driven in shore. I do not know that I dreaded it much. It seemed to me as well to fall into the hands of the Indians, as to remain with these fellows, and our chances of escape were as good on land as at sea.
Tuesday morning, however, saw us again opposite Sandy Bay, and at nine o’clock I hove-to off the harbor, by Cambiaso’s orders. The boat was then cleared away ready for lowering, and some of the men were ordered to go ashore to bring off some provisions which had been left behind; but they, perhaps mistrusting Cambiaso’s intentions, and fearing that they would be abandoned, as their companions had been at Wood’s Bay, refused to land, declaring that they saw some Indians prowling about the barracks. I saw, by the help of my spy-glass, that what they took, or pretended to take for Indians, were only barrels and stumps of trees, but I prudently said nothing. Cambiaso stormed and threatened, but the men were stubborn and immovable, and Garcia again interfering, he sullenly ordered me to proceed, and retired to his state-room. That evening I anchored under Cape Gregory.
Towards ten o’clock, when the night watch was set, and all was quiet on the vessel, Mr. Dunn and myself were sent for to Cambiaso’s state-room. Mr. Dunn had of late always been called upon to accompany me when Cambiaso sent for me to deliver orders; my broken Spanish seeming to irritate him, and Mr. Dunn serving as interpreter to render my orders more clear to me. Cambiaso received us very cordially, asked us to be seated, and began by expressing himself very well satisfied with the skill I had shown in navigating the vessel. He was even jocose, asking me if I was a good shot with a pistol, since he had an idea of fighting a duel with me; then, pointing to a bottle of champaigne which stood on the table, he said, “That is the pistol I mean we shall exchange shots with;” and drawing the cork, he made us both drink with him. Then turning to Mr. Dunn, he said, “My good friend Sir Captain is troubled about the rascals I left at Wood’s Bay; he does not know, as you and I do, that there’s only one way to get along with such men. They are devils, and nothing is too hard for them. One must take care of himself in this world.”
Mr. Dunn told him that I had hesitated about putting out from the harbor because the night was so murky, and the navigation intricate; and that I was afraid of running the vessel on the shore. Cambiaso shook his head: “No, no; you are both of you tender-hearted as women. I suppose you would be frightened now, if you saw blood shed, but one can’t always get along without it.”
I answered that I could fight as well as another man, when I saw need for it; but that I did not like leaving the English mate and crew, nor even his followers to starve, or fall into the hands of the Indians. This made him laugh heartily; but suddenly changing the subject, he asked me if I had a wife and children. “Yes,” I said, “in my own country.” “How many little ones?” he rejoined; “and I suppose you would like to see them again? Well, you must do without that for some time yet; but if you will follow my orders, you shall go home with money enough to stay with them always.”
I answered that I had obeyed his orders since I had agreed to, and that I should continue to navigate the vessel as well as I could, if that was what he wanted from me. “Yes,” replied he, when my friend had interpreted this answer to him, “Yes, yes, that is what I want of you for the present, and I promise you both that I will not give you any fighting to do; all I ask of you is to stand by, and not be frightened if you see any blood spilled.” We made no reply to this; when, after pausing a moment, and glancing at us from under his long, veiling lashes, he said, “I will make it worth your while, captain Brown, to follow me, and yours too, Sir Secretary. If you obey my orders, and land me safe at my destination, you shall go home to your wife and little ones with twenty thousand dollars, captain; and you (to Mr. Dunn,) shall have six thousand, if you interpret for me faithfully.” He rose as he said this, and pointed out of the cabin, saying as we left him, that all he wanted was that we should be true to him.
It was then late into the night, but instead of retiring, Mr. Dunn and myself walked to the side of the vessel, out of hearing of the watch and the few soldiers listening about the deck, to talk over our interview with the general. We knew that those around us were aware that we had been sent for by Cambiaso, and had been with him for some time; therefore it would be natural for them to suppose that we would wish to talk of what we had heard from him, and it was very seldom that we had an opportunity of exchanging even a few words without feeling that we were suspected by our watchful jailors.
I told Mr. Dunn at once that I did not like Cambiaso’s conversation; I did not trust his apparent friendliness for a moment; indeed, I believed that it was all assumed to deceive us, and hide his real intentions.
“But,” replied Mr. Dunn, “he cannot do without you as long as he remains on board the Florida, and now that he has abandoned the colony and left the brig behind, he must have some port in view.” “Yes,” said I, “he will use us as long as he wants us; but depend upon it, he will never let us escape alive to any place where we can put the officers of justice on his track. Depend upon it, all this was to blind us; he has some devilish plan in his head; he will do something with us very soon.”