Across the cabin table was spread the big, inaccurate chart of the west coast of Africa, on which Captain North had penciled the rat-infested island and the river.
Seeing it now for the first time since he had returned to the brig, Gleazen planted one finger on the picture of the spot where we had found the wrecked ship with the bones of the drowned slaves still chained to her timbers. "Pfaw!" he growled. "If only she was afloat! There was a ship for you! Given her at sea again, handsome and handy, two good men would never 'a' lost their lives. Given that she was not beyond repair, and we might yet kedge her off and plank her and caulk her and rig her anew."
"She's done," said Matterson languidly. "Forget her." He laid his head on the table and closed his eyes.
"Molly!" There was a new note of concern in Gleazen's voice. He leaned over and shook the man.
"Let me be," said Matterson.
"Gentlemen," Gideon North interposed, "we are dodging the issue."
"Well?" Gleazen angrily raised his head. "There is no issue. We'll sail for the Rio Pongo, lay off and on till the first dark night, then take the cargo that a friend of ours will have ready. Thence, Captain North, we'll sail for Cuba. I'll give the orders now, and you'll carry them out."
"How long," I cried hotly, "have you been giving orders on board this vessel?"
He turned and glared at me. "If you want facts, Joe, I'll give them to you: I've been giving orders aboard this vessel from the day we sailed from Boston until now—aye, and seeing that they were obeyed, too, you young cub. But if you want fancies, such as are suitable for the young, I've owned the brig only since Seth Upham went mad and got himself killed."
"You own the brig?"