“Massa cap’n,” said the black, “dis darky know all dese rocks jes as little boy know his letters in de book. Dis island on de starboard hand, he Rataneau; bold water close along shore, till get down to de pint; den he shoal, many rocks, bad place. It low water now; we luff right round de pint ob de island, right in among de shoals and rocks.”
“Then we shall go ashore.”
“Nebber you fear. Dis chile carry you clear. Dis darky know frigate no dare come in. We drew leben feet ob water. ‘Spose he draw twenty-fibe; he stand off good way; his shot no reach us. Den you be on de wind, close-hauled, beat up ’twixt de islands and de main, hab smooth water; ’spose frigate he try beat up too; he no do any ting; wid dis vessel on de wind, he nowhar. ’Spose he beat up toder side; den he hab rough water; he do noting at all.”
There was not much time for deliberation, for, even while they were speaking, a shot carried away the port davit, and splintered the planks of the stern.
“If that shot had struck the main boom,” said the mate,—“and it did not lack much of it,—all had been up with us.”
“You are right, pilot. Mr. Rogers, brace up the yards.”
While this manœuvre was being executed, a succession of terrible screams arose from the forward part of the ship.
“Some poor fellow is struck,” cried the captain; “run forward, Mr. Rogers, and see who it is.”