“What’s that? Drinks, I suppose!”
“No. He’s a terrible Abolitionist.”
“So much the better! We shall all be Abolitionists before this war is ended. ’T is the only way to end it.”
“Good, my Commodore! Such sentiments from men in your position will do as much as rifled cannon for the cause.”
“More, Mr. Vance, more! And now duty calls me off. Your men, sir, shall be provided for. Good by.”
Vance and the Commodore shook hands and parted. Vance was rowed back to the Artful Dodger. On his way, looking through his opera-glass, he could see Ratcliff in the cutter, gnawing his rage, and looking the incarnation of chagrin.
The Catawba was making her toilet ready for a start. She lay at a short distance from the Artful. Vance, Winslow, Kenrick, and Onslow went on board, where the orders of the Commodore had secured for them excellent accommodations. Before noon a northeasterly breeze had sprung up, and they took their leave of the mouths of the Mississippi.
Ratcliff no sooner touched the deck of the Brooklyn, than, conquering with an effort his haughtiness, he took off his hat, and, approaching the Commodore, asked for an interview.
The Commodore was an old weather-beaten sailor, not far from his threescore and ten years. He kept no “circumlocution office” on board his ship, and as he valued his time, he could not tolerate any tortuous delays in coming to the point.
“Commodore,” said Ratcliff, “’t is important I should have a few words with you immediately.”