Where was I? Certainly not on board the Felicidad; for she had no such luxurious sleeping-accommodation as this on board her. Then, if not on board her, I must most probably be on board the French schooner; a surmise that was to some extent confirmed by the powerful effluvium that pervaded the ship, and proclaimed her character beyond all question. Then there were sounds on deck—the voices of men laughing and jesting together, and addressing occasional brutal remarks to, presumably, the wearers of certain chains, the clanking of which, together with the sounds of boats or canoes coming alongside, and an occasional order issued by some one nearly overhead, powerfully suggested the idea that the craft, whatever she was, was now taking in her human cargo. I soon recognised, however, that the orders and conversation generally were in Spanish, not French; still, this proved nothing, for slavers were as a rule by no means particular as to the colour of the flag that they fought or sailed under, often hoisting the first ensign that happened to come to hand.
But Spanish or French, the vessel on board which I now found myself could scarcely be other than one of those that we had engaged earlier in the afternoon; and if so, I was in the hands of the enemy—an enemy, be it said, that, if report spoke truly, showed but scant mercy to such of its legalised opponents as happened to fall into his hands. Yet this scarcely tallied with the evident care that had been taken of me, and the exceedingly comfortable—not to say luxurious—quarters wherein I now found myself.
I was parched with thirst, and looked round the state-room for some liquid wherewith I might quench it. There was none; but I now observed a small mahogany shelf, close to the head of the bunk, which had hitherto escaped my notice, and upon it stood a small silver hand-bell, quaint of shape, and elegantly adorned with repoussé work. With considerable pain and giddiness I contrived to turn my body far enough round to seize the bell and ring it; in instant response to which the state-room door opened—revealing a glimpse of a small but elegantly-furnished cabin—and a young mustee lad, clad only in a white shirt thrown open at the neck, and white drill trousers girt to his slender figure by a crimson sash, entered, and demanded in Spanish—
“Can I do anything for you, señor?”
“What is your name, my lad?” said I, answering his question with another.
“I am called Pedro, señor.”
“Well then, Pedro,” said I, “you can do two things for me, if you will. In the first place you can get me something to drink, if you will be so kind; and, in the next, you can tell me the name of this ship and her captain.”
“I will willingly do both, señor, with pleasure. The drink first,” answered the lad, with a bright smile that disclosed an array of small and beautifully regular, ivory-white teeth. And, turning on his bare heel, he retired as noiselessly as he had entered, only to reappear, a moment later, with a tumbler in one hand, and a large glass jug full to within an inch of the brim with lemonade, upon the surface of which floated two or three slices of the fruit and a curl of the rich golden green rind. He filled and handed me a bumper, which I instantly drained and begged for another. The lad laughed, and handed me a second tumblerful, which I also drained. The liquid was deliciously cool, and of that peculiar acid and slightly bitter flavour that seems so ineffably refreshing when one is parched with fever.
“Another yet, señor?” asked Pedro, with a laugh, as I handed the glass back to him.
“Well—n–o—not just now, I think, thank you,” answered I. “And now, Pedro, my boy, tell me about this ship and her captain, and how I came to be here.”