“It’s all right, sir. Nothing come yet. You can land your goods as soon as you like. The Governor said he remembered you, and hopes that you will wait upon him.”
“Good. I will.”
“It is good, sir. Oh, I’ve ordered some fresh meat, sir, and some fowls.”
“Yes. We must feast to-night. And send the boat in for a cask of fresh water. Two-month water is poor tipple.”
“Yes. What would you say to six-month water? We must give a free pump in port. And a cask of rum or beer, sir, on the quarter-deck, would help our trade. For visitors you know, sir.”
“See to it then, captain. A letter may come while we’re here, though.”
“Then make the Governor and the others your friends. Send ’em a few cases of wine. Square the man-of-war captains. There’ll be no trouble if you make them all your friends.”
“It doesn’t sound pretty.”
“Nor a wrung neck don’t look it.”
During the next few days there was bustle in the Broken Heart. Visitors came aboard to look at samples of goods; to talk with the seamen; and to taste the rum and beer, which was served out, a cup to each comer, for the first forty-eight hours of her stay in the port. All sorts came aboard her; traders and planters, oyster and fisher men, soldiers from the fort, officers of the Governor’s house, Indians, men from the backwoods, trappers, a sun-burned, good-humoured, silent company, very sharp at a bargain.