“Mr Dawkins,” said Brandon, stiffly, “I must request you to take this matter seriously. You will be good enough to understand that I am here to see that the owners’ interests are properly served. I have no wish to summon a council; but unless I find my wishes complied with, I shall have no choice but to do so.”
“Very well, Mr Supercargo. Depose me, is it? Well, if it must be, it must, I reckon. On’y, who’s to sail the ship?”
“Navigate her, do you mean? I will!” And Captain Dawkins looked a little blank at the retort. “Come,” Brandon added, “don’t let us quarrel, Mr Dawkins.”
“Quarrel!” said Dawkins, cheerily. “Not a mite of it. And I tell you what, Mr Pomfrett, there’s very few agents, as I’ve ever seen, as would have the marrow to do what you done. Why, they’d be afraid! But you—you don’t give a penny piece for the captain, not you. Duty is duty, says you, and you ups on the quarterdeck like a Queen’s admiral. I admire you, sir, I do, indeed. And I’ll bear your words in mind, don’t you fear. I shan’t forget, I shan’t.”
“You see,” said Brandon, afterwards, to me. “I told you so. Tackle a man face to face, and he listens. I believe Dawkins is a good man enough, only uneducated and a bit reckless. I thought I’d tell him I could navigate the ship, because he presumes on his being the only man aboard who can. I don’t think,” said the owners’ agent, “I shall have much more trouble with Dawkins.”
I was not so sure. I had seen Mr Dawkins’s blue-red visage darken to plum-colour, and his little eyes contract to pin-points, while his teeth showed as he grinned—and I was not so sure. But I thought it a pity further to harass the conscientious agent with my doubts. And a few days of quiet sailing brought us in sight of the low green island of Barbadoes. We dropped anchor in Carlisle Bay, and Pomfrett went ashore to obtain, as the custom is, the Governor’s permission to purchase provisions, leaving me on board, occupied with business. He returned in the evening, having made all arrangements for the supplies to be had aboard upon the following day.
“May I never ship with a worser supercargo than yourself, Mr Pomfrett,” said Dawkins. “I never see a agent so smart with his duty, so help me! But it never does to drive a clipper bark too hard—why, you taught me that, so you did, Mr Pomfrett, now I come to think of it—and if you and Mr Winter would care to take a run ashore, these parts being new to you gentlemen, we would try to make out for a few hours without you.”
None who has not been to sea can comprehend the delight of getting ashore, though the voyage has been never so pleasant. The smell of the land, the firm earth underfoot, the sight of women-folk, and, above all, the taste of fresh food—these common sensations become extraordinary pleasures. We accepted the captain’s kindly offer with joy. Mr Dawkins gave us a letter of introduction addressed to one Mr Jevon Murch, who, said the captain, was a friend of his, and who lived on his plantation some few miles inland.
The moment we set foot on the quay we were surrounded by a mob of negroes, clamouring to be taken as guides.
“Take me, massa, take me,” shouted a huge buck negro, forcing his way through the crowd. “Me white man; don’t hab dese dirty black men, massa. Dirty black men, git ’way wid yer!”