I was standing near the skipper and his mate, and listening to their horrid execrations as they perceived the dilemma they were in. I was listening, because I was as much interested as they could have been in the result—though with hopes and wishes directly antagonistic to theirs—I was praying in my heart that we should be captured! Even at the risk of being killed by a broadside from one of my own country’s ships, I could not help desiring this termination to the affair.
Even though I had been but a few minutes aboard, since the lading of the cargo, I was already impressed with the awful scene—I felt pity—keen compassion—blended with loathing. The horrid howling of the blacks, crowded to suffocation below—their cries of entreaty, and, at times, of menace—were a foretaste of what I should be compelled to listen to for weeks, perhaps months. Oh! it would be a fearful existence. In my heart I prayed that we should be captured.
Chapter Thirty Nine.
I was beginning to draw hope from the behaviour of the slave-captain and his mate. Their apprehension increased as they saw the cutter expand her sails and commence moving through the water. So rapid was the manoeuvre, it was evident she had not waited to take up her anchor, but had cut the cable! So said the people of the Pandora.
The mate appeared to urge some desperate course upon his superior. His words were—as I heard them:—
“We can’t pass her—it’s no use, by —, the other’s our only chance—the tide’s well in—there’ll be no danger.”
“Try it, then!” was the captain’s reply; “we’ll be taken anyhow if we don’t, and, by —, I’d rather go to pieces on a reef than be taken by this bloody so-and-so.”
The blasphemous dialogue ended, and the mate hurried off to give some directions to the crew.