“Señor,” he says at length, “my ship is at your service; and I should be pleased and proud to have you and your ladies as my passengers. But there’s a little difficulty to be got over before I can weigh anchor.”
“Clearance duties—port dues to be paid. You want the passage-money advanced, I presume? Well, I shall not object to prepaying it in part. How much will you require?”
“Mil gracias, Señor Montijo. It’s not anything of the kind. Although far from rich, thank Heaven, neither I nor my craft is under embargo. I could sail out of San Francisco in half-an-hour, but for the want of—”
“Want of what?” asks Don Gregorio in some surprise.
“Well, señor—sailors.”
“What! Have you no sailors?”
“I am sorry to say, not one.”
“Well, Captain Lantanas, I thought it strange observing nobody aboard your ship—except that black fellow. But I supposed your sailors had gone ashore.”
“So have they, señor; and intend staying there. Alas! that’s the trouble. They’ve gone off to the gold-diggings—every one of them, except my negro cook. Likely enough, I should have lost him too, but he knows that California is now part of the United States, and fears that some speculating Yankee might make a slave of him, or that perchance he might meet his old master: for he has had one.”
“How vexatious all this!” says Don Gregorio. “I suppose I shall have to look out for another ship.”