We soon got alongside of the Quebec ship. Several of the crew, in their dirty canvass trowsers, red flannel shirts, and night-caps, were standing at the gangway, apparently observing us.
"You are the mate of this ship?" said I to a good-looking young man, who was leaning over the side, neatly dressed in a blue jacket, check shirt, duck trowsers, and straw hat.
"I am, sir—can I be of any service to you?"
"I wish you would lend a hand to get this poor fellow up the side. He is very ill, you see; and if I try to take him ashore I am persuaded he will jump overboard. He has endeavoured to do so already."
"You need not be afraid of me, Mr Brail," here chimed in the poor skipper himself, as he seated himself in the stern sheets with forced composure. "It is over now, sir, and I am quite cool; but get up if you please, and I will follow you—you are quite right, sir, the people of this ship may be able to give us some information."
I clambered up the high side of the vessel, and was immediately followed by Hause and three of the negroes belonging to the canoe.
"I am sorry Captain Batten is not on board, gentlemen," quoth the mate; "but is there any thing I can do for you?"
My companion was still unable to speak for himself. He had sitten down on a carronade, resting his head on his hand, the very picture of despondency.
"Why, it is a strange story altogether," said I; "but did you notice when the brig, that anchored close to you yesterday afternoon, got under weigh this morning?"
"I did, sir. I was on deck at the time."