A mixed crew: two Frenchmen, two Americans, three Spaniards, a German, an Indian "boy," and a Chinese cook. In addition a Peruvian chola—half-naked like the men—who was the wife of the captain and was suckling a baby two months old conceived and born at sea.
The living quarters of this family, in the stern, had oak walls as thick as ramparts, and doors barred with iron. Within was a veritable arsenal of revolvers, knuckle-dusters, and life-preservers. Precautions had been taken; if occasion arose one would be able there to stand a siege by the whole crew.
For the rest, her papers were in order. She had not hoisted a flag for the simple reason that she had not got one; beetles had eaten the last, of which they showed me the rags to substantiate their excuse; it had the American colours right enough, red and white stripes, with the starred Jack. There was nothing to be said; everything was, in fact, correct.
. . . Goulven asked me if I knew Plouherzel; and I told him how I had slept one night under his mother's roof.
"And you," I said, "are you never going to return."
I could see that he was much moved.
"It is too late now. I should have my punishment to do for the State, and I am married in California. I have two children in Sacramento."
"Will you come with me to see Yves?"
"Come with you?" he repeated darkly, in a low voice. He seemed astonished at what I proposed to him. "Come with you? But you know . . . I am a deserter?"
At this moment he was so like Yves, he said this so exactly as Yves might have said it, that I felt a pang.