"Jose Mendez, Senor." "You were aboard the Namur?"
He growled out an answer which I interpreted to signify assent, but
Watkins lost his temper.
"Look yere, you black villain," he roared, driving the lesson home with his boot "don't be a playin' possum yer. Stand up an' answer Mister Carlyle, or yer'll git a worse clip than I give yer afore. Whar is the bloody bark?"
"Pounding her heart out on the rocks yonder," he said more civilly, "unless she's slid off, an' gone down."
"Wrecked? Where?"
"Hell, I ain't sure—what's west frum here?"
"Off our port quarter."
"Then that's 'bout where she is—maybe a mile, er so."
"What about the crew?"
"They got away in the boats, an' likely mostly are ashore. We were in the last boat launched, an' headed out so far ter get 'round a ledge o' rocks, we got lost in the fog. Then the mist sorter opened, an' give us a glimpse o' yer topsails. Manuel was for boarding you right away, and the rest of us talked it over, and thought it would be all right. We didn't expect no fight, once we got aboard."