“I want you to tell me something, Benjamin,” she said.
“Sail ahead, matey,” he responded with apparent heartiness, filling his pipe meanwhile.
“Why, Benjamin—you must know, you know, for you’ve been to sea so much—Benjamin, I want to know if it hurts much to be drownd-ed?”
“Hurts much?” gasped the old seaman.
“Yes, sir. Do people that get drownd-ed feel much pain? Is it a sufferin’ way to die? I want to know, Benjamin, ’cause my papa and mamma died that way,” continued the child, choking a little. “It does seem as though I’d just got to know.”
“Aye, aye,” muttered the man. “I see. An’ I kin tell ye, Car’lyn May, as clos’t as anybody kin. I’ve been so near drownin’ myself that they thought I was dead when I was hauled inboard.
“That was when I sailed in the old Paducah, a cotton boat, from N’Orleans to Liverpool. That was long ’fore I got to runnin’ on the Cross and Crescent Line boats, ’cause steamships is easier to work on than sailin’ vessels.
“Well, now, listen. We used to carry almighty cargoes—yes’m. Decks loaded till we could scarce handle sail. She was down to the mark, and then some. An’ if it come on to blow, we was all in danger of our lives. Owners cared more for freight money than they did for the lives of her crew.”