"To New Orleans—git the cargo there, the rest of it. D'ye think, Meester James, that the British will furnish the powder? 'Tis good Yankee stuff we'll take wi' us, good New Orleans powder. Also we'll take a bit o' men, I'm thinkin', some o' that Dago gang for blasters. They make fine blasters, do Dagoes; an' if ye lift a few o' them to heaven, it makes little difference—there's plenty more. But they are an ugly lot to handle, all armed with pistols or knives, ready to shoot or stab any one."
"It's the Dago nature to go heeled," said James, drinking his rum and pondering over his scheme. The run to New Orleans offered nothing new in the way of developing his plans. He arose, went aft and made ready to get to sea. He was in an ugly mood, but all who knew him addressed him as "Captain," and the "Mister" was forgotten in the usual turmoil of getting the Enos under weigh.
A few days later in New Orleans the dynamite was aboard and the gangs of labourers who were to mine came down to the dock. James had studied many ways of getting the ship into trouble, but each one seemed too dangerous. It would not do to kill the crew. He would not do that, but to fire the cargo without almost certain death to all aboard appeared impossible. Then a thing occurred which seemed to be like the hand of Fate helping him on his way.
"'Tis a light cargo—an' she'll sit high, roll like a log," quoth McDuff the day after the powder had been safely stowed. "We've cleared and the insurance agent has had his claim settled. We're all ready for sea—Meester James—and we'll gie along; but I must ha' a wee bit o' drink first. Will ye coom along up the town, or will ye bide here till I come back?"
It still gave him pleasure to address his former captain in a patronizing manner with an emphasis upon "Meester."
James looked at him sourly and declined.
"Go on, Scotty," said he; "I'll stay by the ship. No drink for me until we get clear of this foul river. The stinks would spoil the taste of any kind of poison you'd put aboard ye."
"Weel, have a bit of a care, an' don't let them Dagoes get scuffling on the lower deck. There's a bit o' powder up there in them boxes," and McDuff went his way up the levee.
Sengali, the foreman of the gang, stood upon the string-piece of the wharf and glowered at the small ship. He was not a sailor, but he knew she would be a dirty and lively vessel in a blow. He had brought his wife with him, and together they surveyed the scene.