He went below, and I continued my walk on deck, stopping every moment to look through the nightglass, until my eyes ached. The long night was at last over, and the light of day found me leaning against the mast, sleeping soundly. The noise made by the sailors, in holy-stoning the deck, woke me, and I discovered our friend of the previous night, under full sail, about four miles to 101 leeward of us, and evidently striving to reach the coast of Cuba. During the night, however, we had sailed faster than he had expected, and as we were now between him and the island, his purpose was frustrated. When he saw that he was thus cut off from the land, he hoisted his lower sails, fired a gun, and run up the Spanish flag, as if he had been a vessel of war. It was now bright day, and Wagtail, Bangs, and Gelid, were all three on deck, washing themselves. I, myself, was standing forward by the long gun, when Pegtop, Bangs’ black servant, came to me, and said:
“Scuse me, massa captin; could ye gibe me some guns?”
“Some guns,” replied I; “certainly, a half dozen of them, if you wish it.”
“Jist de number massa told me to fotch him; tank’e, massa captin.”
Pegtop was very fond of this word, “massa,” and could never get accustomed to any other title used by the whites.
“Listen, friend,” said I to Pegtop, “now that you have got the guns; is your master really going to fight?”
The negro stood still, rolling his eyes, and expressing in his countenance the greatest astonishment.
“Massa Bangs fight! Golly, massa, you jestin? Massa Bangs fight? Why yer doesn’t know him. Ye ought to see de way he fotches down de ducks and snipe, and a man isn’t so hard to hit as dem.”
“Granted,” said I; “but a snipe has not a loaded gun in his claws, like a Spaniard, friend Pegtop.”
“Makes no difference, massa,” replied Pegtop, decidedly. “Saw massa Aaron, myself, fight robbers, and helped him 102 to kill de debbils, too. Massa Aaron fight? Don’t say nothin’ more about dat.”