“Count your fingers!” said Freeman.
“Well,” said I, “what for?—here they are—one—two—three—four—five—six—seven—eight—nine—ten!”
“Good—good!” shouted the prince, as he clasped my digits. “White men tell too many lies ’bout the commodore! White man say, John Bull catch commodore, and cut him fingers all off, so commodore no more can ‘makee book’ for makee fool of John Bull!” Which, being translated into English, signifies that it was reported my fingers had been cut off by my British captors to prevent me from writing letters by which the innocent natives believed I so often bamboozled and deceived the cruisers of her Majesty.
During my absence, a French captain, who was one of our most attentive friends, had left a donkey which he brought from the Cape de Verds for my especial delectation, by way of an occasional promenade à cheval! I at once resolved to bestow the “long-eared convenience” on Freeman, not only as a type, but a testimonial; yet, before a week was over, the unlucky quadruped reappeared at my quarters, with a message from the prince that it might do well enough for a bachelor like me, but its infernal voice was enough to cause the miscarriage of an entire harem, if not of every honest woman throughout his jurisdiction! The superstition spread like wildfire. The women were up in arms against the beast; and I had no rest till I got rid of its serenades by despatching it to Monrovia, where the dames and damsels were not afraid of donkeys of any dimensions.
CHAPTER LX.
It was my habit to employ at New Sestros a clerk, store-keeper, and four seamen, all of whom were whites of reliable character, competent to aid me efficiently in the control of my barracoons.
One of these sailors died of dropsy while in my service; and, as I write, the memory of his death flashes across my mind so vividly, that I cannot help recording it among the characteristic events of African coast-life.
Sanchez, I think, was by birth a Spaniard; at least his perfect familiarity with the language, as well as name and appearance, induced me to believe that the greater part of his life must have been spent under the shield of Saint Iago. The poor fellow was ill for a long time, but in Africa, existence is so much a long-drawn malady, that we hardly heeded his bloated flesh or cadaverous skin, as he sat, day after day, musket in hand, at the gate of our barracoon. At last, however, his confinement to bed was announced, and every remedy within our knowledge applied for relief. This time, however, the summons was peremptory; the sentence was final; there was no reprieve.