“My confession, Don Téodor, is over. From that day, I have never been within a church or alongside a padre; but I could not die without sending the gold to my sister, and begging a mass in some parish for the rest of my soul!”
I felt very conscious that I was by no means the person to afford ghostly consolation to a dying man under such circumstances, but while I promised to fulfil his request carefully, I could not help inquiring whether he sincerely repented these atrocious deeds?
“Ah! yes, Don Téodor, a thousand times! Many a night, when alone on my watch at sea, or in yonder stockade, marching up and down before the barracoon, I have wept like a child for the innocent crew of that little schooner; but, as for the murderer of Don Miguel—!” He stared wildly for a minute into my eyes—shuddered—fell back—was dead!
I have no doubt the outlaw’s story contained exaggerations, or fell from a wrecked mind that was drifting into eternity on the current of delirium. I cannot credit his charge against the Monrovian colonists; yet I recount the narrative as an illustration of many a bloody scene that has stained the borders of Africa.
FOOTNOTE:
[G] The reader will recollect this is not Canot’s story, but the sailor’s.
CHAPTER LXI.
During my first visit to Digby, I promised my trading friends—perhaps rather rashly—that I would either return to their settlement, or, at least, send merchandise and a clerk to establish a factory. This was joyous news for the traffickers, and, accordingly, I embraced an early occasion to despatch, in charge of a clever young sailor, such stuffs as would be likely to tickle the negro taste.