“Were the schooners full of slaves?”
“I don’t know, sir; I couldn’t see any.”
“Were their sides clean or dirty?”
“Oh, beautifully clean, sir. I thought they looked like yachts.”
“That’ll do; they hadn’t shipped them.—Stannard, I’ll go on shore and see what I can do for Captain Baldwin, and you get everything ready for sea. Hoist the boats up and heave short. I’ll go on shore in this youngster’s boat. Send to my clerk, Mr. Smith, that he’s to come with me.—Quartermaster, get my sword and waterproof.”
In almost less time than I can write we were in the surf-boat and paddling ashore; while on board the Rover the men were busy putting on chafing-mats, uncovering sails, and reeving anchor gear.
“I hope we shall meet that fellow Camacho; he has played us one or two smart tricks—eh, Mr. Smith?” said Captain Howard.
“Yes, sir, indeed he has,” answered the clerk, who did not at all relish the passage through the surf.
We were soon safe on shore, and made our way at once to Mr. Macarthy’s factory. We found Mr. Macarthy and my father waiting for us with some anxiety, as a message had come that the caboceer in charge of the beach was coming at once to make a palaver about Pentlea’s desertion and theft.
A large room on the ground floor of the factory was prepared at once, in which Captain Howard sat with my father and Mr. Macarthy on either hand, while Mr. Smith and myself sat behind them at a small table to take down any notes that it might be deemed advisable to make.