“I don’t care much for the job myself, but the fellows we have here will do for Camacho what he says; and though when we meets a man-of-war we hoists the gridiron and oysters, and we’s American captains, and has papers all c’rect, still we ain’t nought but the two mates when all’s said and done.”
“That’s so. So long as no murder goes on I don’t care much. Let Camacho and Pentlea manage their own business. Let’s go down and liquor.”
As soon as I heard this conversation commencing I had left off cleaning the binnacle and slipped out into the main-chains, where I could hear every word they said; and when they went below I slipped forward and made them wait a long time before I answered their call to bring them brandy and water and fire for their pipes.
Evidently neither had thought anything of me, and they were now engaged in a game of euchre, and were so absorbed in it that they thought of nothing else save their brandy and pipes. As soon as I had supplied their wants I went to the main chains again, as being the place where I was least likely to be disturbed by any of the crew, and tried to consider what had best be done. It was evident that this place was one where my father traded, which was not much frequented by ordinary traders, and where he therefore could get quicker and larger profits than elsewhere; and that Pentlea was going to take the opportunity of the Petrel calling here to try to make himself master of her.
CHAPTER VII.
AN INTERESTING CONVERSATION.
For some days the work of shipping slaves went on. They were brought off in driblets of some half-dozen at a time, and stowed away under the superintendence of the two Yankee mates, the Spaniard and Pentlea being rarely seen on board. At last one evening I heard the two mates talking together and saying the Petrel was in another mouth of the river about ten miles distant, and Pentlea and Camacho had persuaded Okopa to send messengers to my father to say that he had lots of cargo for him, and that he had better bring his brig round and anchor off his town, which was about a mile farther up the stream than the creek where the two schooners were concealed.
I heard the one called Silas say, “It’s a black murdering shame, so I say, to steal the man’s brig and put him ashore here where he’s just sartain to die.”
“How so?” answered the other. “Can’t he live the same as Camacho and Pentlea live ashore?”
“That’s another guess kind of matter. Camacho has a good house, and I reckon he can live well; but that black fellow Okopa, when a white man hasn’t got trade, he’ll see him further afore he’d let him sleep in a hut or give him bite or sup.”
“Waal, Silas, you don’t seem to care for this hyar job; no more do I. But what can we do?”