“I want a second mate. Send the men aft, will you.”
He went into the waist and put his pipe to his lips. His roar was like the voice of a giant singing the tune of the wind in the rigging. The men knocked off the several jobs they were on and came aft.
The fellows had a homely, comfortable appearance. The slop-chest had supplied the vacancies in their own bags, and they were clad as men who were starting on, not returning from, a long voyage. Their health was good. Some were fat, all hearty. I scanned them swiftly but with attention, and saw nothing to occasion uneasiness; and I believe I could not be mistaken, for of all living beings the sailor is the most transparent in his moods and meanings. A few I have known who were dark and subtle; they were not Englishmen, neither were they Dutchmen. The English sailor gets a face at sea that prohibits the concealment of feelings and passions, and, on board the merchant ship, he will look the thing that is in him.
“Am I captain? Is it understood?”
“Ay, captain, of course,” exclaimed Teach after a pause, as though the men had waited for one of them to act as spokesman. “If not you, who? and if it’s who, vhere do ’ee sling his hammock? Not forrads. All the larnin’s been washed aft out o’ that.”
“Mr. Yan Bol is your chief mate.”
“Ay, Mr. Yan Bol is chief mate. Who but him?” said Teach.
“Now choose a second mate, lads.”
“Is he to live aft?” said Friend.
“That’s as he chooses.”