“No,” I answered; “she is a shipwrecked lady.”
“And what art thou and what’s thy name?”
I made answer, observing him narrowly. He was a Quaker, as you will suppose; a fellow of a very serious, composed appearance, close shaved, with coal black eyes, wary and stealing in their manner of gazing, a large expressionless mouth, and a pale skin that had suffered nothing from the weather. He wore a soft cone-shaped hat, the brim very wide, and was skewered to his throat in a coat with a double row of large metal buttons. His legs were encased in jack boots. The garb was somewhat of a change from the glazed hat and pea jacket of his South Pacific costume.
“This is the Black Watch,” said he, looking slowly along the decks and then slowly up aloft.
“Yes,” said I.
“When we spoke thee thy captain was sick.”
“He is dead.”
“Is that thy distress?”
“No, sir. If you will step into the cabin I’ll tell you a very strange story, but as this brig must be watched—yonder lad at the wheel being merely our cabin boy—will you hail one of your mates and request him to take charge while we converse?”
He walked gravely and quietly to the side, and looking over, bade his men in the whale boat fetch Mr. Pack. Presently Mr. Pack arrived. He was the mate of the whaler. The captain told him to watch the brig, and followed me into the cabin, the lady Aurora going before us.