“Faith, there is but little of the spices of Araby,” I heard Terence O’Brien observe to one of his friends.
“Those who know how to handle ropes, come and help me to trim the sails,” exclaimed Kydd. “Handspike, you are the only man under my orders. You go to the helm.”
We all set to work to trim the sails. Senhor Silva and his servant, who had hitherto not done much, now joined with a will. The canvas blew out, and the yards creaked and strained, but not an inch was the vessel moved. Kydd then ordered us to run fore and aft; but the light weight of a few people on board the stout brig produced no perceptible effect.
“Had we the boat, and could we carry an anchor out, we might get the brig off,” I observed to Stanley. “But, I fear, now it is hopeless, unless, indeed, we were to build a raft. With that we may do something, though there will be no slight risk in the undertaking.”
“If you think it can be done, we will do it,” said Stanley.
“Certainly,” I said, “it is our only chance.”
“Then it shall be done,” he exclaimed. “Mr Kydd, we wish to build a raft to carry out the anchor.”
Kydd was about to reply, but the captain’s look silenced him. All hands now set to work to collect all the spare spars and planks to be found. We got up also a number of small casks from below, in which palm-oil was to be stowed; and this assisted us greatly.
“Massa,” said Timbo, coming up to Stanley, “me t’ink it better to have two raft. Suppose no get de brig off, den we want dem to get away. Suppose de niggers come off, den what we do? We not stay here for eber.”
“A wise suggestion, Timbo,” said his master. “Crawford, will you undertake to build another raft? Mr Kydd seems busy with the one forward.”