I asked the young black his name.
“They call me Pedro aboard here; but I got many names, according to the people I live among,” he answered with a laugh. “The English sailors call me Black Jack; and when I once lived with the Moors, my name was Selim; and in my own country, Quasho Tumbo Popo.”
“And what is the name of the big black man who helped me up the side?” I asked.
“Him called Antonio here,” answered Pedro, glancing round to ascertain that the person we were speaking of was not near. “Take care of him, massa; him no good. Once got flogging aboard man-of-war, and no love English officers, depend on that. He pretend to be great friend to you, but you see what he do.”
I thanked Pedro for his caution, feeling certain from the tone in which he spoke that he was sincere.
The captain seemed really grateful for the service we had rendered him by preventing him from running on the reef. He invited us down to his cabin, and asked us if we would like to turn in and rest while our clothes were drying.
“Will you tell him that we are dying of thirst,” exclaimed Halliday, “and that we should not object to have something to eat first?”
I explained that we had had no food except oysters since the previous evening, and that we should be grateful if he would order us some supper—for the Spanish dinner-hour had long passed.
“Of course,” he observed; “I forgot that,”—and he immediately ordered some water and light wine to be placed on the table. He seemed amused at the quantity we drank; having, I suspect, had very little experience of the way men feel who have been exposed to hunger and thirst, as we had been, for so many hours. Some light food was then brought in, to which we did ample justice.
On my mentioning Ben to him, he observed,—“He will be taken good care of by the black Antonio; he understands your language.”