During this time, Manuel, who, had given the crew some very
acceptable hot cakes for supper, was sitting upon the windlass,
earnestly engaged, with his broken English, recounting an adventure
he had on the coast of Patagonia, a few years previous, while
serving on board a whaleman, to a shipmate who sat at his left. It
was one of those incidents which frequently occur to the men
attached to vessels which visit that coast for the purpose of
providing a supply of wood and water, and which would require too
much space to relate here.
"Did you run, Manuel?" said the listening shipmate.
"What else did me do? If I no run, I'd not be here dis night,
because I be make slave, or I be killed wid club. Patagonian don't
care for flag--nor not'in' else--I trust--e my leg, an' he get to de
boat jus' when cap-i-tan come to rescue."
"Was you on board an Englishman then, Manuel?" inquired the
shipmate.
"Yes, I'm always sail in English ship, because I can get protection
from flag and consul, where I go--any part of globe," said he.
"I never liked this sailing among barbarous nations; they've no
respect for any flag, and would just as lief imprison an Englishman
or an American as they would a dog. They're a set of wild
barbarians, and if they kill a fellow, there's no responsibility for
it. It's like a parcel of wolves chasing a lamb, and there's no
finding them after they've killed it.
Pages:
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32