His sympathies don't run that way," said the pilot.
The Janson had now crossed the bar, and was fast approaching Fort
Sumpter. Manuel had overheard enough of the conversation to awaken
fears for his own safety. Arising from the mattrass, in a manner
indicating his feeble condition, he called Tommy, and walking
forward, leaned over the rail near the fore-rigging, and inquired
what the Captain and the pilot were talking about. Observing his
fears, the little fellow endeavoured to quiet him by telling him
they were talking about bad sailors.
"I think it is me they are talking about. If they sell me for slave
in Charleston, I'll kill myself before a week," said he in his
broken English.
"What's that you say, Manuel?" inquired the first mate as he came
along, clearing up the decks with the men.
"Pilot tell Captain they sell me for slave in South Carolina. I'd
jump overboard 'fore I suffer him," said he.
"Oh, poh! don't be a fool; you a'n't among Patagonians, Manuel; you
won't have to give 'em leg for your life. They dont sell foreigners
and outlandish men like you for slaves in Carolina--it's only black
folks what can't clothe the'r words in plain English. Yer
copper-colored hide wouldn't be worth a sixpence to a
nigger-trader--not even to old Norman Gadsden, that I've heard 'em
tell so much about in the Liverpool docks.
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