“Wus I!” he laughed grimly.  “I hed eight months of it, mate, and a greater demon never sailed.  The things I saw done ye ’d never believe no human bein’ could do.  If ever thar wus two people in one skin, sir, it’s thet Black Sanchez.  When he’s playin’ off fer good he’s as soft an’ sweet as a dandy in Picadilly, an’ when he’s real he’s like a devil in hell.”

“Was you a prisoner—­or did you sail under him?”

“Both, fer the matter o’ thet.  He give me the choice ter serve, er walk the plank.  I wus eighteen, an’ hed an ol’ mother at Deal.”

“I see; but later you got away?”

“Ay, I did thet,” chuckling over the recollection.  “But I hed ter wait eight months fer the luck.  Hev ye ever been sea-farin’ down in them waters, off the West Indies?”

“No.”

“Well, they’re all studded over with little islands—­cays, they call ‘em down thare; an’ it’s in among them thet the buccaneers hide away, an’ sorter rest up after a cruise.  Thar’s a lot o’ ’em too; whole villages hid away on some o’ them cays, with women an’ children—­every color ye ever saw.  Sanchez he made his headquarters on a cay called Porto Grande.  He hed three ships, an’ maybe a hundred an’ fifty men ‘bout the time I got away.  The last I saw o’ him wus at sea.  He’d overhauled an English ship, an’ sunk her; an’ then the next mornin’ we took a Dutch bark in ballast.  She wus such a trig sailor Sanchez decided to keep her afloat, an’ sent a prize crew aboard ter sail her inter Porto Grande.  I wus one o’ the fellers picked fer thet job, an’ we wus told off under a nigger mate, named LaGrasse—­he wus a French nigger from Martinique, and a big devil—­an’ our orders wus ter meet Sanchez three days later.  His vessel wus a three-masted schooner, the fastest thing ever I saw afloat, called the Vengeance, an’ by that time she wus chock up with loot.  Still at that she could sail ’bout three feet to our one.  Afore night come we wus out o’ sight astern.  Thar wus eight o’ us in the crew, beside the nigger, an’ we had twelve Dutchmen under hatches below.  I sorter looked ‘round, an’ sized up four o’ that crew ter be good honest sailormen, who’d been shanghied same as I wus.  So, long about midnight, I ’d got ter talk with all these fellers, an’ when LaGrasse went down below ter take a snooze in the cabin, we hoisted them Dutchmen on deck, flung a couple o’ hell-hounds overboard, an’ just naturally took control.  The mate wus a dead nigger afore he ever knew whut wus up.  When daylight come we wus streakin’ it eastward by compass, an’ every damn sail set.  Thet wus the easiest part of it.  Them Dutchmen could n’t talk nuthin’ but their own lingo; an’ thar wa’n’t a navigator aboard, fer Sanchez hed kept all the offercers with him, an’ the end wus about a week later, when we piled up against an island off the African coast, an’ only one boat load of us got ashore.  Thet’s whut I know about Sanchez.”

“I had a shipmate once,” I observed, interested in his story, “who claimed to have seen the fellow; he described him as being a very large man, with intensely black hawklike eyes, and a heavy black beard almost hiding his face.”