“’Tis true, he is an Englishman.  But, gentlemen, were there not three persons in the hut?”

There were, indeed, and the Indian perished in the flames, making no attempt to escape.

The officer, who belonged to the army investing Carthagena, now treated us with great civility; he heard our story, and desired his men to assist us in burying the remains of our late commander.

We stayed that night with the captain of the outpost, who received us very civilly at a temporary guard-house, and apologised for the discomfort under which we must pass the night.  He gave us the best he had, and that was bad enough, both of food and wine, before showing us into the hut, where we found a rough deal coffin, lying on the very bench that was to be our bed.  This he ordered away with all the coolness in the world, saying, “It was only one of his people who had died that morning of yellow fever.”

“Comfortable country this,” quoth Splinter, “and a pleasant morning we have had of it, Tom!”

III.—­The Piccaroon

From the Spanish headquarters at Torrecilla we were allowed to go to the village of Turbaco, a few miles distant from the city for change of air.

“Why, Peter,” said Mr. Splinter, addressing a negro who sat mending his jacket in one of the enclosures near the water gate of the arsenal, “don’t you know me?”

“Cannot say dat I do,” rejoined the negro, very gravely.  “Have not de honour of your acquaintance, sir.”

“Confound you, sir!  But I know you well enough, my man; and you can scarcely have forgotten Lieutenant Splinter of the Torch, one would think?”

The name so startled the poor fellow, that in his hurry to unlace his legs, as he sat tailor-fashion, he fairly capsized and toppled down on his nose.

“Eh!—­no—­yes, him sure enough!  And who is de piccaniny hofficer?  Oh!  I see, Massa Tom Cringle!  Where have you dropped from, gentlemen?  Where is de old Torch?  Many a time hab I, Peter Mangrove, pilot to him Britannic Majesty’s squadron, taken de old brig in and through amongst de keys at Port Royal.”

“She will never give you that trouble again, my boy—­foundered—­all hands lost, Peter, but the two you see before you.”

“Werry sorry, Massa ’Plinter, werry sorry.  What? de black cook’s-mate and all?  But misfortune can’t be help.  Stop till I put up my needle, and I will take a turn wid you.  Proper dat British hofficers in distress should assist one anoder—­we shall consult togeder.  How can I serve you?”

“Why, Peter, if you could help us to a passage to Port Royal, it would be serving us most essentially.  Here we have been for more than a month, without a single vessel belonging to the station having looked in; our money is running short, and in another six weeks we shall not have a shot left in the locker.”

The negro looked steadfastly at us, and then carefully around before he answered.