“You see, Massa ’Plinter, I am desirable to serve you; it is good for me at present to make some friend wid the hofficer of de squadron, being as how dat I am absent widout leave.  If you will promise dat you will stand my friends, I will put you in de way of getting a shove across to de east end of Jamaica; and I will go wid you, too, for company.  But you must promise dat you will not seek to know more of de vessel, nor of her crew, than dey are willing to tell you, provided you are landed safe.”

Mr. Splinter agreed and presently Peter Mangrove went off in a canoe to a large, shallow vessel, to reappear with another blackamoor, of as ungainly an exterior as could well be imagined.

“Pray, sir, are you the master of that vessel?” said the lieutenant.

“No, sir, I am the mate; and I learn you are desirous of a passage to Jamaica.”  This was spoken with a broad Scotch accent.

“Yes, we do,” said I, in very great astonishment; “but we will not sail with the devil; and who ever saw a negro Scotchman before?”

The fellow laughed.  “I am black, as you see; so were my father and mother before me.  But I was born in the good town of Glasgow, notwithstanding; and many a voyage I have made as cabin-boy and cook with worthy old Jock Hunter.  But here comes our captain.  Captain Vanderbosh, here are two shipwrecked British officers who wish to be put ashore in Jamaica; will you take them, and what will you charge for their passage?”

The man he spoke to was a sun-burnt, iron-visaged veteran.

“Vy for von hundred thaler I will land dem safe in de bay.”

The bargain was ratified, and that same evening we set sail.  When off the San Domingo Gate two boats full of men joined us, and our crew was strengthened by about forty as ugly Christians, of all ages and countries, as I ever set eyes on.  From the moment they came on board Captain Vanderbosh sank into the petty officer, and the Scottish negro took the command, evincing great coolness, energy, and skill.

When night had fallen the captain made out a sail to windward.  Immediately every inch of canvas was close furled, every light carefully extinguished, a hundred and twenty men with cutlasses at quarters, and the ship under bare poles.  The strange sail could be seen through the night-glasses; she now burned a blue light—­without doubt an old fellow-cruiser of ours, the Spark.

“She is from Santa Martha with a freight of specie, I know,” said Williamson.  “I will try a brush with her.”

“I know the craft,” Splinter struck in, “a heavy vessel of her class, and you may depend on hard knocks and small profit if you do take her; while, if she takes you——­”

“I’ll be hanged if she does,” said Williamson, and he grinned at the conceit; “or, rather, I will blow the schooner up with my own hand before I strike; better that than have one’s bones bleached in chains on a quay at Port Royal.  But you cannot control us, gentlemen; so get down below, and take Peter Mangrove with you.  I would not willingly see those come to harm who have trusted me.”