“Where go?” replied Newton, “go to the bottom.”

“Monsieur, il allait au port de Bo—­tom.”

“Bo—­tom,” repeated the old negro.  “Ou diable est ca?”

Here a general consultation was held, by which it appeared that such a port had never been heard of in the West Indies.

“Gustave Adolphe, demandez-lui si c’est un port Anglais.”

“I say—­Bo—­tom—­English port?”

“No,” replied Newton, amused with the mistake; “I should rather call it neutral.”

“C’est un port neutral, monsieur.”

“Gustave Adolphe, demandez-lui de quelle ile.”

“I say, what isle—­Bo—­tom?”

Newton, who was faint with hunger and thirst, was not inclined at the moment to continue the conversation, which otherwise would have been a source of amusement.  He replied by making signs that he wished to eat and drink.

“Monsieur,” said Gustave Adolphe to the old negro, “le prisonnier refuse de faire reponse, et demande a manger et a boire.”

“Va l’en chercher, Gustave Adolphe,” replied the old man.  “Allons, messieurs,” continued he, addressing the other negroes.  “Il faut lever l’ancre de suite, et amener notre prisonnier aux autorites; Charles Philippe, va chercher mon porte-voix.”

The negro captain walked up and down the deck of the schooner, a vessel about thirty feet long, until Charles Philippe made his appearance with the speaking-trumpet.  He then proceeded to get the vessel under weigh, with more noise and fuss than is to be heard when the proudest three-decker in the English navy expands her lofty canvas to the gale.

Gustave Adolphe, in obedience to the commands he had received, brought up to Newton a bunch of bananas, a large piece of salt fish, and a calabash of water.  The latter was immediately applied to his lips, and never removed while a drop remained, much to the astonishment of the negro, who again sported his English.

“I say—­very good—­ab more?”

“If you please,” replied Newton.

“Monsieur,” said Gustave Adolphe to his commander, “le prisonnier a soif, et demande encore de l’eau.”

“Va l’en chercher donc,” replied the old negro, with a wave of his speaking-trumpet.  “Charles Philippe, attention a la barre,[1] sans venir au vent, s’il vous plait.  Matelots[2] du gaillard d’avant,” continued he, roaring through his speaking-trumpet! “bordez le grand foc.”

[Footnote 1:  Mind your weather-helm.] [Footnote 2:  Forecastlemen, haul aft the jib-sheet.]

In the space of two hours, the schooner was brought to an anchor, with as much noise and importance as she had been got under weigh.  A boat capable of holding three people—­one rower and two sitters—­was shoved off the vessel’s deck, and the negro captain, having first descended to his cabin for a few minutes, returned on deck dressed in the extremity of their fashion, and ordered the boat to be manned.