However, I received small comfort from the thought, for there was that about this great gloomy war-ship—­frigate those about me called her—­which awed and depressed my spirits; all appeared so ponderously sullen, so massive with concealed power, so mysteriously silent.  My eyes, searching for each visible object, detected scarcely a stir of life aboard, except as some head would arise for an instant above the rail, or my glance fell upon the motionless figure of a sentry, standing at the top of the narrow steps leading downward to the water, a huge burly fellow, whose side-arms glistened ominously in the sun.  These were the sole signs of human presence; yet, from snatches of conversation, I learned that hidden away in the heart of that black floating monster of wood and iron, were nearly four hundred men, and the mere knowledge made the sombre silence more impressive than ever.

Except for gossiping spectators lining the shore, nothing living appeared about the entire scene, if I except a dozen or more small boats, propelled by lusty black oarsmen, deeply laden with produce, busily plying back and forth between various vessels, seeking market for their wares.  Even these, as the priest told me, had apparently been warned away from the flag-ship, as I observed how carefully they avoided any approach to her boarding-ladder.  The longer I remained, the more thoroughly hopeless appeared any prospect of success.  Nor could I conjure up a practical—­nay! even possible—­method of placing so much as a foot on board the “Santa Maria.”  Surely never was prison-ship guarded with more jealous care, and never did man face more hopeless quest than this confronting me.  The longer I gazed upon that grim, black, sullen mass of wood and iron—­that floating fortress of despotic Spanish power—­the more desperate appeared my mission; the darker grew every possibility of plucking a victim from out that monster’s tightly closed jaws.  Yet I was not one to forego an enterprise lightly because of difficulty or danger, so with dogged persistency I clung to the water front, knowing nowhere else to go, and blindly trusting that some happening might open to me a door of opportunity.

It frequently seems that when a man once comes, in a just cause, to such mind as this, when he trusts God rather than himself, there is a divinity which aids him.  Surely it was well I waited in patience, for suddenly another produce boat, evidently new to the trade, deeply laden with fruit and roots, bore down the river, the two negroes at the oars pointing its blunt nose directly toward the flag-ship, attracted no doubt by its superior size.  Instantly noting their course I awaited their reception with interest, an interest intensified by a drawling English voice from amid the crowd about me, saying: 

“I reckon thar’ll be some dead niggers in thet thar bumboat if they don’t sheer off almighty soon.”