Prisoners of Chance

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."

Scarcely were these prophetic words uttered, when the soldier statue at the head of the boarding-stairs swung his musket forward into position, and hailed in emphatic Spanish, a language which, thanks to my mother, I knew fairly well. There followed a moment of angry controversy, during which the startled negroes rested upon their oars, while the enraged guard threatened to fire if they drifted a yard closer. In the midst of this hubbub a head suddenly popped up above the rail. Then a tall, ungainly figure, clad in a faded, ill-fitting uniform, raised itself slowly, leaning far out over the side, a pair of weak eyes, shadowed by colored glasses, gazing down inquiringly into the small boat.

"Vat ees it you say you have zare?" he asked in an attempt at French, which I may only pretend to reproduce in English. "Vat ees ze cargo of ze leetle boat?"

Instantly the two hucksters gave voice, fairly running over each other in their confused jargon, during which I managed to distinguish native names for potatoes, yams, sweet corn, peaches, apples, and I know not what else.

The Spaniard perched high on the rail waved his long arms in unmitigated disgust.

"Caramba!" he cried the moment he could make his voice distinguished above the uproar. "I vant none of zos zings; Saint Cristoval, non! non! Ze Capitaine he tole me get him some of ze olif--haf you no olif in ze leetle boat?"

The darkies shook their heads, instantly starting in again to call their wares, but the fellow on the rail waved them back.

"Zen ve don't vant you here!" he cried shrilly. "Go vay dam quick, or else ze soldier shoot." As if in obedience to an order the stolid guard brought his weapon menacingly to the shoulder.

How the episode terminated I did not remain to learn. At that moment I only clearly comprehended this--I had a way opened, an exceedingly slight one to be sure, of doubtful utility, yet still a way, which might lead me into the guarded mystery of that ship. The time for action had arrived, and that was like a draught of wine to me. Eagerly I slipped back through the increasing crowd of gaping countrymen, to where the negro had found a spot of comfort in the sun.