Becoming America - An Exploration of American Literature from Precolonial to Post-Revolution, 2018a

BECOMING AMERICA
REVOLUTIONARY AND EARLY NATIONAL PERIOD LITERATURE
“Yes.”
“But died of the fever?”
“Died of the fever. Oh, could I but—”
Again quivering, the Spaniard paused.
“Pardon me,” said Captain Delano, lowly, “but I think that, by a sympathetic
experience, I conjecture, Don Benito, what it is that gives the keener edge to your
grief. It was once my hard fortune to lose, at sea, a dear friend, my own brother,
then supercargo. Assured of the welfare of his spirit, its departure I could have
borne like a man; but that honest eye, that honest hand—both of which had so
often met mine—and that warm heart; all, all—like scraps to the dogs—to throw all
to the sharks! It was then I vowed never to have for fellow-voyager a man I loved,
unless, unbeknown to him, I had provided every requisite, in case of a fatality, for
embalming his mortal part for interment on shore. Were your friend’s remains
now on board this ship, Don Benito, not thus strangely would the mention of his
name aect you.”
“On board this ship?” echoed the Spaniard. Then, with horried gestures, as
directed against some spectre, he unconsciously fell into the ready arms of his
attendant, who, with a silent appeal toward Captain Delano, seemed beseeching
him not again to broach a theme so unspeakably distressing to his master.
This poor fellow now, thought the pained American, is the victim of that sad
superstition which associates goblins with the deserted body of man, as ghosts with
an abandoned house. How unlike are we made! What to me, in like case, would
have been a solemn satisfaction, the bare suggestion, even, terries the Spaniard
into this trance. Poor Alexandro Aranda! what would you say could you here see
your friend—who, on former voyages, when you, for months, were left behind, has,
I dare say, often longed, and longed, for one peep at you—now transported with
terror at the least thought of having you anyway nigh him.
At this moment, with a dreary grave-yard toll, betokening a aw, the ship’s
forecastle bell, smote by one of the grizzled oakum-pickers, proclaimed ten o’clock,
through the leaden calm; when Captain Delano’s attention was caught by the
moving gure of a gigantic black, emerging from the general crowd below, and
slowly advancing towards the elevated poop. An iron collar was about his neck,
from which depended a chain, thrice wound round his body; the terminating links
padlocked together at a broad band of iron, his girdle.
“How like a mute Atufal moves,” murmured the servant.
The black mounted the steps of the poop, and, like a brave prisoner, brought
up to receive sentence, stood in unquailing muteness before Don Benito, now
recovered from his attack.
At the rst glimpse of his approach, Don Benito had started, a resentful shadow
swept over his face; and, as with the sudden memory of bootless rage, his white lips
glued together.
This is some mulish mutineer, thought Captain Delano, surveying, not without
a mixture of admiration, the colossal form of the negro.
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