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

BECOMING AMERICA
REVOLUTIONARY AND EARLY NATIONAL PERIOD LITERATURE
according to my command; which is, that if at the given hour I am below, he must
take his stand and abide my coming.”
“Ah now, pardon me, but that is treating the poor fellow like an ex-king indeed.
Ah, Don Benito,” smiling, “for all the license you permit in some things, I fear lest,
at bottom, you are a bitter hard master.”
Again Don Benito shrank; and this time, as the good sailor thought, from a
genuine twinge of his conscience.
Again conversation became constrained. In vain Captain Delano called
attention to the now perceptible motion of the keel gently cleaving the sea; with
lack-lustre eye, Don Benito returned words few and reserved.
By-and-by, the wind having steadily risen, and still blowing right into the
harbor bore the San Dominick swiftly on. Sounding a point of land, the sealer at
distance came into open view.
Meantime Captain Delano had again repaired to the deck, remaining there
some time. Having at last altered the ship’s course, so as to give the reef a wide
berth, he returned for a few moments below.
I will cheer up my poor friend, this time, thought he.
“Better and better,” Don Benito, he cried as he blithely re-entered: “there will
soon be an end to your cares, at least for awhile. For when, after a long, sad voyage,
you know, the anchor drops into the haven, all its vast weight seems lifted from the
captain’s heart. We are getting on famously, Don Benito. My ship is in sight. Look
through this side-light here; there she is; all a-taunt-o! The Bachelor’s Delight, my
good friend. Ah, how this wind braces one up. Come, you must take a cup of coee
with me this evening. My old steward will give you as ne a cup as ever any sultan
tasted. What say you, Don Benito, will you?”
At rst, the Spaniard glanced feverishly up, casting a longing look towards the
sealer, while with mute concern his servant gazed into his face. Suddenly the old
ague of coldness returned, and dropping back to his cushions he was silent.
“You do not answer. Come, all day you have been my host; would you have
hospitality all on one side?”
“I cannot go,” was the response.
“What? it will not fatigue you. The ships will lie together as near as they can,
without swinging foul. It will be little more than stepping from deck to deck; which
is but as from room to room. Come, come, you must not refuse me.”
“I cannot go,” decisively and repulsively repeated Don Benito.
Renouncing all but the last appearance of courtesy, with a sort of cadaverous
sullenness, and biting his thin nails to the quick, he glanced, almost glared, at
his guest, as if impatient that a stranger’s presence should interfere with the full
indulgence of his morbid hour. Meantime the sound of the parted waters came
more and more gurglingly and merrily in at the windows; as reproaching him for
his dark spleen; as telling him that, sulk as he might, and go mad with it, nature
cared not a jot; since, whose fault was it, pray?
But the foul mood was now at its depth, as the fair wind at its height.
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