choice. It's their trade, and they like it. Sanchez only aims to keep
hold of a few good men, because he has got to have sailors; but most
of his crew are nothing but plain cut-throats."

"Where does he find them?"

"Where? Why the West Indies are full of such devils; been breeding
them down there for two hundred years---Indians and half-breeds,
niggers, Creoles, Portuguese, Spanish, and every damned mongrel you
ever heard of. Sanchez himself is half French. The hell-hound who
kicked you is a Portugee, and LeVere is more nigger than anything
else. I'll bet there is a hundred rats on board this _Namur_ right now
who'd cut your throat for a sovereign, and never so much as think of
it again."

"A hundred? Is there that many aboard?"

"A hundred an' thirty all told. Most o' 'em bunk amidships. They're
not sailormen, but just cut-throats, an' sea wolves. Yer ought ter see
'em swarm out on deck, like hungry rats, when thar's a fight comin'.
It's all they're good fer."

"Watkins," I said soberly, after a pause during which he spat on the
dirty deck to thus better express his feelings "do you mean to say
that in three years you've had no chance to escape? No opportunity to
get away?"

"Not a chance, mate; no more will you. The only place I've put foot
ashore has been Porto Grande, where we run in to refit. That's a worse
hell than the ship itself."