"Now, missus, I can't go an' leave my dead baby for de wharf-rats to
eat, an' de boat goes out at three o'clock."

I reported the death of the child and of the distress of the mother.
"Tell her," said the officer, "we will see that her child is buried
this afternoon, and I want her to go on this boat." I told the mother
of the captain's wish, and that I would see that her child was buried.

"Ob, missus, it 'pears like I can't leave him so; they'll leave him
here to-night, an' dese wharf-rats are awful. Da eat one dead chile's
face all one side off, an' one of its feet was all gnawed off. I don't
want to leave my chile on dis bare groun'."

The grief of this poor mother was distressing in the extreme. She knew
not whether her husband and three older children, sold away two years
previously, were still slaves or living, as she had never heard a word
from them since they were taken from her. Those sad separations, she
said, were much harder to bear than the death of this child. But she
consented to go, on my promise to see that her child was buried before
night. After she left for the boat I went to the captain to see his
promise performed. He seemed very indifferent.

"What is the difference if that child shouldn't be buried this
afternoon or whether wharf-rats eat it or not?"

"You promised to have it buried this afternoon," I said, "and I told
that poor woman I would see that it was done; and I see no other way
than to hold you to that promise, for I shall meet her on the island,
and I must report to her."