I had made a wooden one from heavy
sinking timber, but a stalwart ranchman coming along, one day, brought a
boat anchor with him which, he said, had been used by his slaves as a
pot-hook. "But now that they are free and away," said he, "I have no
further use for the crooked thing." A sewing-machine, which had served
to stitch the sails together, was coveted by him, and was of no further
use to us; in exchange for this the prized anchor was readily secured,
the owner of it leaving us some boot into the bargain. Things working
thus in our favour, the wooden anchor was stowed away to be kept as a
spare bower.
These arrangements completed, our craft took on the appearance of a
fishing smack, and I began to feel somewhat in my old element, with no
fear of the lack of ways and means when we should arrive on our own
coast, where I knew of fishing banks. And a document which translated
read: "A licence to catch fish inside and outside of the bar" was
readily granted by the port authorities.
"How far outside the bar may this carry us?" I asked.
"_Quien sabe!_" said the officer. (Literally translated, "Who knows?"
but in Spanish or Portuguese used for, "Nobody knows, or, I don't
care.
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