There were five steerage passengers, disreputable-looking fellows in
_ponchos_ and slouch hats, lounging about the deck smoking; but
when we got outside the harbour and the ship began to toss a little,
they very soon dropped their cigars and began ignominiously creeping
away out of sight of the grinning sailors. Only one remained, a
grizzly-bearded, rough-looking old gaucho, who firmly kept his seat
at the stern, as if determined to see the last of "The Mount," as the
pretty city near the foot of Magellan's Hill is called by the English
people in this region.
To satisfy myself that none of these fellows were sent in pursuit of
Demetria, I asked our Italian captain who they were and how long they
had been on board, and was much relieved to hear that they were
fugitives--rebels probably--and had all been concealed for the past
three or four days in the ship, waiting to get away from Montevideo.
Towards evening it came on very rough, the wind veering to the south
and blowing half a gale, a very favourable wind, as it happened, to
take us across this unlovely "Silver Sea," as the poets of the Plata
insist on calling it, with its villainous, brick-red, chopping waves,
so disagreeable to bad sailors. Paquita and Demetria suffered agonies,
so that I was obliged to keep with them a good deal. I very imprudently
told them not to be alarmed, that it was nothing--_only
sea-sickness_--and I verily believe they both hated me with all
their hearts for a little while in consequence.
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