Amasa Delano

[laughs]

... um, uh, uh, this is at the end of the novella, and, uh, two, uh, white captains of ships who've just, uh, observed and, uh, uh, unwittingly, uh, one of them, a, a slave rebellion, are reflecting on their experience.

Uh, the American captain, uh, uh, Amasa Delano, says, um, "You generalized, Don Benito, and mournfully enough.

But the past is past.

Chapter three A, Benito Sereno, part one.

In the year seventeen ninety-nine, Captain Amasa Delano of Dukesbury, Massachusetts, commanding a large sealer and general trader, laid anchor with a valuable cargo in the harbor of Santa Maria, a small desert uninhabited island toward the southern extremity of the long coast of Chile.

There he had touched for water.

On the second day, not long after dawn, while lying in his berth, his mate came below, informing him that a strange sail was coming into the bay.

The less distant sight of that well-known boat, showing it, not as before, half blended with the haze, but with outline defined, so that its individuality, like a man's, was manifest, that boat, Rover by name, which though now in strange seas had often pressed the beach of Captain Delano's home, and brought to its threshold for repairs, had familiarly lain there as a Newfoundland dog.

The sight of that household boat evoked a thousand trustful associations which, contrasted with previous suspicions, filled him not only with lightsome confidence, but somehow with half-humorous self-reproaches at his former lack of it.

What, I, Amasa Delano, Jack of the Beach, as they called me when a lad, I, Amasa, the same that, duck satchel in hand, used to paddle along the waterside to the schoolhouse made from the old hulk, I, little Jack of the Beach, that used to go burying with Cousin Nat and the rest, I, to be murdered here at the ends of the earth on board a haunted pirate ship by a horrible Spaniard? Too nonsensical to think of.

Who would murder Amasa Delano? His conscience is clean.

Chapter three A, Benito Cereno, part one.

In the year seventeen ninety-nine, Captain Amasa Delano of Dukesbury, Massachusetts, commanding a large sealer and general trader, lay at anchor with a valuable cargo in the harbor of Santa Maria, a small, desert, uninhabited island toward the southern extremity of the long coast of Chile.

There he had touched for water.

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The less distant sight of that well-known boat, showing it, not as before, half blended with the haze, but with outline defined, so that its individuality, like a man's, was manifest, that boat, Rover by name, which though now in strange seas had often pressed the beach of Captain Delano's home, and brought to its threshold for repairs, had familiarly lain there as a Newfoundland dog.

The sight of that household boat evoked a thousand trustful associations, which, contrasted with previous suspicions, filled him not only with lightsome confidence, but somehow with half-humorous self-reproaches at his former lack of it.

What, I, Amasa Delano, Jack of the Beach, as they called me when a lad, I, Amasa, the same that, duck satchel in hand, used to paddle along the waterside to the schoolhouse made from the old hulk, I, little Jack of the Beach, that used to go burying with Cousin Nat and the rest, I, to be murdered here at the ends of the earth on board a haunted pirate ship by a horrible Spaniard? Too nonsensical to think of.

Who would murder Amasa Delano? His conscience is clean.