On its nearer approach the king asked me if I would take charge of the ship if he would kill all the crew and take possession of her. This I refused to do, saying our countrymen would come there in great numbers and kill us. He, shaking his head, said, "if they will kill you, what would they do to us? we will not touch[156] them." They suppose all ships and crews, like themselves, belong to some great king; and if any crew commits any wrong upon them, and they cannot be revenged upon the aggressors themselves, they will upon the next ship that comes there, believing one common head suffers or bears the loss. This is the reason, generally, that innocent crews have been murdered so cruelly by them, without any seeming provocation. The ship entered the harbor and dropped her anchor. The boats came to land with the captain and others. At first sight I thought I recognized in the person of the captain, a friend of other days. This idea was strengthened much by hearing the crew address him as "Capt. Coleman." I immediately stepped up and asked him if he ever sailed in the brig Henry. He assured me he had. I then, looking him steadily in the eye, asked, "do you know me, sir?" Looking at me a moment steadily, he said, "yes, Bill! though your sunburnt countenance and savage connections almost bid defiance to the recognition." How I came there in that horrible place, with that outlandish crew, and what I could be doing, exceedingly puzzled him. I chatted with him some time. The king noticing a spirit of familiarity existing with us, stood by with more than common watchfulness, and at every few words, would say, yahah? (what says he?) I told him at each inquiry that he wanted hogs and water, or in some other way quieted him.