“Oh, he did that, sir, did he? But I say, I wonder what the skipper would say about our being in such a hole.”
Murray looked sharply round at the speaker, who to his surprise began to chuckle softly.
“I don’t see anything to laugh at, Tom May,” said the middy sharply.
“No sir,” replied the man; “I s’pose not. There aren’t really nothing.”
“Then why do you laugh?”
“Couldn’t help it, sir. Only you see it does seem such cheek on our part, just a boat and a half’s crew and our orficer marching right in here no one knows where, only as it’s forest and just as cool as you please, and all these here niggers—reg’lar black thunderstorm of ’em—shutting us in, and all as quiet as mice. We’re not a bit frightened of ’em, but I’ll be bound to say as they’re scared of us. It do make me laugh, it do; but I s’pose it’s because we’ve got what they arn’t, sir—discipline, you see.”
“I think it takes something more than discipline, Tom,” said the midshipman. “Our men’s pluck has something to do with it.”
“Well, sir, I s’pose it has,” replied the man. “But look here, how they’re standing on each side for us to pass through. Talk about hundreds, why if it goes on like this there’ll be thousands soon.”
For the rich red glowing light became stronger and stronger, until at the end of half-an-hour the trees grew more open and the party could make out flame and smoke arising, while the silence of the marching men was at times broken by the crackle of burning wood.
“Well, sir,” exclaimed the big sailor, “I can’t say as I can make it out yet what game this is going to be, but anyhow we’re in for it whatever it is. I say, Mr Murray, sir, these here black African niggers arn’t cannibals, are they?”