“Tom May found it out,” replied the midshipman, “and I was idiot enough to go. Here, Tom,” he cried, signing to the generally amiable-looking sailor to approach; and he strode up, cutlass in hand, musket over his shoulder, scowling and fierce of aspect. “Tell Mr Murray what you showed me over yonder, Tom.”
The man’s face puckered up as he turned and met Murray’s eyes.
“It’s ’most too horrid, sir,” he said, “and don’t do no good but make a man savage, sir. There’s just fourteen of ’em among the trees there.”
“What, prisoners?” said Murray excitedly.
“Yes, sir, and six on ’em got the chains on ’em still.”
“Well, what about the armourer?” cried Murray excitedly, turning upon Roberts. “Didn’t Mr Anderson have them struck off?”
“No, lad,” replied Roberts. “There was only one of them alive out of the whole fourteen, and I don’t think she’ll be alive when Munday comes back.”
“Comes back! I didn’t know he had put off again.”
“Gone for the doctor,” said Roberts. “Go on, Tom May. Tell him what you made it out to be.”
“Just this, sir—that they’d got more than the schooner could take away, and they finished off the sick and wounded.”