“I wouldn’t go, Frank,” whispered Roberts.
“I must,” was the reply. “Lead the way, Tom.”
“One of our lads is with her, sir,” said the man, hesitating.
“So much the better,” cried Murray firmly. “You heard what I said?”
Roberts, who was nearest to the sailor, heard him heave a deep sigh as he gave his trousers a hitch, and led the way past the vile-smelling palm and bamboo erection which had quite lately been the prison of a large number of wretched beings, the captives made by the warlike tribe who kept up the supply of slaves for bartering to the miscreants. Those who from time to time sailed up the river to the king’s town to carry on the hateful trade content if they could load up with a terrible cargo and succeed in getting
one-half of the wretched captives alive to their destination in one of the plantation islands, or on the mainland.
Tom May took as roundabout a route as he could contrive so as to spare the young officers the gruesome sights that he and the other men had encountered; but enough was left to make Murray wince again and again.
“Why, Tom,” he exclaimed at last, “no punishment could be too bad for the wretches who are answerable for all this.”
“That’s what me and my messmates have been saying, sir; and of course it’s going to be a nasty job, but we’re all ready and waiting for our officers to give the word—Course I mean, sir, as soon as we get the chance.”