“Seems to me, sir,” said one of the men, “that we’re a-standing in the middle of it here.”
“I know it ketched fire, sir,” said May.
“How can you be sure, man?” said Murray angrily, for he was smarting with pain, and forced to close the lids over his stinging eyes.
“Set it afire myself, sir, and the flames run up the bamboo postesses which set ’em snapping and crackling and going on popping and banging just as if the marine jollies was practising with blank cartridge on an exercise day.”
“But are you sure, Tom?”
“Sure as sure, sir. Mr Anderson never thought it would go like this here. He’d got a kind of idee that we should be able to light all the niggers’ huts one at a time, ’stead of which as soon as we started a few on ’em they set all the rest off, and the job was done.”
“Done, my man!” said Murray. “Why, hark at the roar right away yonder.”
“Oh, yes, sir,” grumbled the man; “I’m a-harking fast enough. There she goes, and as somebody said, I dunno now whether it was me or one of my messmates, we seem to ha’ set all Africa going, and it won’t stop till there’s no more wood to burn.”
“Well,” said Murray decisively, “one thing’s very plain: we can do no more, and we must make for the river.”
“But what about orders, sir?” said the man. “We was to do it thorough, and see as the whole blessed place was a-blazing.”