It seemed to be no new thing to the blacks, for the huge fellow who had acted as smith stepped down into the boat, followed by his assistant, walked aft, and deposited his bag with the dogs, and then stooped down and drew from under the side-seat a couple of muskets, one of which he handed to his assistant, both examining their priming, and then seating themselves one on either side of the boat, with their guns between their legs, watching the embarkation.
“You next,” said the overseer to Pete; and the prisoner walked to the edge, made as if to leap, but checked himself and climbed down, feeling that the other way would have been risky, weighted as his legs were by the shackles. “Help your young mate,” said the overseer roughly; and Pete’s eyes flashed as he stood up and held out his hand to Nic, who shrank from the contact as his wrist was caught. Then he descended feebly into the boat, and then had to be helped right forward, to sit down close to one of the blacks who was now holding on to the woodwork with a boat-hook.
The other prisoners followed awkwardly enough in their irons, and took the places pointed out to them by one of the blacks who had been in charge of the boat.
As the second of the party took his place next to Pete, he hung down his head and whispered:
“Humpy says we’re to make a dash for it and take the boat.”
Pete started; but the man, under the pretence of adjusting his irons, went on, with his head nearly in his comrade’s lap:
“T’others know. We shall push off into the stream, where he can’t hit us with his pistols, and we can soon pitch the niggers overboard.”
“Silence, there!” shouted the overseer.
The other men descended, and exchanged glances with their companions—glances which Pete saw meant “Be ready!”—and his blood began to dance through his veins.
Should he help, or shouldn’t he?