“Rouse up, my lad, sharp!”
And looking wonderingly about him, he clapped one hand over his eyes to keep off the glare of an open lanthorn.
Chapter Seventeen.
On Board.
It was a strange experience, and half asleep and confused, Don could hardly make out whether he was one of the captives of the press-gang, or a prisoner being conveyed to gaol in consequence of Mike Bannock’s charge.
All seemed to be darkness, and the busy gang of armed men about him worked in a silent, furtive way, hurrying their prisoners, of whom, as they all stood together in a kind of yard behind some great gates, there seemed to be about a dozen, some injured, some angry and scowling, and full of complaints and threats now that they were about to be conveyed away; but every angry remonstrance was met by one more severe, and sometimes accompanied by a tap from the butt of a pistol, or a blow given with the hilt or flat of a cutlass.
“This here’s lively, Mas’ Don,” said Jem, as he stood beside his companion in misfortune.
“I want to speak to the principal officer,” said Don, excitedly. “We must not let them drive us off as if we were sheep.”