At that moment a dead silence fell, and the big black’s white shirt and trousers were visible, and he, too, now stepped forward into the light, while before he could speak a low groan came out from the darkness.
“I thought he was killed,” cried Mark, and the man began to speak volubly and gesticulate, pointing back.
“Bah!” exclaimed Mr Russell. “We ought not to be here without an interpreter. He is not hurt; it is the other black. Stand fast, my lads, in case the poor wretches attack. Now, then, where are you hurt?”
This was to the second black sailor, whose white duck shirt was horrible with stains of blood, as he began to talk fast now and point forward.
“Wounds must be slight,” cried the lieutenant. “Can you make out a word of what he says, Vandean?”
“No, sir; but let me try.”
Mark pointed forward, and without a moment’s hesitation the two black sailors plunged into the darkness and returned, half dragging, half carrying a ghastly-looking object into the square of light shed from above.
“Oh, here’s the wounded man, then,” cried the lieutenant. “Let’s get him up into the daylight.”
Mark pointed down at the slave, who was bleeding freely, and the big sailor now spoke out a few words fiercely, with the result that half a dozen nude slaves came shrinkingly forward, and in obedience to a gesture, lifted the wounded man and carried him up to the deck.
The officers and men followed, and the two black sailors came last, to pay no heed to the wounded man, but proceed at once to refill the buckets, and carry them down into the hold past the guard set over the hatchway. Then after bidding Bob Howlett to hoist a signal for the surgeon to come aboard, Mr Russell roughly bandaged the terrible wound the slave had upon his head, the others who had carried up the sufferer looking stupidly on, blinking and troubled by the sunlight, to which they had evidently been strangers for some time.