“Now,” said Mr Russell, as he rose, “we are in the dark as much as ever. Can’t you explain what was wrong, Mr Vandean?”
“No, sir; I saw a struggle, and one man seemed wounded.”
“And it was someone else. Tut—tut—tut! and we can’t understand a word. What a useful thing speech is, after all.”
Just then the two blacks came up for more water, and Mark tried to communicate with them, but only with the result that they looked puzzled till the midshipman pointed to the wounded man.
“How did it happen?” he said; and the big black looked at him heavily. Then he seemed to grasp the meaning of the question, and laughed excitedly.
Pointing to the wounded man lying on the deck, he ran to the group of slaves standing staring at him, with their foreheads wrinkled up and their eyes full of despair; he seized one, whose countenance assumed a stern look of anger as the black sailor pointed to him, and made the sign of striking a blow, pointing again at the wounded man.
“He evidently means that the man was wounded by his fellow-slave,” said Mr Russell.
The black sailor watched the officer, and then thrust his hand behind the slave to take a short, flat piece of wood from the poor wretch’s waistband—a piece of heavy wood, shaped something like a willow leaf.
“The weapon evidently,” said Mr Russell; “but I don’t see why he should wound his fellow-sufferer.”
But the black sailor had not done with his explanation. He looked to see that the officers were watching him, and then placed the weapon in its owner’s hand, which he raised, and said a few words to his fellow black with the blood-stained garb.