It must have been getting toward two bells when Mark, who had been bending over Mr Russell, to try and make out by touch how he was, started up in horror, for, from the direction of the moored vessel, there came a burst of cries, as if someone was being tortured in a terrible way.
“What’s that?” cried Mark, in an excited whisper.
“What I wanted to hear, sir,” replied Tom Fillot in the same tone. “It might ha’ been as that warn’t a slaver, after all; but that there noise settles it.”
“Then you think it was the poor wretches crying out?”
“Sure on it, sir; as sure as I am that there’s somebody going to shout at ’em to be quiet, or he’ll come and chuck some of ’em overboard.”
Even as the man spoke, footsteps were heard, and then there was a sharp sound like the banging of the top of the hatch with a capstan bar, followed by a fierce shout delivered in a threatening way.
Then came a low, piteous moaning and sobbing, mingled with the crying of children, and once more the top of the hatch was banged.
“Guess I’m coming down to give it to some of you. Stop that! Do yer hear?”
These words came clearly enough over the water in the silence of the tropic night, and once more all was still again, and there was a low whistling, as if someone were walking back to the cabin-hatch, where he stood for a few minutes, and then went below.
“Tom,” said Mark, “that’s the slaver skipper.”