THERE she was, just rounding the point—the bonnie, white-winged barque—and standing in for the beach near to which the natives dwelt.
“That’s a blackbirder,” said Stransom, “as sure as I’m a sailor. But we shall stop her game, shan’t we, Fitzroy?”
There was no time to lose.
The savages had already assembled on the beach to give the enemy a warm welcome, and Stransom sent a black fellow off at once to the king, bidding him be of good cheer, because Fitzroy and Gourmand would be with them round his own kraal without a moment’s delay.
This was done, but the blackbirders had the cruelty to fire a volley at the retreating cannibals, killing and wounding several. The men from the fort now hurried up, making a slight detour through the bush in order to keep out of sight. Gourmand carried the swivel gun. Fitzroy and the other two, rifles and the ammunition. There was a battery in front of the native village, and behind this they quickly hid.
The blackbirders landed in three well-armed boats, and forthwith commenced the attack, stopping every now and then to fire a volley at the trenches. This was harmless enough, and Stransom would not permit the savages to show themselves, although they were now burning for revenge.
Probably the blackbirders—a more cutthroat-looking crew it would have been impossible to conceive—suspected an ambuscade, for they now advanced somewhat more slowly.
Again they fired.
And immediately the trenches replied—a regular peppering volley that both astonished and staggered these accursed slave-hunters.
“Back to your boats, you villains,” shouted Stransom, “or we’ll blow you to Jericho.”