In another moment the bow of the canoe slid upon the mud-bank of the river close to the slaver’s boat, which was watched by a couple of the most villainous-looking men that ever took part in that disgraceful traffic. They were evidently Portuguese sailors, and the scowl of their bronzed faces, when they saw the canoe approach the landing-place, showed that they had no desire to enter into amicable converse with the strangers.
At this moment the attention of the travellers was drawn to a gang of slaves who approached the wharf, chained together by the neck, and guarded by the crew of the Portuguese boat. Ailie looked on with a feeling of dread that induced her to cling to her father’s hand, while the men stood with folded arms, compressed lips, and knitted brows.
On the voyage up they had landed at this station, and had seen the slaves in their places of confinement. The poor creatures were apparently happy at that time, and seemed totally indifferent to their sad fate; but their aspect was very different now. They were being hurried away, they knew not whither, by strangers whom they had been taught to believe were monsters of cruelty besides being cannibals, and who had purchased them for the purpose of killing them and eating their bodies. The wild, terrified looks of the men, and the subdued looks and trembling gait of the women showed that they expected no mercy at the hands of their captors.
They hung back a little as they drew near to the boat, whereupon one of their conductors, who seemed to be in command of the party, uttered a fierce exclamation in Portuguese, and struck several of the men and women indiscriminately severe blows with his fists. In a few minutes they were all placed in the boat, and the crew had partly embarked, when Phil Briant, unable to restrain himself, muttered between his teeth to the Portuguese commander as he passed—
“Ye imp o’ darkness, av I only had ye in the ring for tshwo minits—jist tshwo—ah thin, wouldn’t I polish ye off.”
“Fat you say, sare?” cried the man, turning fiercely towards Briant, and swearing at him in bad English.
“Say, is it? Oh, then there’s a translation for ye, that’s understood in all lingos.”
Phil shook his clenched fist as close as possible to the nose of the Portuguese commander without actually coming into contact with that hooked and prominent organ.
The man started back and drew his knife, at the same time calling to several of his men, who advanced with their drawn knives.
“Ho!” cried Briant, and a jovial smile overspread his rough countenance as he sprang to a clear spot of ground and rolled up both sleeves of his shirt to the shoulders, thereby displaying a pair of arms that might, at a rapid glance, have been mistaken for a pair of legs—“that’s yer game, is it? won’t I stave in yer planks! won’t I shiver yer timbers, and knock out yer daylights, bless yer purty faces! I didn’t think ye had it in ye; come on darlints—toothpicks and all—as many as ye like; the more the better—wan at a time, or all at wance, it don’t matter, not the laste, be no manes!”