Within two hours from the time we left the surf, our arrangements had been made, and we were leading between two and three hundred blacks to the beach, where payment was to be made, and they were to be shipped aboard, Cortelli’s own guard of coast pirates making the escort for the unfortunates.
Our boat came alongside with its first load of human freight. Hicks and Curtis stood at the quarter-rail watching the creatures, and for the first time in many days seemed on speaking terms. They appeared to comment upon a girl who was crying and sobbing bitterly, and who was shackled to a huge buck, who sat stolidly gazing out to sea.
The oily swell rocked the boat but little; the barque, however, rolled lazily like a huge log, swinging her long spars slowly from side to side, and the momentum of each swing hove her down until her channels brought up with a smacking jar upon the surface.
This made it necessary for the boatman to use some caution, for, if the small boat’s gunwale caught anywhere upon the vessel’s side while she was on her downward swing, it would instantly be forced under and the craft upset.
Cortelli stood at the break of the poop, talking to the trader, and, as the girl was told to make ready for a spring aboard, he looked over the side and grinned. The poor creature was frightened and shrank back, delaying the unloading.
“Stir her up,” said the Guinea to one of his bullies.
A black pirate laid the lash, and she screamed.
“Hold on there!” cried Hicks, leaning over the side. “If you do that again, I’ll pistol you.”
His face was flushed, and his hand sought his broad leather belt, where hung his cutlass and long-barrelled pistol belonging to the barque’s supply.
“Sho, man, what’s the matter?” asked Yankee Dan, and the Guinea scowled savagely.