As we drew up alongside The Gentle Hand, our peculiar attire attracted more or less attention. Hawkson called vociferously for Hicks, Renshaw, and the rest to observe us. Captain Howard threw back his head and cackled away like an old hen, his bald poll turning red with exertion.

“Sink me!” he cried, “but you two men shall lay aft here.”

The Yankee trader shook with emotion, and insisted that Mr. Gull fetch us aft to parade the quarter-deck. This I had no intention of doing, so, springing quickly into the channels, I made a rush for the forecastle, and got below before we were captured. But Tim was not so lucky. He was intercepted by Mr. Gull, and escaped below only after a vigorous chase, in which all hands joined, pelting him with rope’s-ends and whatever they could lay hands to. As the uproar of laughter on deck subsided, we changed our jumpers for clothes, both mad and disgusted thoroughly at the humiliating performance we had undergone. But, tired as we were, Mr. Gull turned us to with the men who had stayed aboard and were sent below into the ’tween deck, where the noise of hammering now became apparent. Richards took no notice of us while he was at work overhauling a pile of lumber brought from the shore. Evidently he was disgusted at our behaviour and took this way of showing it.

Jorg, the Finn, was working away with a gang of men, building a platform around the sides of the empty hold, and driving heavy staples into the barque’s ceiling. He gave me a sour look as I passed him, and then Mr. Gull led the way aft to where Henry was at work cutting up planks.

“Better measure ’em off accurate, Heywood,” he said, motioning to the pile of lumber that lay near. “Allow six feet six inches fer them long niggers, or they’ll be lame from hanging their heavy feet over the edge.”

Then he passed on, leaving me alone with the ferret-faced officer, who was sawing up a length of plank. The long lines of staples with chains attached began to have some meaning to me now, for the effects of the run had done much to clear my head. Henry saw my gaze following the line forward, and stopped to mop the perspiration from his dripping face.

“What d’ye think, will she carry five hundred, hey?” he said.

The horror of the thing began to dawn upon me. The chains and staples were for human beings. The temperature of that hold, as it was, could not have been less than one hundred degrees. What would it be with a mass of filthy black humanity packed and wedged in as tight as they could be stowed!

“Is five hundred niggers her rating?” I asked, with unconcern.

Henry shot his fox-like glance at me.

“Don’t you really know no better’n that?” he said.

“Slaving and piracy hasn’t been my chief occupation, Henry,” I said. “My people have always been respectable, and I have been a man-o’-war’s man. Besides, my mother hasn’t been hung yet.”

“Well,” he said, wincing at this last part of my remark, “law an’ justice air two different things. It hain’t a penal hoffence to bring a fool into the world, but it should be,--an’ a capital one, too.”

“I’ll admit justice miscarried in the case of your parents, but let it go. Explain what’s wrong with me. I don’t know any better than ask if five hundred is this bark’s complement, cargo, or whatever you choose to call it.”

“Well, if ye’d ever been in a slaver before, Hi cudn’t hexcuse yer foolishness, Heywood, but, since ye ask me, ye may note that this here ’tween-decks will mighty nigh accommodate a trifle o’ five hundred. What about the lower hold, hey?”

“Do you mean that they’ll fill her up solid with human bodies?” I asked.

“Oh, no; they’ll let in a bit o’ air through the hatch-gratings in good weather. The voyage ain’t a-goin’ to last for ever. Say, d’ye think this is a slow ship? You seen her run. Honest now, how long d’ye calculate we be ’tween here an’ the Guinea coast. A man, even a nigger, can stand bein’ shut up a little while. An’ then, stave you, Heywood, for a priest, don’t ye think a bit o’ sufferin’ is worth goin’ through to be a good Christian an’ die in the faith, hey? Every black bloomin’ son of a gun’ll be as good Christian as you are afore he dies.”

I said no more. When I saw Tim he showed no surprise.

“I expected at least that,” he said. “It’s Yankee Dan’s principal business. I was with them once before, an’ that’s the reason I wanted you to clear.”

“It’s a strange Yankee that should be at the head of such a business,” said I. “Now, if a Spaniard--”

“Stow it!” said Tim, angrily. “There never was any other real slaver than the Yankee, an’ they’re the ones makin’ the most howl against it. Nearly every slave-ship that comes here has a Yankee shipper.”

This I found later to be only too true. It was more than disgraceful for the fact that, even at that time, in the Northern States there had been angry discussions upon the question, the South being scored heavily for the slaves it held from necessity to work the plantations.

It was evident that the English governor winked at the trade, and that few, if any, of our crew had suspected before this time just what the barque’s trade would be. As there seemed every prospect of many of them not coming aboard again, I would not worry myself about the matter when they would learn the truth. As for Martin, he would be glad to be in a slaver, and as for the morals of the rest of the liberty crew, they were not worth considering when pitted against a few English sovereigns or American dollars. I went aft that evening to lower the colours with a very disagreeable feeling at the prospect in store.

It was always the custom aboard The Gentle Hand, I learned, to lower the colours in man-o’-war style when the vessel was in soundings, so I repaired to the quarter-deck to load one of the after guns, and stand by to set the sun.

Tim went with me, acting as quartermaster, and I felt somewhat abashed at the presence of Miss Allen, Yankee Dan’s daughter. I wondered if she had seen me come aboard, and the memory of that jumper put on upside down made my face wear a smile that was not lost on Hawkson.

“Glad to see you lookin’ happy, Heywood. Yer see, this ain’t sech a bad ship, after all. Put a good big charge in that twelve-pounder, and p’int her straight for the governor’s house, and let him know there’s some say t’us. It never hurts to put on a bit o’ side to these lazy rulers,” said he, as I began unlacing the gun-cover.

“Do you want a shot rammed in it, too?” I asked. “It might be just as well to stir him up with a handful of good iron. It would probably be small loss to his country if he happened to try and stop it.”

“That’s where you show a lot o’ foolishness,” he replied. “There’s devilish few men like him, and, if his country can spare him, we can’t. By no means let a shot get in that gun.”

While we were talking, Miss Allen came up the companionway accompanied by Hicks, Renshaw, and Curtis. She looked magnificent as she stood there in the fading sunlight, her hair taking on a deep coppery-red colour, and her eyes sparkling with amusement.

“Will you let me fire it, Mr. Sailorman?” she asked, nodding toward the gun which I was loading.

“Indeed he will not,” said Mr. Curtis, whom I now observed to be a man of some presence, wearing a single eye-glass and a look such as I had imagined belonged to men much given to science and books.

“You have my permission,” laughed Sir John, winking awkwardly, “but, of course, you must not disobey.”

“I have not promised to obey yet,” said the girl, with a slight raising of the eyebrows. “Suppose, Sir John, you allow your wit to flow in different channels.”

“Wit!” growled Renshaw. “Don’t use the word, I beg you, in connection with his speech. One might really suppose there was such a quality in his nature, since you suggest it, Miss Allen, and much as I should like to--”

“Oh, stow it! Belay for the lady’s sake,” said Sir John. “There is such a thing as talking a person to death.”

“Between the two of you, she is in rather a dangerous situation,” said Mr. Curtis, sourly, “but I suppose there is some excuse for men who have been at sea over a month.”

Miss Allen had heard little or none of this last remark, for she was advancing to me as I stood at the breech of the fine brass gun.

“Do you give me the lock-spring. I see it does not need a port-fire like those ashore,” said she, coming to my side.

“It is not time to fire yet,” I said. “Mr. Hawkson will come from below and pass the word from the old man--I mean, Captain Howard.”

“Why, he and papa will never get through talking as long as there’s a bottle between them,” she said. “Let me have the cord. What care I for your Captain Howard?”

“Here, you fellow! Don’t give Miss Allen that lanyard,” said Mr. Curtis, in a tone such as he had probably been accustomed to use to his niggers. It rubbed me the wrong way. I was entitled to mister while on the poop.

I bowed and passed the string into her hand, and noticed how firm and round were the fingers that closed upon it.

“Fire whenever you are ready, Miss Allen,” said I. “Jerk hard upon the cord.”

The next instant there was a flash and roar. The blue powder smoke swirled over the harbour, and the echoes were loosened in the bay, while over all a slight, droning snore, rapidly dying away in the distance, told of a twelve-pound solid shot tearing its way through the quiet air between the ship and the governor’s house.

I looked vainly to see the effect of the shot, wondering how on earth the ball came to get into the gun. Then the humming of the signal halyards called my attention, and I saw Tim lowering the ensign, with a peculiar glint in his eyes, while Hawkson, Yankee Dan, and the captain came bounding from below.

“What the devil has happened?” bawled Hawkson, emerging first. “Who told you to fire that gun?” and he glared at me.

“I just told the rascal not to,” said Mr. Curtis, “and what does he do but deliberately do it.”

Captain Howard turned his mask-like face to me.

“Did you have shot in that piece?” he asked.

“Not that I know of,” I stammered, hesitatingly, for, though I had heard the shot as plainly as he, I knew nothing of how it came in the gun.

“You may put him in double irons until I want him,” said Howard, dismissing the subject and turning to the trader.

“He did not fire that gun, and shall not go in irons,” said Miss Allen, firmly, standing before her father and the captain. “I fired that gun. Now, what are you going to do about it?”

Howard looked straight at her for a moment. Then he broke forth into his cackling laugh.

“Nothing, of course. He, he, he, ho, ho! not a thing. If you fired that gun, it’s all right. Ho, ho, ho! Now, Dan, you’d better go ashore and explain to the governor how your daughter happened to send a twelve-pounder into his house. When you come back, maybe you’ll think ten thousand pounds is a big price to pay for the risk we run, and maybe you won’t. If he’s in a good humour, I doubt if he lets you land.”