A Middy of the Slave Squadron

A Middy of the Slave Squadron
A West African Story
By Harry Collingwood
CHAPTER ONE.
A SOUND THROUGH THE DARKNESS.
"Phew!" ejaculated Mr Perry, first lieutenant of His Britannic Majesty's
corvette Psyche, as he removed his hat and mopped the perspiration
from his streaming forehead with an enormous spotted
pocket-handkerchief. "I believe it's getting hotter instead of cooler;
although, by all the laws that are supposed to govern this pestiferous
climate, we ought to be close upon the coolest hour of the twenty-four!
Just step aft to the skylight, Mr Fortescue, and see what the time is, will
ye? It must surely be nearing two bells."
"Ay, ay, sir!" I dutifully answered; and, moving aft to the skylight,
raised the canvas cover which had been placed over it to mask the light
of the low-turned lamp which was kept burning all night in the fore
cabin, and glanced at the clock which, screwed to the coaming on one
side of the tell-tale compass, balanced the barometer which, hung in
gimbals, was suspended on the other side. The clock marked the time
as two minutes to five a.m., or within two minutes of two bells in the
morning watch.
Dropping the canvas screen back into place, I was about to announce
the time to my superior officer, when I thought I caught, through the
faint creak of the ship's timbers and the light rustling of the canvas aloft,
a slight, far off sound, like the squeak of a sheave on a rusty pin.
Therefore, instead of proclaiming the time aloud, I stepped quietly to
the side of the first luff, and asked, almost in a whisper--

"Did you hear anything just then, sir?"
"Hear anything?" reiterated Mr Perry, unconsciously lowering his
usually stentorian voice in response to the suggestion of secrecy
conveyed by my whisper; "no, I can't say that I did. What d'ye mean,
Mr Fortescue?"
"I mean, sir," I replied, "that I thought I caught, a moment ago, a sound
like that of--ah! did you hear that, then, sir?" as a voice, uttering some
words of command, apparently in the Spanish language, came floating
to us, faint but clear, across the invisible water upon which the Psyche
lay rolling almost imperceptibly.
"Ay, I did," answered Mr Perry, modulating his voice still further. "No
mistake about that, eh? There's a craft of some sort out there, less than a
mile distant, I should say. Did you catch the words? They sounded to
me like some foreign lingo."
"No, sir," I replied, "I did not quite catch them, but, as you say, they
appeared to be foreign, and I believe they were Spanish. What about
striking two bells, sir? It only wanted two minutes--"
"On no account whatever, Mr Fortescue," hastily interrupted my
companion. "On the contrary, have the kindness to slip for'ard and
caution the watch not to sing out, or make the slightest noise, on any
account, but to come quietly aft if they happen to have anything to
report. And when you have done that, kindly go down and call Captain
Harrison."
"Ay, ay, sir!" I answered; and, kicking off my shoes, lest the sound of
them upon the deck should reach the stranger through that still and
breathless atmosphere, I proceeded upon my twofold errand.
But it is time to tell the reader where the Psyche was upon this dark and
stifling night; what she was doing there; and why the precautions above
referred to were deemed necessary.
As has already been mentioned, the Psyche was a British man-o'-war.

She was a sloop, armed with fourteen long 18-pounders; and carried a
crew which had originally consisted of one hundred and thirty men, but
which had now been reduced by sickness and casualties to one hundred
and four, all told. She was a unit in the somewhat scanty Slave
Squadron which Great Britain had stationed on the West African coast
for the suppression of the infamous slave-trade; and when this story
opens-- namely, about the middle of the year 1822--had been upon the
station nearly two years, during the whole of which period I, Richard
Fortescue, hailing from the neighbourhood of the good town of
Plymouth, had been on board her, and now held the responsible
position of senior midshipman; being, at the above date, just turned
seventeen years of age.
The Psyche was a fine, stout, roomy, and comfortable craft of her class;
but about as unsuitable for the work upon which she was now engaged
as could well be, for she was a converted merchant ship, built for the
purpose of carrying the biggest possible cargo that could be packed into
certain prescribed limits, and consequently, as might be expected,
phenomenally slow. To commission such a vessel to chase and capture
the nimble craft that were usually employed