man-of-war's boat came alongside. The papers
were looked at and proved to be regular. As
the officer of the boat was going, the old man
said—

"Any of Uncle Sam's beauties about here,
Capt'en?"

"The 'Perry' was here a week ago—She's
gone on the north coast."

"She is—is she—" said the old man, unable
to conceal a smile of satisfaction. The officer
observed it.

"Ah! " said he, " I should like to be able
to look down those hatchways of yours—
there's a very good general cargo, I expect."

"Ha, ha, Capt'n," chuckled the skipper,
"it won't do that, at any price—I guess you'd
better take a good long look up at that" and
he pointed to the stars and stripes at the
brig's peak "before you think about lifting
my hatches."

"More's the pity," rejoined the officer,
descending into the boat, and shoving off; "it
screens many a slaving scoundrel, and its
pattern is cut deep enough in many a slave's
back."

"And will be, too, I guess," muttered the
"old man," turning away, "spite of all John
Bull can do."

"Darned if I don't think this old man's
up to something," said Jack to me, in a low
tone.

"What do you mean?"

"Why, what made him so partic'ler as to
where a Yankee man-of-war was? However,
keep dark; we shall soon see how the wind
sets."

The next day the skipper went on shore to
one of the factories, and we saw little or
nothing of him; so we commenced discharging
our cargo. It consisted of those articles
that are used in trading, either for the legal
coast-exports of gold-dust, gum, ivory, or the
more valuable black, live commodity; we had
powder, and gun-flints, and bales of
tradecloth and trinkets, knives and beads enough
for a miniature Great Exhibition. We had
no time to look about us much while at work,
but we saw occasionally the white canvas of
the man-o'-war steamer, dodging on and off
the port, under sail. Her boat did not
trouble us either by boarding us, though we
caught a glimpse of her every now and then
some miles down to the southward.

In a few days the hold appeared about half
empty, and with the first boat that went ashore
with cargo I was sent to take a letter from
the mate up to the "old man," who was at
the Portuguese factory. The path from the
landing-place up the back of the bluff
headland was a perpendicularly steep, beaten
track, up and down which the great people of
the place were carried in net hammocks slung
on a pole, on the shoulders of their slaves or
servants. The path was bordered with bush,
and here and there patches of cultivation for
rearing "cassada." On the brow of the hill
we saw the factories between the trees, and
had a long look out both seaward and inland.
The "old man" was seated with three or four
other men, dressed in the lazy, light style
generally adopted on the coast, drinking the
usual beverage, bottled beer, and smoking
and conversing earnestly. They ceased talking
as I entered.

"Well, my man. Is the brig's hold clean
swept yet? " said he.

"No, Sir; the cargo is only about half out."

"Half out is it, eh?" said he, opening the
note. "Go and cruize about the place, and
come back here by-and-bye for an answer."
Of course I cleared out; and as I left the
place, I heard him add to the others, "We
shall be ready by sunset."

"What does he mean? " thought I to
myself, as I strolled along without any idea
where I was going. "The brig won't be
unloaded by that time; perhaps he's going to
take a cargo of slaves on the top of all;
there's something in the wind. I'll be shot
if I have anything to do with it, though."

I had by this time strolled some distance
from the factories, and found myself on an
open space near a long wooden one-story
building, surrounded by a high wood fence
that enclosed a considerable space of ground
around it. Suddenly, there arose from this
place the most piercing yells and howls
conceivable; then stifled shrieks and moans, and
a low hum, as if there were many people
there. Horrified by these cries, I turned into
the enclosure. What a scene was there!
Hundreds of wretched slaves, worn, emaciated;
crouched in every attitude that misery, in
its deepest anguish, could suggest. In one
corner of the yard there were two men—
black men, too—heating brands at a fire they
had made there, and searing the living flesh
on the legs and arms of the miserables, while
others held them in turn, and stifled their
heart-rending cries and screams of pain. My
first impulse was to rush to the rescue of the
unhappy one then undergoing the horrible
atrocity, but before I was half-way across the
slave-yard, the conviction of the utter uselessness
of such a proceeding came upon me, and
turning sick and faint, I stopped my ears with
my fingers, and retraced my steps. The whole
was so inconceivably horrible I could scarcely
realise it. The cries and howls of agony still
rung in my ears as I walked, and I could see
the slave again writhing under the hissing
iron, struggling with the brutal ruffians who
held him, and crawling in agony on the
ground as he was flung there, with that fearful
mark upon him, burning into his very
nerves.

"Why, I reckon you've been scared, young
feller!" exclaimed a tall Yankee in a broad-
brimmed straw hat, whom I recognised as
one of the agents at the American factory
for some American house. I was silent; I
had been too much scared to speak.

Presently I learned from him what I had
previously suspected; but could hardly