“Oh! it’s recruits for the State Army you’re bringing, is it?” asked Kettle.

“If you please,” said Rabeira cheerfully.  “Slaves is what you English would call dem.  Laborers is what dey call demselves.”

Nilssen looked anxiously at his new assistant.  Would he have any foolish English sentiment against slavery, and make a fuss?  Nilssen, being a man of peace, sincerely hoped not.  But as it was, Captain Kettle preserved a grim silence.  He had met the low-caste African negro before, and knew that it required a certain amount of coercion to extract work from him.  But he did notice that all the Portuguese on board were armed like pirates, and were constantly on the qui vive, and judged that there was a species of coercion on this vessel which would stick at very little.

The reaches of the great beer-colored river opened out before them one after another in endless vistas, and at rare places the white roofs of a factory showed amongst the unwholesome tropical greenery of the banks.  Nilssen gave names to these, spoke of their inhabitants as friends, and told of the amount of trade in palm-oil and kernels which each could be depended on to yield up as cargo to the ever-greedy steamers.  But the attention of neither of the pilots was concentrated on piloting.  The unrest on the forecastle-head was too obvious to be overlooked.

Once, when the cackle of negro voices seemed to point to an immediate outbreak, Rabeira gave an order, and presently a couple of cubical green boxes were taken forward by the ship’s Krooboys, broken up, and the square bottles which they contained, distributed to greedy fingers.

“Dashing ’em gin,” said Nilssen, looking serious.  “Guess a Portugee’s in a bad funk before he dashes gin at four francs a dozen to common passenger boys.  I’ve a blame’ good mind to put this vessel on the ground—­by accident—­and go off in the gig for assistance, and bring back a State launch.”

“Better not risk your ticket,” said Kettle.  “If there’s a row, I’m a bit useful in handling that sort of cattle myself.”

Nilssen eyed wistfully a swirl of the yellow water which hid a sandbar, and, with a sigh, gave the quartermaster a course which cleared it.  “Guess I don’t like ructions myself,” he said.  “Hullo, what’s up now?  There are two of the passenger boys getting pushed off the forecastle-head by their own friends on to the main deck.”

“They look a mighty sick couple,” said Kettle, “and their friends seem very frightened.  If this ship doesn’t carry a doctor, it would be a good thing if the old man were to start in and deal out some drugs.”

It seemed that Rabeira was of the same opinion.  He went down to the main deck, and there, under the scorching tropical sunshine, interviewed the two sick negroes in person, and afterwards administered to each of them a draught from a blue glass bottle.  Then he came up, smiling and hospitable and perspiring, on to the bridge, and invited the pilots to go below and dine.  “Chop lib for cabin,” said he; “palm-oil chop, plenty-too-much-good.  You lib for below and chop.  I take dem ship myself up dis next reach.”