Sierra Leone, our first port, differs from the rest of the invariably flat African coasts by reason of its background of high mountains, and the green hills which run down right to the seashore.  Between these hills lies the mouth of a great river, forming an excellent haven, and a first-rate military and commercial station.  But the place is terribly unhealthy.  To give us a taste of local colour, we were surrounded, before we got into the river, by hosts of sharks, and in a few minutes we had hoisted five of the huge fishes on board.  Then no sooner had we cast anchor before Freetown, than a gentleman of a certain age, in a blue coat and white nankeen trousers and a top hat, appeared, asking speech of the captain.  He was sent to me.  “Captain,” said he, “I’ve come to know how many ladies will be wanted for the frigate?”

“Why, sir,” I replied in some astonishment, “I don’t know; I’ve not thought about it yet.”

“You see I make it my business, sir, when a man-o’-war comes into port, to come and offer my services.”

“Well, sir, I’m much obliged to you, I won’t give you any special order; I’ll leave the business completely to itself.”

I never heard why he was so anxious to make sure of a monopoly in his line of business.  Apart from this little incident, our stay in this port, during which we were treated in the most friendly manner by the kindliest of governors and his lady, was in no way different from any other.

Yet Sierra Leone was interesting as being the headquarters of the British naval station, established to suppress the slave trade, and as being the place where the slave cargoes found on board the captured slavers were landed.  Freetown and its neighbourhood was full of these poor wretches, who were denominated, somewhat hypocritically, liberated Africans; but the government took good care not to liberate them, and there indeed it was right.  To have turned out these human cattle, swept up in distant raids, now far from home and country, would have been to cast them infallibly into the clutches of cruel and pitiless native masters, who would keep back what they could not sell for human sacrifices or cannibal banquets.  It was mere common humanity therefore, to keep them safe, once they had been caught.  But to avoid feeding useless mouths, the finest men were enrolled as soldiers—­the British government, ever in advance of others, applying a law of compulsory service, unlimited in period, to their case.  The recruiting service once satisfied, the rest of the poor devils were turned, willy-nilly, into “free labourers,” and the greater part of them were sent as such to the British Antilles.  The ship that bore them thither was no longer called a slaver, and her cargo were not slaves.  But if the names were changed, the things themselves were terribly alike.  Yet philanthropy and sentimentality were satisfied.  And so were the captains and crews of the British cruisers, for hunting slavers is a lucrative business, and the prize money earned made them forget the unhealthiness of the climate and the monotony of the blockade.