96 
The Slave Depot , 
trade is capable of infinite expansion, but it re¬ 
quires time—as yet it supports only the two non¬ 
slaving houses, English and Dutch. The forty or 
fifty tons brought in every month pay them cent, 
per cent.; the bag of half a hundred weight being 
sold for four fathoms of cloth; or two hatchets, 
one bottle of rum, and a jug or a plate. 
Early next day I went to the English factory 
for the purpose of completing my outfit. Unfor¬ 
tunately, Mr. P. Maculloch, the head agent, who 
is perfectly acquainted with the river and the 
people, was absent, leaving the business in the 
hands of two “ mean whites,” walking buccras, 
English pariahs. The factory—a dirty disgrace to 
the name—was in the charge of a clerk, whom we 
saw being rowed about bareheaded through the 
sun, accompanied by a black girl, both as far from 
sober as might be. The cooper, who was sitting 
moony with drink, rose to receive us and to weigh 
out the beads which I required; under the excite¬ 
ment he had recourse to a gin-bottle, and a total 
collapse came on before half the work was done. 
Why should south latitude 6°, the parallel of Zan¬ 
zibar, be so fatal to the Briton ? 
At 2.20 p.m. on September 2 , we left Porto da 
Lenha, and passed Mashels Creek, on whose right 
bank is the village of Makatalla ; the charts call 
it Foomou, and transfer it to the left. Here we 
enter upon the riverine archipelago. The great 
