Chapter Twenty Six.A night watch.It was not many minutes later when, attracted by a group of the lovely insects playing about the shrubs that were in full bloom, Fitz had hung back, making them an excuse while he rested, standing mopping his face, streaming with perspiration, while Poole, no less willing to enjoy a few minutes’ halt, stood looking back watching him.Meanwhile the skipper had gone on, closely followed by the men, and passed out of sight. And then the few minutes became a few minutes more, neither of the lads noting the lapse of time, for everything around was so beautiful that they had no thought for the task in hand, nor fear of being interrupted by any of the enemy who might be near.Everything was so dreamy and beautiful that Poole cast his eyes around in search of some fallen trunk, with the idea that nothing could be more delightful than to sit down there in the shade and drowse the time away.Then he was awake again, for from somewhere ahead, but so far off that it sounded quite faint, there came a shout—“Ahoy! Poole!”The lad ran, rifle in hand, to answer his father’s call, but only to stop short to look round sharply, feeling that he was leaving Fitz behind.“Oh, there you are,” he cried, as he caught sight of the lad following swiftly after. “I thought that you were not coming.”“I was obliged to. You don’t suppose that I want to be left alone here by myself?”“No, I suppose not. ’Tis a wild spot. It wouldn’t be very pleasant if one of the enemy came upon you. You’d be rather safer along with us. Come on; we had better run. Mind how you come. These logs are rather slippery where the sun doesn’t shine.”“Yes, and you had better mind, or some of this tangled stuff that’s growing up between will trip you up. Rather awkward if your gun went off.”A few minutes later they came up to where the skipper was standing waiting for them.“Found the place, father?”“Yes; it’s just over yonder in a clearing beyond those trees.”“Where are the men?”“Inside the house.”“Has Don Ramon come?”“No. There’s not a soul in sight. I can’t see any signs of a fight, but it looks to me as if the enemy had been destroying all they came across. I hope they didn’t come upon him and take him prisoner, but it looks very bad.”“What shall you do, father?”“What he told me, my boy: take possession, and hold it if the enemy come back. I have told the men to try and knock up a breastwork and close up the windows. To put it into a state of defence is not possible, but they can make it look stronger, and it will be better than the open jungle if those mongrel scoundrels do come on. Winks is there with half-a-dozen men; join them and superintend. Make them stick to it hard. I am afraid of their thinking that there is no danger, and taking it too coolly.”“All right, father,” said Poole, giving Fitz a glance as he stood ready for starting off.“Oh, by the way, Mr Burnett, I am sorry to have got you into this trouble. It doesn’t seem the thing, does it? But I can’t help myself. I daren’t let you get into the hands of the enemy, for they are a shady lot. Only please mind this; you are a looker-on, and you are not to fight.”“Of course not, sir,” cried Fitz.“Well, don’t forget it. Let’s have none of your getting excited and joining in, if the row does begin. But it’s hardly likely. If the scoundrels see a strong-looking place they will give it a wide berth. But if they do come, just bear this in mind; you are a spectator, and not to fire a shot.”“I shall not forget my position, sir,” said Fitz quietly. “That’s right. You can’t be in a safer place than in the shelter of Ramon’s farm. Off with you, Poole. I will join you soon.”The two lads trotted off, and as they ran on side by side, Fitz said rather testily—“Your father needn’t have talked to me like that. ’Tisn’t likely that I should join in such a fight as this.”“Of course not,” said Poole coolly; “only you look rather warlike carrying that double gun.”“Absurd! A sporting piece, loaded with small shot!” cried Fitz.“Not so very small,” said Poole, laughing. “I shouldn’t like it to be loaded with them by any one firing at me. Oh, there’s the hacienda yonder. I heard of this place when I was here before. It’s a sort of summer-house near the river and sea, where Don Ramon used to come. My word, though, how it seems to have been knocked about! It looks as if there had been fighting here. The grounds have all been trampled down, and the porch has been torn away.”“What a pity!” cried Fitz, as he trotted up, with his gun at the trail. “It must have been a lovely place. Oh, there are some of our men.”“Yes,” said Poole, smiling to himself and giving a little emphasis to one word which he repeated; “there are some of ‘our’ men. Look at old Chips scratching his head.”For the carpenter on hearing their approach had stepped out into the wrecked verandah, and two or three of the sailors appeared at the long low windows belonging to one of the principal rooms.“Oh, here y’are, Mr Poole, sir!” cried the carpenter, waving his navy straw hat and giving it two or three vicious sweeps at the flies. “Just the very gent as I wanted to see. How are yer, Mr Burnett, sir? Warm, aren’t it? Don’t you wish you was a chips, sir?” he added sarcastically, as Fitz gave him a friendly nod.“A chips? A carpenter, Winks?” said Fitz. “No; why should I?”“Of course not, sir. Because if you was you would be every now and then having some nice little job chucked at your head by the skipper.”“Why, of course,” cried Poole. “What are you on board the schooner for?”“Oh, nothing at all, sir—only to stop leaks and recaulk, cut sticks out of the woods to make new spars and yards, build a new boat now and then, or a yard or two of bulwark or a new keel. Just a few little trifles of that sort. It’s just like so much play. Here’s the very last of them. Nice little job ashore by way of a change. Skipper’s fresh idea. He didn’t say so, but seems to me as if he means to retire from business, and this ’ere’s going to be his country house.”“And a very nice place too,” said Fitz, laughing. “It only wants doing up.”“That’s right, sir,” cried the carpenter; “only just wants doing up, and a bit of paint, and then all you’d have to do would be to order a ’technicum van or two of new furniture out of Totney Court Road, or elsewhere. And an other nice little job for me to lay down the carpets and hang the picturs, and it would be just lovely.”“Well, you seem in a nice temper, Chips,” said Poole.“Temper, Mr Poole! Why, I feel as soft and gentle as a baby. I arn’t got nothing to grumble at.”“And if you had you are the very last person in the world to say a word; eh, Chips?”“Hear that, Mr Burnett, sir? That’s Mr Poole, that is! He’s known me two years and a narf, which means ever since he come on his first voyage, when I teached him how to handle an adze without cutting off his pretty little toes. If ever I wanted my character, Mr Burnett, sir, I should refer captains and other such to Mr Poole Reed, as knows me from the top of my head down to the parts I put lowest in my shoes.”“Look here, Chips, I want you to get to work. Whatever is the matter now?”“Oh, nothing at all, sir; nothing at all! Carn’t you see how I am smiling all over my face?”“Oh yes, I know your smile. Now then, speak out. What do you want? What is there wrong?”“Oh, nothing worth speaking of, Mr Poole. I arn’t the sort of fellow to grumble, Mr Burnett, sir; but now just look here, gentlemen.—Get out, will you! Bother the flies! I wish I could ’ford to keep a nigger with a whisk made out of a horse’s tail. They are regular tarrifying me to-day. I wouldn’t keer if I could kill one now and then; but I carn’t. Either they’re too fast or I’m too slow. But now just look here, both on you, gentlemen. Here’s a pretty position for a fellow to be in! Nobody can’t say even in this hot country as I arn’t willing to work my spell, but here’s the skipper says to me, he says, ‘I want you to do everything you can,’ he says; ‘take what men you want, and make this ’ere aitch—he—hay—ender as strong as you can.’ Now, I ask you, just give your eyes a quick turn round the place and tell me, as orficers as knows what’s what, how am I to make a thing strong as arn’t strong, and where there arn’t a bit of stuff to do it with? For what’s the good of a lot of bamboo-cane when what one wants is a load of good honest English oak, or I wouldn’t say no to a bit of teak.”“Well, it is a ramshackle sort of place, certainly, Chips.”“Ramshackle, sir? Why, a ramshackle shed is a Tower of London to it. It’s just a bandbox, that’s what it is—just one of them chip and blue paper things the same as my old mother used to keep her Sunday bonnet in. Why, I could go to one end, shet my eyes, and walk through it anywhere. Why, it wouldn’t even keep the wind out. Look at them windows—jalousies, as they calls them, in their ignorant foreign tongue. Look at ’em; just so many laths, like a Venetia blind. What’s to be done to them? And then them doors. Why, they wouldn’t keep a cat in, let alone a Spaniel out. I dunno what’s to be done; and before I know where I am the skipper will be back asking me what I have been about. Do you know what I’m about? About off my head. A man can’t make something out of nothing. Where’s my tools? says you. Aboard the schooner. Where’s the stuff to work with? Nowhere. Why, I aren’t got so much as a tenpenny-nail. It’s onreasonable; but I suppose it aren’t no use to talk. Come on, my lads, and let’s see. Axes here. Get one in between them two floor-boards and wedge one of them out—that’s the style!” And as he spoke,rip, rip, crack! the board was wrenched out of its place, leaving a long opening and easy access to the boards on either side. “Steady there, mates; don’t lose a nail. They are very poor ones, and only rusty iron now, but just you handle them as if they was made of gold. That’s your sort. We’ll just nail them boards up across the lower parts of them windows, far enough apart for us to fire through, and when that’s done they’ll make a show if they don’t do anything else. It’ll satisfy the skipper; but as to keeping the bullets out, when the beggars begin to fire, why, Mr Poole, sir, I believe I could take half-a-dozen of them little sugar-loaf-shaped bits of lead in my mouth and stand outside and blow them through.—What do you say, Camel? Where’s a hammer? There are dozens of them, mate, in High Street, Liverpool, at any price from one-and-six up to two bob. Did you leave your head aboard the schooner?”“Did I leave my head aboard the schooner? What are you talking about?” growled the cook.“Thought perhaps you had left it in the galley, stood up in one of the pots to keep it safe till you got back. Turn the axe round and use the head of that, stoopid. Chopper-heads was invented before hammers, I know.”“Well, you needn’t be so nasty, mon,” growled the cook.“Make you nasty if you was set to cook a dinner without any fire, and no meat.”Andy grunted and began hammering away, helped by two of his messmates, who held the floor-boards in place while such nails as had come out of the joists were driven in.Satisfied with this, the carpenter set to work at the end of one of the joists, using a sharp axe so deftly that the great wedge-like chips began to fly, and in a minute’s time he had cut right through.“That’s your sort!” he cried. “Now, lads, two on you hoist up.”The men had hold of the freshly-cut end of the stout joist in an instant, raised it up, its length acting as a powerful lever, and it was wrenched out of its place, to be used beneath its fellows so dexterously that in a short time there was no longer any floor to the principal room of the hacienda, the joists being piled up on one side, and those who were in it stood now a couple of feet lower with the window-sills just on a level with their chests.“Bravo! Splendid!” cried Fitz excitedly. “Why, that gives us a capital breastwork—bulwark, I mean—to fire over.”“Yes,” cried Poole, “and plenty of stuff, Chips, for you to barricade the doors.”“Barricade the doors, sir? You mean stop ’em up, I suppose. But how? Arn’t got a big cross-cut saw in your pocket, have you?”“Go on, old chap, and don’t chatter so,” cried Poole. “Break them in half.”“Nice tradesman-like job that’ll make, sir! It is all very fine to talk. Here, stand aside, some on you. I never was in a hurry but some thick-headed foremast-man was sure to get in the way. Let’s see; where’s my rule? Yah! No rule, no pencil, no square. Lay that there first one down, mates. What are they? About twelve foot. Might make three out of each of them.”One of the joists was laid on the earth close to a collection of dry leaves.“Looks like an old rat’s nest,” said Fitz. “Like enough, sir, only we haven’t no time to hunt ’em. Sure to be lots in a place like this.”“Yes, I can smell them,” said Poole—“that nasty musky odour they have!”The carpenter paced along beside the joist, dividing it into three, and made a notch in two places with his axe, to begin the next minute delivering a sharp blow or two where he intended to break the joist. But at the first stroke the violent jar made the far end of the joist leap and come heavily down upon the gathered-together nest of leaves.“Wo-ho!” cried the carpenter. “Steady there!”“Eh, mon! Look at that!” yelled the cook, as there was a scuffling rush, and a thickish snake, about seven feet long, dashed out from its nest and made for the door.There was a yell of dismay, and the men rushed here and there for the windows, to escape, the boys as eager as their companions.It was only the carpenter who stood firm, and he made a chop with his axe at the reptile’s tail, but only to drive the blade into the dry earth a yard behind.“After him, Camel!” he roared. “Don’t lose him, lad! He’d do to cook like a big eel. Yah, butter-fingers! You let him go! Why didn’t you try and catch him by the tail? Here, come back, all of you. Take hold of a joist or two and stir up them nest-like places in the corners. I dare say there’s some more. We shall be hungry by and by. Don’t let good dinners go begging like that. Here, Mr Burnett, sir, and you, Mr Poole, never you mind them cowardly lubbers; come inside and have a hunt. It’ll be a regular bit of sport.”“Thanks, no,” said Fitz, who was looking in through one of the windows, Poole following his example at another.“You had better mind, Chips,” said the latter. “I dare say there are several more there, and they may be poisonous.”“So am I, sir,” said the carpenter, grinning. “Just you ketch hold of my axe.”“What are you going to do?” said Poole, as he took hold of the handle.“You stand by a moment, sir,” said the carpenter, picking up the joist upon which he had been operating, and holding it as if it were a lance. “I am going to poison them.”As he spoke he drove the end right into a heap of Indian corn-husks that lay in the first corner, the blow being followed by a violent rustling, and another snake made its appearance, not to dash for the door, but turning, wriggling, and lashing about as it fought hard till it wriggled itself free of the little beam which had pinned it into the corner, crushing its vertebra about a third of its length from the head, and ending by tying itself in a knot round the piece of wood and holding on.“Below there!” shouted the carpenter. “Stand clear!”He advanced towards Fitz with the joist, and as the boy leaped back he thrust out the piece of wood, resting the middle on the window-sill.“Here you are, Camel,” he cried; “fresh meat, all skewered for you like a bun on a toasting-fork. Look alive, old haggis, and take him off. He’s a fine un, Master Poole. I can’t abear to see waste.”Fitz and Poole both stepped back, and at that moment with one quick writhe the little serpent seemed to untie itself, dropping to the ground limply, writhed again as if to tie itself into a fresh knot, and then stretched itself out at full length.“Take care, Mr Burnett, sir,” cried the carpenter, hastily taking from Poole and holding out the axe he had been using. “Don’t go too near. Them things can be precious vicious. Ketch hold of this and drop it on to him just behind his head.”“No, no, don’t, Fitz!” cried Poole. “Look at its little fiery eyes. It may strike.”“Not it,” cried Fitz. “Chips has spoiled all his fighting for good;” and taking a step or two forward with the axe he had snatched from the carpenter’s hand, he made one quick cut and drove it into the earth, for the blade to be struck at once by the serpent’s head, while the ugly coils were instantaneously knotted round the haft.Fitz involuntarily started back, leaving the axe-handle with its ugly load standing out at an angle, and the two lads stood watching the serpent’s head as the jaws parted once or twice and then became motionless, while the folds twisted round the stout ash-handle gradually grew lax and then dropped limply and loosely upon the earth, ending by heaving slightly as a shudder seemed to run from the bleeding neck right to the tail.“He’s as good as dead, gentlemen,” said the carpenter. “He won’t hunt no more rats under this place. Give me my chopper, please; I am thinking there are a few more here. Let’s have ’em out, or they’ll be in the way and get their tails trodden on when the fighting begins.”“Yes, let’s have them out, Chips,” cried Poole; “but be careful. They may be poisonous, and savage with being disturbed.”“Oh yes, I’ll be careful enough,” cried the carpenter; and raising the joist again he stepped back from the window and drove it into another corner of the room, the boys peering in through the nearest window and eagerly watching for the result.“Nothing here,” cried the carpenter, after giving two heavy thrusts. “Yes, there is. Here’s a little baby one. Such a little wriggler! A pretty one too; seems a pity to kill him.”“No, no,” cried Fitz, as he watched the active movements of the little snake that suddenly raised itself like a piece of spiral spring, its spade-shaped head playing about menacingly about a foot from the ground.“Yes, take care,” cried Poole. “I believe that’s a viper.”“So’s this,” said the carpenter, letting one end of the joist rest upon the ground and the other fall heavily right across the threatening snake. “Hah! That’s a wiper, and I wiped him out.”Next moment he lifted the joist again, and used it pitchfork-fashion to jerk the completely crushed dangerous reptile out of another window, before advancing to the third corner, where a larger heap of Indian corn-husks seemed to have been drawn together.“Anything there, Chips?” cried Fitz.“Oh yes, there’s a big un here—two on ’em; and they’re telling tales of it, too, for they’ve left ’em hanging outside. Now, whereabouts will their heads be?”“Take care,” cried Poole, “for you may cripple one and leave the other to dart at you.”“Yes, and that wouldn’t be nice,” said the carpenter thoughtfully. “I don’t mind tackling one of them, but two at a time’s coming it a bit too strong. ’Tarn’t fair like.”“Look here,” cried Fitz, “we’ll come in, and each have a joist. We should be sure to kill them then.”“I dunno so much about that, gen’lemen. You might help, and you moten’t. If they made a rush you might be in my way, and you know, as old Andy says, Too many cooks spoil the snake-soup. Here, I know; I can soon turn them out.”“How?” cried Poole, as the man stood the joist up against the wall.“I’ll soon show you,” cried the carpenter, pulling out a match-box.“You’ll burn the place down.”“Nay,” cried the man; “them corn-shucks will just flare up with a fizz; I can trample them out before they catch the wood. You two be on the look-out, for there’s no knowing which window my gentlemen will make for as soon as they find as it aren’t the sun as is warming them up.”He struck a match as he spoke, let the splint get well alight, and then stepping forward softly he stooped down to apply it to the pale, dry, creamy-looking corn-leaves.“Look out!” cried Fitz excitedly.“Oh, my fingers are too hard to burn,” growled the carpenter, ignoring the notion of the danger being from the serpents; and he applied the burning match to three places, letting the flame drop in the last, before he stepped quickly back, watching the bright crackling flare which rose in each spot where he had applied the match and then began to run together to form one blaze.“Why, there’s nothing there,” cried Poole.“Oh, yes, there is, gen’lemen, and they’re beginning to feel it. It’s so nice and warm that—Look, they are pulling their tails in under the blanket to get their share. Now they says it’s too hot. Look out; here they come.”The warning was not needed, for there was a sharp, fierce hissing heard plainly above the spluttering crackle of the burning husks, the pile was violently agitated, and then the burning heap was heaved up and scattered about in various directions, while, half-hidden by the smoke, it seemed as if a couple of pieces of stout Manilla cable were being furiously shaken upon the earthen floor.“Murder!” shouted Poole, starting back from the window where he stood, his action being involuntarily imitated by Fitz, who just caught a glance of the snake that had startled his companion passing like a flash over the window-sill, and making at what seemed to be an impossible speed for a clump of bushes close at hand.“That’s one of them,” cried Fitz breathlessly. “What about the other?”Bang! Bang! Thud! Thud! came from inside the room, and then the answer in the carpenter’s gruff voice—“I got him at last,” he said. “He was a lively one. Reg’lar dodger. Come and look here. It’s all right; he’s done. My! He is a whopper!”The inclination to look in was not great, but the boys stepped back at once to the windows they had left, to see that the burning heap was well alight, but apparently all in motion, while the carpenter was standing near, half-hidden by smoke, pressing the end of the joist he had used down upon a writhing serpent which he was holding pinned against the earth in the middle of the flames.“Take care! Take care!” cried Poole. “It’ll be furious if it gets from underneath that piece of wood.”“He’d be clever if he did, sir. I got him too tight. It’s all right, and I am making use of him at the same time.”“Nonsense! Come out, man; you will have the place on fire directly.”“Oh, no, I shan’t, sir. Don’t you see, I am letting him whack and scatter it all out. There won’t be enough to do any mischief now.—Hah! He’s quieting down; and he’s the last on ’em. If there were any others they are smoked out.”As he spoke the lads could plainly see that the reptile’s efforts to escape were growing weaker, while the rest of the party, who had been busy at the other end of the hacienda, had collected at window and door, attracted by the rising smoke.“Just in time, mates! About another two minutes and he’ll be done. Now then,” the speaker added, “I don’t want to spoil him,” and raking out the heaving reptile, he forked it to the door and tossed it a few yards away into the clearing. “All together!” he shouted. “Fair play! Knives out. Who’s for a cut of hot roast?”Chips’s pantomime was at an end, for, rifle in hand, the skipper came running up.“What’s the meaning of this?” he roared. “Why don’t you put that fire out? Do you want to burn the place down? Who’s been smoking here?”“It’s all right, father. There were snakes under the floor, but Chips has burned them out.”“Oh, that’s it! Dangerous brutes! Here, Winks, how have you been getting on?”“Oh, tidy, sir, tidy,” said the carpenter, wiping his smarting eyes as he tried to check a cough and made it worse. “You see, there was no stuff, and I had to tear up the floor.”“Capital,” said the skipper, as he examined the preparations. “Couldn’t be better, my man. Here, if there’s time you shall serve those other two rooms the same. Axes here, my lads. Cut down those bushes and pile them up under the windows. We mustn’t leave them there for cover.”“Take care,” cried Fitz. “There’s a great snake in there. Here, Poole, let’s each take a joist and beat him out.”“Hadn’t we better try a match, sir? Them there bushes are that ily evergreen stuff as’ll burn like fun.”“Yes,” said the skipper. “We don’t want the stuff for protection, and the enemy might throw a light in and burn us out. But look here, Chips, are there any sparks inside there, likely to set the wood-work alight?”“Nay, sir; it was all fluffy touch-and-go stuff. There’s nothing there now but smoke.”The man moved as he spoke towards the clump of ornamental shrubs in which the big snake had taken sanctuary, the two lads, each armed with a joist carried lance-fashion, following him up, while the skipper hurried into the building with one of the men, to satisfy himself that the carpenter’s words were correct.The remainder stood by to watch the firing of the clump of bushes, the news that they hid a serpent putting all upon thequi vive.“Take care Chips,” said Poole anxiously. “They are dangerous, treacherous things. We don’t want to get you bitten.”“Of course you don’t, my lad; but tchah! They aren’t half so dangerous as I am with a box of matches in my hand. Here, wait a moment; which way’s the wind? Oh, this ’ere. Blest if I know whether it’s north south, or east west, for I’ve quite lost my bearings. Anyhow, it don’t blow towards the house. Now then, I think I’ll just have an armful of these ’ere plantain-leaves and them there bamboo. They’re the things to burn.”He hastily collected as many dry great ragged banana-leaves as he could grasp, laid them in a heap to windward of the clump, and jumped back quickly, grinning hugely as he turned to the boys.“He’s there still,” he said; “I heard him whisper like a sick goose as I popped that stuff down.”“We’d better look out, then, on the other side,” cried Fitz, “or he’ll make a bolt. Shall I get my gun?”“No, no,” said Poole; “we must have no firing now.”Fitz moved, joist in hand, towards the other side of the clump.“Nay, you needn’t do that, sir,” cried the carpenter. “That’s what we want him to do.”“Oh, I see; you don’t want there to be any waste,” said Poole.“Ugh!” shuddered Fitz, and the carpenter grinned as he hurriedly snapped off as many dead bamboos as he could secure from a waving, feathery group, bore the bundle the next minute to the edge of the clump of shrubs, laid them on the heap of banana-leaves, and then rapidly applied a burning match to the dry growth, which still retained a sufficiency of inflammable oil to begin to flare at once, making the bamboos crackle and then explode with a series of little reports like those of a revolver.“That’s right,” said the carpenter; “if we had only got a few dozen cocoanut-shells to help it on, we should have a bonfire as’d beat a Guy Foxer all to fits.”But there were no cocoanuts to be had without paying a visit to the seashore, so the fire was mended with the bushes that were cut down from here and there, blazing up so furiously that in a few minutes the clump was consumed, and the snake with it, for it was not seen again.“Now then,” said the skipper, “scatter those embers about, and put an end to that smoke, or it will attract the enemy and show them where we are.”These orders were carried out, and the next hour was spent in adding to the defences as far as was possible, in seeing to there being a supply of water, and examining what there was in the shape of provisions in store.But other precautions were being taken at the same time, the skipper having sent out three of the men right and left along the forest-paths and towards the shore, so as to ensure them against surprise. Then the afternoon wore away, and the evening approached, without alarm, and before the night could fall in its rapid, tropical way, the scouts were recalled, sentries posted, and the defenders gathered-together in their little fortress for their evening meal, by the light of the great stars, which seemed to Fitz double the size that they were at home.Every one had his arms ready for use at a moment’s notice, and the two lads sat together nibbling the biscuit they had brought with them, and moistening it from time to time with a draught of the water from the big pannikin which they shared. That change from glowing sunset to darkness had been wonderfully swift, and as the beauty of the surrounding jungle, with its wondrous tints of green, changed into black gloom, the aspect of the place affected the two young adventurers at once, Fitz giving vent to a long-drawn sigh.“What’s the matter?” said Poole, in a low voice.“Oh, I don’t know,” replied the middy. “It seems so strange and weird here in the darkness. It makes me feel quite low-spirited.”“Do you know why that is?” asked Poole.“Of course I do. It is all dark and dangerous, and at any time we may have those mongrel Spaniels, as Chips calls them, rushing at us and firing as they come.”“Well, we should fire at them back again,” said Poole coolly. “But it isn’t that that makes you nervous and dull.”“Isn’t it? Well, I suppose I am not so brave as you,” whispered the middy.“Fudge! It’s nothing to do with being brave. I don’t feel brave. I am just as low-spirited as you are. It’s because we are tired and hungry.”“Why, we are keeping on eating.”“Yes; biscuit-and-water. But that only keeps you from starving; it doesn’t do you good. Why, if old Andy had a good fire and was roasting a wild turkey, or grilling some fish, we shouldn’t feel dull, but be all expectation, and sniffing at the cooking, impatient till it was done.”“Well, I suppose there is something in that,” said Fitz, “for I feel as faint as can be. I seem to have been so ever since I began to get better. Always wanting something more to eat.”“Of course you do. That’s right enough.”“What’s that?” cried Fitz, catching his companion by the arm; for there was a loud slap, as if the water of the river had suddenly received a sharp blow with the blade of an oar.“I d’know,” said Poole. “Boat coming, I think. Did you hear that, father?” And the speaker looked in the direction where the skipper had last been seen.“Oh yes,” was the reply, coming from outside one of the windows of the room they had strengthened with a breastwork.“It’s a boat coming, isn’t it, father?”“No, my lad,” said the skipper, in a deep-toned growl. “It’s one of the crocodiles or alligators fishing for its supper.”“No, no, Mr Reed,” cried Fitz; “we mean that sound like a heavy slap on the water. There it goes again! That!”“Yes, that’s the sound I meant,” said the skipper. “Sounds queer, doesn’t it, in the darkness? But that’s right. It’s one of the great alligator fellows thrashing the water to stun the fish. This makes them turn up, and then the great lizardly thing swallows them down.”Fitz uttered a little grunt as if he thought it was very queer, and then went on nibbling his biscuit.“Poole,” he whispered, “what stupids we were not to go and fish before it got dark.”“That’s just what I was thinking,” was the reply.“Yes,” continued Fitz; “we hadn’t as much sense as an alligator. I wish we had a good fish or two here.”“To eat raw?” said Poole scornfully. “Raw? Nonsense! We’d set old Andy to work.”“No, we shouldn’t. How could we have a fire here? It would be like setting ourselves up for the enemy to fire at. Why, they could creep in through the jungle till they were fifty or sixty yards away, and take pot-shots at us. But only let us get to-night over, and we will go shooting or fishing as soon as it’s day.”“Hark at that,” said Fitz, catching him by the arm. “Here they come at last!” And not only the boys, but every one present but the skipper, felt a strange fluttering about the heart, as a curious hollow cry rose from somewhere at the edge of the jungle.And then from out of the darkness there was a sharpclick, click! of the lock of a rifle, the force of example bringing out quite a series of the ominous little sounds, which came forth sharp and clear as every one prepared to use his piece.“Steady there, my lads!” growled the skipper. “You don’t think you can shoot that bird?”“There, laddies; I kenned it was a bird—one of them long-legged, big-beaked chaps that stand out in the water spearing eels. Wish we had got him now.”“Was that a bird, father?” whispered Poole. “Why, you ought to have known it was, my lad. There goes another, and another. If you listen you can hear the cry dying right away in the distance—one of those great cranes.”“Fine bird to keep for singing,” said the cook, “only I want everything for the pot or the spit. There he goes again. What a rich voice, laddies! Sounds as if he were fat.”The rifles were uncocked gently and carefully, and all sat listening again, thoroughly on thequi vive, for though fully expecting that the first warning of danger would be a shot from one of the sentries, all felt that there was a possibility of the enemy stealing up in the darkness and making a rush which would quite take them by surprise.It was depressing work to the wakeful, and as the hours stole slowly on first one and then another, tired out with the exertions of the day, let his head sink upon his breast where he crouched and gave audible notice that he had forgotten everything in the way of danger, in sleep.From time to time the boys kept up a desultory conversation, but at last this ceased, and Fitz suddenly lifted his head with a jerk and began to look wonderingly round at the great stars.“What’s the matter?” said Poole, in a startled way.“I dunno,” replied the middy. “It seemed to me that somebody got hold of me and gave me a jerk.”“That’s just how I felt. Look out!”Fitz did look out as far as the darkness would allow, and his hands began to turn moist against the stock of his gun; but there was nothing to be heard but the heavy breathing of the sleepers, and both lads were beginning to think that the start and jerk were caused by their having been asleep themselves, when there was a familiar voice close at hand.“Well, lads, how are you getting on?”“Not very well, father,” replied Poole. “Is it all right?”“Yes, my boy; I have heard nothing but the cries of the night birds, and the creeping of something now and then among the boughs.”“Think the enemy will come to-night, Mr Reed?” said Fitz.“Can’t say, my lad. They may, or they may not. If they knew how easily they could get the better of us they would make a rush. Tut, tut, tut! Kick that fellow, Poole. Can’t he sleep without snoring like that? Who is it?”“I think it’s Winks, father.”“Rouse him up, then.”“Eh? Hullo! All right! My watch?”“No, no,” said Poole. “Be quiet; you are snoring away as if you were sawing wood.”“Was I, my lad?” whispered the man. “Well, I believe I dreamed I was at that game. Any fighting coming off?”“No, not yet.”“All right; then I’ll have another nap.”But at that moment from out of the darkness, at apparently the edge of the jungle beyond the hacienda clearing, there was a sudden crashing as of the breaking of wood, followed instantly by an exceedingly shrill and piercing shriek, the rustle and beating of leaves, two or three low piteous sobs, and then silence for a few moments, followed by a soft rustling which died away.“Steady there!” whispered the skipper, as he heard the click of a lock. “Don’t fire, my lad. It would only be wasting a charge.”“But the savage has killed somebody, Mr Reed,” whispered Fitz, in a voice he did not know as his own; and he crouched rigidly there with the butt of his piece to his shoulder, aiming in the direction of the sounds, and with every nerve upon the strain.“Yes,” said the skipper coolly; “the savage has killed somebody and has carried him off. There, you can hear the faint rustling still.”“But a savage could not carry a man off like that,” said Fitz wonderingly.“No,” replied the skipper, with a low chuckle. “But that savage has gone off with the body he seized. Don’t you know what it was, my lad?”“No,” replied Fitz wonderingly.“Then I’ll tell you, as far as I know myself. I should say that was one of those great cats, the tigers, as they call them here, the jaguars. He was prowling along in one of those big trees till he could see a monkey roosting, and then it was a leap like a cat at a rat, and he carried him off.”“Ah!” said Fitz, with a sigh. “I thought it was something worse.”“Couldn’t have been any worse for the monkey,” said Poole, laughing.“No,” continued Fitz thoughtfully; “but I didn’t know there were jaguars here.”“Didn’t you, my lad?” said the skipper quietly. “Why, we are just at the edge of the impenetrable jungle. There is only this strip of land between it and the sea, and the only way into it is up that little river. If we were to row up there we should have right and left pretty well every wild creature that inhabits the South American jungles: tigers—you have had a taste of the snakes this afternoon—water-hogs, tapirs, pumas too, I dare say. There goes another of those great alligators slapping the water with his tail.”“Would there be any of the great serpents?” asked Fitz.“Any number,” replied the skipper, “if we could penetrate to where they are; the great tree-living ones, and those water-boas that live among the swamps and pools.”“They grow very big, don’t they?” said Fitz, who began to find the conversation interesting.“All sizes. Big as you or me round the thickest part, and as long as—”“A hundred feet?” said Poole.“Well, I don’t know about that, my boy,” said the skipper. “I shouldn’t like to meet one that size. I saw the skin of one that was over thirty, and I have heard tell by people out here that they had seen them five-and-forty and fifty feet long. They may grow to that size in these hot, steamy jungles. There is no reason why they shouldn’t, when whales grow to seventy or eighty feet long in the sea; but I believe those monster anacondas of fifty feet long were only skins, and that either they or the stories had been very much stretched.”“What time do you think it is, father?”“Well, by the feel of the night, my lad, I should say it’s about three.”“As late as that, father? Time seems to have gone very quickly.”“Quickly, eh? That’s proof positive, my boy, that you have had a nap or two. I have not, and I have found it slow.”
It was not many minutes later when, attracted by a group of the lovely insects playing about the shrubs that were in full bloom, Fitz had hung back, making them an excuse while he rested, standing mopping his face, streaming with perspiration, while Poole, no less willing to enjoy a few minutes’ halt, stood looking back watching him.
Meanwhile the skipper had gone on, closely followed by the men, and passed out of sight. And then the few minutes became a few minutes more, neither of the lads noting the lapse of time, for everything around was so beautiful that they had no thought for the task in hand, nor fear of being interrupted by any of the enemy who might be near.
Everything was so dreamy and beautiful that Poole cast his eyes around in search of some fallen trunk, with the idea that nothing could be more delightful than to sit down there in the shade and drowse the time away.
Then he was awake again, for from somewhere ahead, but so far off that it sounded quite faint, there came a shout—
“Ahoy! Poole!”
The lad ran, rifle in hand, to answer his father’s call, but only to stop short to look round sharply, feeling that he was leaving Fitz behind.
“Oh, there you are,” he cried, as he caught sight of the lad following swiftly after. “I thought that you were not coming.”
“I was obliged to. You don’t suppose that I want to be left alone here by myself?”
“No, I suppose not. ’Tis a wild spot. It wouldn’t be very pleasant if one of the enemy came upon you. You’d be rather safer along with us. Come on; we had better run. Mind how you come. These logs are rather slippery where the sun doesn’t shine.”
“Yes, and you had better mind, or some of this tangled stuff that’s growing up between will trip you up. Rather awkward if your gun went off.”
A few minutes later they came up to where the skipper was standing waiting for them.
“Found the place, father?”
“Yes; it’s just over yonder in a clearing beyond those trees.”
“Where are the men?”
“Inside the house.”
“Has Don Ramon come?”
“No. There’s not a soul in sight. I can’t see any signs of a fight, but it looks to me as if the enemy had been destroying all they came across. I hope they didn’t come upon him and take him prisoner, but it looks very bad.”
“What shall you do, father?”
“What he told me, my boy: take possession, and hold it if the enemy come back. I have told the men to try and knock up a breastwork and close up the windows. To put it into a state of defence is not possible, but they can make it look stronger, and it will be better than the open jungle if those mongrel scoundrels do come on. Winks is there with half-a-dozen men; join them and superintend. Make them stick to it hard. I am afraid of their thinking that there is no danger, and taking it too coolly.”
“All right, father,” said Poole, giving Fitz a glance as he stood ready for starting off.
“Oh, by the way, Mr Burnett, I am sorry to have got you into this trouble. It doesn’t seem the thing, does it? But I can’t help myself. I daren’t let you get into the hands of the enemy, for they are a shady lot. Only please mind this; you are a looker-on, and you are not to fight.”
“Of course not, sir,” cried Fitz.
“Well, don’t forget it. Let’s have none of your getting excited and joining in, if the row does begin. But it’s hardly likely. If the scoundrels see a strong-looking place they will give it a wide berth. But if they do come, just bear this in mind; you are a spectator, and not to fire a shot.”
“I shall not forget my position, sir,” said Fitz quietly. “That’s right. You can’t be in a safer place than in the shelter of Ramon’s farm. Off with you, Poole. I will join you soon.”
The two lads trotted off, and as they ran on side by side, Fitz said rather testily—
“Your father needn’t have talked to me like that. ’Tisn’t likely that I should join in such a fight as this.”
“Of course not,” said Poole coolly; “only you look rather warlike carrying that double gun.”
“Absurd! A sporting piece, loaded with small shot!” cried Fitz.
“Not so very small,” said Poole, laughing. “I shouldn’t like it to be loaded with them by any one firing at me. Oh, there’s the hacienda yonder. I heard of this place when I was here before. It’s a sort of summer-house near the river and sea, where Don Ramon used to come. My word, though, how it seems to have been knocked about! It looks as if there had been fighting here. The grounds have all been trampled down, and the porch has been torn away.”
“What a pity!” cried Fitz, as he trotted up, with his gun at the trail. “It must have been a lovely place. Oh, there are some of our men.”
“Yes,” said Poole, smiling to himself and giving a little emphasis to one word which he repeated; “there are some of ‘our’ men. Look at old Chips scratching his head.”
For the carpenter on hearing their approach had stepped out into the wrecked verandah, and two or three of the sailors appeared at the long low windows belonging to one of the principal rooms.
“Oh, here y’are, Mr Poole, sir!” cried the carpenter, waving his navy straw hat and giving it two or three vicious sweeps at the flies. “Just the very gent as I wanted to see. How are yer, Mr Burnett, sir? Warm, aren’t it? Don’t you wish you was a chips, sir?” he added sarcastically, as Fitz gave him a friendly nod.
“A chips? A carpenter, Winks?” said Fitz. “No; why should I?”
“Of course not, sir. Because if you was you would be every now and then having some nice little job chucked at your head by the skipper.”
“Why, of course,” cried Poole. “What are you on board the schooner for?”
“Oh, nothing at all, sir—only to stop leaks and recaulk, cut sticks out of the woods to make new spars and yards, build a new boat now and then, or a yard or two of bulwark or a new keel. Just a few little trifles of that sort. It’s just like so much play. Here’s the very last of them. Nice little job ashore by way of a change. Skipper’s fresh idea. He didn’t say so, but seems to me as if he means to retire from business, and this ’ere’s going to be his country house.”
“And a very nice place too,” said Fitz, laughing. “It only wants doing up.”
“That’s right, sir,” cried the carpenter; “only just wants doing up, and a bit of paint, and then all you’d have to do would be to order a ’technicum van or two of new furniture out of Totney Court Road, or elsewhere. And an other nice little job for me to lay down the carpets and hang the picturs, and it would be just lovely.”
“Well, you seem in a nice temper, Chips,” said Poole.
“Temper, Mr Poole! Why, I feel as soft and gentle as a baby. I arn’t got nothing to grumble at.”
“And if you had you are the very last person in the world to say a word; eh, Chips?”
“Hear that, Mr Burnett, sir? That’s Mr Poole, that is! He’s known me two years and a narf, which means ever since he come on his first voyage, when I teached him how to handle an adze without cutting off his pretty little toes. If ever I wanted my character, Mr Burnett, sir, I should refer captains and other such to Mr Poole Reed, as knows me from the top of my head down to the parts I put lowest in my shoes.”
“Look here, Chips, I want you to get to work. Whatever is the matter now?”
“Oh, nothing at all, sir; nothing at all! Carn’t you see how I am smiling all over my face?”
“Oh yes, I know your smile. Now then, speak out. What do you want? What is there wrong?”
“Oh, nothing worth speaking of, Mr Poole. I arn’t the sort of fellow to grumble, Mr Burnett, sir; but now just look here, gentlemen.—Get out, will you! Bother the flies! I wish I could ’ford to keep a nigger with a whisk made out of a horse’s tail. They are regular tarrifying me to-day. I wouldn’t keer if I could kill one now and then; but I carn’t. Either they’re too fast or I’m too slow. But now just look here, both on you, gentlemen. Here’s a pretty position for a fellow to be in! Nobody can’t say even in this hot country as I arn’t willing to work my spell, but here’s the skipper says to me, he says, ‘I want you to do everything you can,’ he says; ‘take what men you want, and make this ’ere aitch—he—hay—ender as strong as you can.’ Now, I ask you, just give your eyes a quick turn round the place and tell me, as orficers as knows what’s what, how am I to make a thing strong as arn’t strong, and where there arn’t a bit of stuff to do it with? For what’s the good of a lot of bamboo-cane when what one wants is a load of good honest English oak, or I wouldn’t say no to a bit of teak.”
“Well, it is a ramshackle sort of place, certainly, Chips.”
“Ramshackle, sir? Why, a ramshackle shed is a Tower of London to it. It’s just a bandbox, that’s what it is—just one of them chip and blue paper things the same as my old mother used to keep her Sunday bonnet in. Why, I could go to one end, shet my eyes, and walk through it anywhere. Why, it wouldn’t even keep the wind out. Look at them windows—jalousies, as they calls them, in their ignorant foreign tongue. Look at ’em; just so many laths, like a Venetia blind. What’s to be done to them? And then them doors. Why, they wouldn’t keep a cat in, let alone a Spaniel out. I dunno what’s to be done; and before I know where I am the skipper will be back asking me what I have been about. Do you know what I’m about? About off my head. A man can’t make something out of nothing. Where’s my tools? says you. Aboard the schooner. Where’s the stuff to work with? Nowhere. Why, I aren’t got so much as a tenpenny-nail. It’s onreasonable; but I suppose it aren’t no use to talk. Come on, my lads, and let’s see. Axes here. Get one in between them two floor-boards and wedge one of them out—that’s the style!” And as he spoke,rip, rip, crack! the board was wrenched out of its place, leaving a long opening and easy access to the boards on either side. “Steady there, mates; don’t lose a nail. They are very poor ones, and only rusty iron now, but just you handle them as if they was made of gold. That’s your sort. We’ll just nail them boards up across the lower parts of them windows, far enough apart for us to fire through, and when that’s done they’ll make a show if they don’t do anything else. It’ll satisfy the skipper; but as to keeping the bullets out, when the beggars begin to fire, why, Mr Poole, sir, I believe I could take half-a-dozen of them little sugar-loaf-shaped bits of lead in my mouth and stand outside and blow them through.—What do you say, Camel? Where’s a hammer? There are dozens of them, mate, in High Street, Liverpool, at any price from one-and-six up to two bob. Did you leave your head aboard the schooner?”
“Did I leave my head aboard the schooner? What are you talking about?” growled the cook.
“Thought perhaps you had left it in the galley, stood up in one of the pots to keep it safe till you got back. Turn the axe round and use the head of that, stoopid. Chopper-heads was invented before hammers, I know.”
“Well, you needn’t be so nasty, mon,” growled the cook.
“Make you nasty if you was set to cook a dinner without any fire, and no meat.”
Andy grunted and began hammering away, helped by two of his messmates, who held the floor-boards in place while such nails as had come out of the joists were driven in.
Satisfied with this, the carpenter set to work at the end of one of the joists, using a sharp axe so deftly that the great wedge-like chips began to fly, and in a minute’s time he had cut right through.
“That’s your sort!” he cried. “Now, lads, two on you hoist up.”
The men had hold of the freshly-cut end of the stout joist in an instant, raised it up, its length acting as a powerful lever, and it was wrenched out of its place, to be used beneath its fellows so dexterously that in a short time there was no longer any floor to the principal room of the hacienda, the joists being piled up on one side, and those who were in it stood now a couple of feet lower with the window-sills just on a level with their chests.
“Bravo! Splendid!” cried Fitz excitedly. “Why, that gives us a capital breastwork—bulwark, I mean—to fire over.”
“Yes,” cried Poole, “and plenty of stuff, Chips, for you to barricade the doors.”
“Barricade the doors, sir? You mean stop ’em up, I suppose. But how? Arn’t got a big cross-cut saw in your pocket, have you?”
“Go on, old chap, and don’t chatter so,” cried Poole. “Break them in half.”
“Nice tradesman-like job that’ll make, sir! It is all very fine to talk. Here, stand aside, some on you. I never was in a hurry but some thick-headed foremast-man was sure to get in the way. Let’s see; where’s my rule? Yah! No rule, no pencil, no square. Lay that there first one down, mates. What are they? About twelve foot. Might make three out of each of them.”
One of the joists was laid on the earth close to a collection of dry leaves.
“Looks like an old rat’s nest,” said Fitz. “Like enough, sir, only we haven’t no time to hunt ’em. Sure to be lots in a place like this.”
“Yes, I can smell them,” said Poole—“that nasty musky odour they have!”
The carpenter paced along beside the joist, dividing it into three, and made a notch in two places with his axe, to begin the next minute delivering a sharp blow or two where he intended to break the joist. But at the first stroke the violent jar made the far end of the joist leap and come heavily down upon the gathered-together nest of leaves.
“Wo-ho!” cried the carpenter. “Steady there!”
“Eh, mon! Look at that!” yelled the cook, as there was a scuffling rush, and a thickish snake, about seven feet long, dashed out from its nest and made for the door.
There was a yell of dismay, and the men rushed here and there for the windows, to escape, the boys as eager as their companions.
It was only the carpenter who stood firm, and he made a chop with his axe at the reptile’s tail, but only to drive the blade into the dry earth a yard behind.
“After him, Camel!” he roared. “Don’t lose him, lad! He’d do to cook like a big eel. Yah, butter-fingers! You let him go! Why didn’t you try and catch him by the tail? Here, come back, all of you. Take hold of a joist or two and stir up them nest-like places in the corners. I dare say there’s some more. We shall be hungry by and by. Don’t let good dinners go begging like that. Here, Mr Burnett, sir, and you, Mr Poole, never you mind them cowardly lubbers; come inside and have a hunt. It’ll be a regular bit of sport.”
“Thanks, no,” said Fitz, who was looking in through one of the windows, Poole following his example at another.
“You had better mind, Chips,” said the latter. “I dare say there are several more there, and they may be poisonous.”
“So am I, sir,” said the carpenter, grinning. “Just you ketch hold of my axe.”
“What are you going to do?” said Poole, as he took hold of the handle.
“You stand by a moment, sir,” said the carpenter, picking up the joist upon which he had been operating, and holding it as if it were a lance. “I am going to poison them.”
As he spoke he drove the end right into a heap of Indian corn-husks that lay in the first corner, the blow being followed by a violent rustling, and another snake made its appearance, not to dash for the door, but turning, wriggling, and lashing about as it fought hard till it wriggled itself free of the little beam which had pinned it into the corner, crushing its vertebra about a third of its length from the head, and ending by tying itself in a knot round the piece of wood and holding on.
“Below there!” shouted the carpenter. “Stand clear!”
He advanced towards Fitz with the joist, and as the boy leaped back he thrust out the piece of wood, resting the middle on the window-sill.
“Here you are, Camel,” he cried; “fresh meat, all skewered for you like a bun on a toasting-fork. Look alive, old haggis, and take him off. He’s a fine un, Master Poole. I can’t abear to see waste.”
Fitz and Poole both stepped back, and at that moment with one quick writhe the little serpent seemed to untie itself, dropping to the ground limply, writhed again as if to tie itself into a fresh knot, and then stretched itself out at full length.
“Take care, Mr Burnett, sir,” cried the carpenter, hastily taking from Poole and holding out the axe he had been using. “Don’t go too near. Them things can be precious vicious. Ketch hold of this and drop it on to him just behind his head.”
“No, no, don’t, Fitz!” cried Poole. “Look at its little fiery eyes. It may strike.”
“Not it,” cried Fitz. “Chips has spoiled all his fighting for good;” and taking a step or two forward with the axe he had snatched from the carpenter’s hand, he made one quick cut and drove it into the earth, for the blade to be struck at once by the serpent’s head, while the ugly coils were instantaneously knotted round the haft.
Fitz involuntarily started back, leaving the axe-handle with its ugly load standing out at an angle, and the two lads stood watching the serpent’s head as the jaws parted once or twice and then became motionless, while the folds twisted round the stout ash-handle gradually grew lax and then dropped limply and loosely upon the earth, ending by heaving slightly as a shudder seemed to run from the bleeding neck right to the tail.
“He’s as good as dead, gentlemen,” said the carpenter. “He won’t hunt no more rats under this place. Give me my chopper, please; I am thinking there are a few more here. Let’s have ’em out, or they’ll be in the way and get their tails trodden on when the fighting begins.”
“Yes, let’s have them out, Chips,” cried Poole; “but be careful. They may be poisonous, and savage with being disturbed.”
“Oh yes, I’ll be careful enough,” cried the carpenter; and raising the joist again he stepped back from the window and drove it into another corner of the room, the boys peering in through the nearest window and eagerly watching for the result.
“Nothing here,” cried the carpenter, after giving two heavy thrusts. “Yes, there is. Here’s a little baby one. Such a little wriggler! A pretty one too; seems a pity to kill him.”
“No, no,” cried Fitz, as he watched the active movements of the little snake that suddenly raised itself like a piece of spiral spring, its spade-shaped head playing about menacingly about a foot from the ground.
“Yes, take care,” cried Poole. “I believe that’s a viper.”
“So’s this,” said the carpenter, letting one end of the joist rest upon the ground and the other fall heavily right across the threatening snake. “Hah! That’s a wiper, and I wiped him out.”
Next moment he lifted the joist again, and used it pitchfork-fashion to jerk the completely crushed dangerous reptile out of another window, before advancing to the third corner, where a larger heap of Indian corn-husks seemed to have been drawn together.
“Anything there, Chips?” cried Fitz.
“Oh yes, there’s a big un here—two on ’em; and they’re telling tales of it, too, for they’ve left ’em hanging outside. Now, whereabouts will their heads be?”
“Take care,” cried Poole, “for you may cripple one and leave the other to dart at you.”
“Yes, and that wouldn’t be nice,” said the carpenter thoughtfully. “I don’t mind tackling one of them, but two at a time’s coming it a bit too strong. ’Tarn’t fair like.”
“Look here,” cried Fitz, “we’ll come in, and each have a joist. We should be sure to kill them then.”
“I dunno so much about that, gen’lemen. You might help, and you moten’t. If they made a rush you might be in my way, and you know, as old Andy says, Too many cooks spoil the snake-soup. Here, I know; I can soon turn them out.”
“How?” cried Poole, as the man stood the joist up against the wall.
“I’ll soon show you,” cried the carpenter, pulling out a match-box.
“You’ll burn the place down.”
“Nay,” cried the man; “them corn-shucks will just flare up with a fizz; I can trample them out before they catch the wood. You two be on the look-out, for there’s no knowing which window my gentlemen will make for as soon as they find as it aren’t the sun as is warming them up.”
He struck a match as he spoke, let the splint get well alight, and then stepping forward softly he stooped down to apply it to the pale, dry, creamy-looking corn-leaves.
“Look out!” cried Fitz excitedly.
“Oh, my fingers are too hard to burn,” growled the carpenter, ignoring the notion of the danger being from the serpents; and he applied the burning match to three places, letting the flame drop in the last, before he stepped quickly back, watching the bright crackling flare which rose in each spot where he had applied the match and then began to run together to form one blaze.
“Why, there’s nothing there,” cried Poole.
“Oh, yes, there is, gen’lemen, and they’re beginning to feel it. It’s so nice and warm that—Look, they are pulling their tails in under the blanket to get their share. Now they says it’s too hot. Look out; here they come.”
The warning was not needed, for there was a sharp, fierce hissing heard plainly above the spluttering crackle of the burning husks, the pile was violently agitated, and then the burning heap was heaved up and scattered about in various directions, while, half-hidden by the smoke, it seemed as if a couple of pieces of stout Manilla cable were being furiously shaken upon the earthen floor.
“Murder!” shouted Poole, starting back from the window where he stood, his action being involuntarily imitated by Fitz, who just caught a glance of the snake that had startled his companion passing like a flash over the window-sill, and making at what seemed to be an impossible speed for a clump of bushes close at hand.
“That’s one of them,” cried Fitz breathlessly. “What about the other?”
Bang! Bang! Thud! Thud! came from inside the room, and then the answer in the carpenter’s gruff voice—
“I got him at last,” he said. “He was a lively one. Reg’lar dodger. Come and look here. It’s all right; he’s done. My! He is a whopper!”
The inclination to look in was not great, but the boys stepped back at once to the windows they had left, to see that the burning heap was well alight, but apparently all in motion, while the carpenter was standing near, half-hidden by smoke, pressing the end of the joist he had used down upon a writhing serpent which he was holding pinned against the earth in the middle of the flames.
“Take care! Take care!” cried Poole. “It’ll be furious if it gets from underneath that piece of wood.”
“He’d be clever if he did, sir. I got him too tight. It’s all right, and I am making use of him at the same time.”
“Nonsense! Come out, man; you will have the place on fire directly.”
“Oh, no, I shan’t, sir. Don’t you see, I am letting him whack and scatter it all out. There won’t be enough to do any mischief now.—Hah! He’s quieting down; and he’s the last on ’em. If there were any others they are smoked out.”
As he spoke the lads could plainly see that the reptile’s efforts to escape were growing weaker, while the rest of the party, who had been busy at the other end of the hacienda, had collected at window and door, attracted by the rising smoke.
“Just in time, mates! About another two minutes and he’ll be done. Now then,” the speaker added, “I don’t want to spoil him,” and raking out the heaving reptile, he forked it to the door and tossed it a few yards away into the clearing. “All together!” he shouted. “Fair play! Knives out. Who’s for a cut of hot roast?”
Chips’s pantomime was at an end, for, rifle in hand, the skipper came running up.
“What’s the meaning of this?” he roared. “Why don’t you put that fire out? Do you want to burn the place down? Who’s been smoking here?”
“It’s all right, father. There were snakes under the floor, but Chips has burned them out.”
“Oh, that’s it! Dangerous brutes! Here, Winks, how have you been getting on?”
“Oh, tidy, sir, tidy,” said the carpenter, wiping his smarting eyes as he tried to check a cough and made it worse. “You see, there was no stuff, and I had to tear up the floor.”
“Capital,” said the skipper, as he examined the preparations. “Couldn’t be better, my man. Here, if there’s time you shall serve those other two rooms the same. Axes here, my lads. Cut down those bushes and pile them up under the windows. We mustn’t leave them there for cover.”
“Take care,” cried Fitz. “There’s a great snake in there. Here, Poole, let’s each take a joist and beat him out.”
“Hadn’t we better try a match, sir? Them there bushes are that ily evergreen stuff as’ll burn like fun.”
“Yes,” said the skipper. “We don’t want the stuff for protection, and the enemy might throw a light in and burn us out. But look here, Chips, are there any sparks inside there, likely to set the wood-work alight?”
“Nay, sir; it was all fluffy touch-and-go stuff. There’s nothing there now but smoke.”
The man moved as he spoke towards the clump of ornamental shrubs in which the big snake had taken sanctuary, the two lads, each armed with a joist carried lance-fashion, following him up, while the skipper hurried into the building with one of the men, to satisfy himself that the carpenter’s words were correct.
The remainder stood by to watch the firing of the clump of bushes, the news that they hid a serpent putting all upon thequi vive.
“Take care Chips,” said Poole anxiously. “They are dangerous, treacherous things. We don’t want to get you bitten.”
“Of course you don’t, my lad; but tchah! They aren’t half so dangerous as I am with a box of matches in my hand. Here, wait a moment; which way’s the wind? Oh, this ’ere. Blest if I know whether it’s north south, or east west, for I’ve quite lost my bearings. Anyhow, it don’t blow towards the house. Now then, I think I’ll just have an armful of these ’ere plantain-leaves and them there bamboo. They’re the things to burn.”
He hastily collected as many dry great ragged banana-leaves as he could grasp, laid them in a heap to windward of the clump, and jumped back quickly, grinning hugely as he turned to the boys.
“He’s there still,” he said; “I heard him whisper like a sick goose as I popped that stuff down.”
“We’d better look out, then, on the other side,” cried Fitz, “or he’ll make a bolt. Shall I get my gun?”
“No, no,” said Poole; “we must have no firing now.”
Fitz moved, joist in hand, towards the other side of the clump.
“Nay, you needn’t do that, sir,” cried the carpenter. “That’s what we want him to do.”
“Oh, I see; you don’t want there to be any waste,” said Poole.
“Ugh!” shuddered Fitz, and the carpenter grinned as he hurriedly snapped off as many dead bamboos as he could secure from a waving, feathery group, bore the bundle the next minute to the edge of the clump of shrubs, laid them on the heap of banana-leaves, and then rapidly applied a burning match to the dry growth, which still retained a sufficiency of inflammable oil to begin to flare at once, making the bamboos crackle and then explode with a series of little reports like those of a revolver.
“That’s right,” said the carpenter; “if we had only got a few dozen cocoanut-shells to help it on, we should have a bonfire as’d beat a Guy Foxer all to fits.”
But there were no cocoanuts to be had without paying a visit to the seashore, so the fire was mended with the bushes that were cut down from here and there, blazing up so furiously that in a few minutes the clump was consumed, and the snake with it, for it was not seen again.
“Now then,” said the skipper, “scatter those embers about, and put an end to that smoke, or it will attract the enemy and show them where we are.”
These orders were carried out, and the next hour was spent in adding to the defences as far as was possible, in seeing to there being a supply of water, and examining what there was in the shape of provisions in store.
But other precautions were being taken at the same time, the skipper having sent out three of the men right and left along the forest-paths and towards the shore, so as to ensure them against surprise. Then the afternoon wore away, and the evening approached, without alarm, and before the night could fall in its rapid, tropical way, the scouts were recalled, sentries posted, and the defenders gathered-together in their little fortress for their evening meal, by the light of the great stars, which seemed to Fitz double the size that they were at home.
Every one had his arms ready for use at a moment’s notice, and the two lads sat together nibbling the biscuit they had brought with them, and moistening it from time to time with a draught of the water from the big pannikin which they shared. That change from glowing sunset to darkness had been wonderfully swift, and as the beauty of the surrounding jungle, with its wondrous tints of green, changed into black gloom, the aspect of the place affected the two young adventurers at once, Fitz giving vent to a long-drawn sigh.
“What’s the matter?” said Poole, in a low voice.
“Oh, I don’t know,” replied the middy. “It seems so strange and weird here in the darkness. It makes me feel quite low-spirited.”
“Do you know why that is?” asked Poole.
“Of course I do. It is all dark and dangerous, and at any time we may have those mongrel Spaniels, as Chips calls them, rushing at us and firing as they come.”
“Well, we should fire at them back again,” said Poole coolly. “But it isn’t that that makes you nervous and dull.”
“Isn’t it? Well, I suppose I am not so brave as you,” whispered the middy.
“Fudge! It’s nothing to do with being brave. I don’t feel brave. I am just as low-spirited as you are. It’s because we are tired and hungry.”
“Why, we are keeping on eating.”
“Yes; biscuit-and-water. But that only keeps you from starving; it doesn’t do you good. Why, if old Andy had a good fire and was roasting a wild turkey, or grilling some fish, we shouldn’t feel dull, but be all expectation, and sniffing at the cooking, impatient till it was done.”
“Well, I suppose there is something in that,” said Fitz, “for I feel as faint as can be. I seem to have been so ever since I began to get better. Always wanting something more to eat.”
“Of course you do. That’s right enough.”
“What’s that?” cried Fitz, catching his companion by the arm; for there was a loud slap, as if the water of the river had suddenly received a sharp blow with the blade of an oar.
“I d’know,” said Poole. “Boat coming, I think. Did you hear that, father?” And the speaker looked in the direction where the skipper had last been seen.
“Oh yes,” was the reply, coming from outside one of the windows of the room they had strengthened with a breastwork.
“It’s a boat coming, isn’t it, father?”
“No, my lad,” said the skipper, in a deep-toned growl. “It’s one of the crocodiles or alligators fishing for its supper.”
“No, no, Mr Reed,” cried Fitz; “we mean that sound like a heavy slap on the water. There it goes again! That!”
“Yes, that’s the sound I meant,” said the skipper. “Sounds queer, doesn’t it, in the darkness? But that’s right. It’s one of the great alligator fellows thrashing the water to stun the fish. This makes them turn up, and then the great lizardly thing swallows them down.”
Fitz uttered a little grunt as if he thought it was very queer, and then went on nibbling his biscuit.
“Poole,” he whispered, “what stupids we were not to go and fish before it got dark.”
“That’s just what I was thinking,” was the reply.
“Yes,” continued Fitz; “we hadn’t as much sense as an alligator. I wish we had a good fish or two here.”
“To eat raw?” said Poole scornfully. “Raw? Nonsense! We’d set old Andy to work.”
“No, we shouldn’t. How could we have a fire here? It would be like setting ourselves up for the enemy to fire at. Why, they could creep in through the jungle till they were fifty or sixty yards away, and take pot-shots at us. But only let us get to-night over, and we will go shooting or fishing as soon as it’s day.”
“Hark at that,” said Fitz, catching him by the arm. “Here they come at last!” And not only the boys, but every one present but the skipper, felt a strange fluttering about the heart, as a curious hollow cry rose from somewhere at the edge of the jungle.
And then from out of the darkness there was a sharpclick, click! of the lock of a rifle, the force of example bringing out quite a series of the ominous little sounds, which came forth sharp and clear as every one prepared to use his piece.
“Steady there, my lads!” growled the skipper. “You don’t think you can shoot that bird?”
“There, laddies; I kenned it was a bird—one of them long-legged, big-beaked chaps that stand out in the water spearing eels. Wish we had got him now.”
“Was that a bird, father?” whispered Poole. “Why, you ought to have known it was, my lad. There goes another, and another. If you listen you can hear the cry dying right away in the distance—one of those great cranes.”
“Fine bird to keep for singing,” said the cook, “only I want everything for the pot or the spit. There he goes again. What a rich voice, laddies! Sounds as if he were fat.”
The rifles were uncocked gently and carefully, and all sat listening again, thoroughly on thequi vive, for though fully expecting that the first warning of danger would be a shot from one of the sentries, all felt that there was a possibility of the enemy stealing up in the darkness and making a rush which would quite take them by surprise.
It was depressing work to the wakeful, and as the hours stole slowly on first one and then another, tired out with the exertions of the day, let his head sink upon his breast where he crouched and gave audible notice that he had forgotten everything in the way of danger, in sleep.
From time to time the boys kept up a desultory conversation, but at last this ceased, and Fitz suddenly lifted his head with a jerk and began to look wonderingly round at the great stars.
“What’s the matter?” said Poole, in a startled way.
“I dunno,” replied the middy. “It seemed to me that somebody got hold of me and gave me a jerk.”
“That’s just how I felt. Look out!”
Fitz did look out as far as the darkness would allow, and his hands began to turn moist against the stock of his gun; but there was nothing to be heard but the heavy breathing of the sleepers, and both lads were beginning to think that the start and jerk were caused by their having been asleep themselves, when there was a familiar voice close at hand.
“Well, lads, how are you getting on?”
“Not very well, father,” replied Poole. “Is it all right?”
“Yes, my boy; I have heard nothing but the cries of the night birds, and the creeping of something now and then among the boughs.”
“Think the enemy will come to-night, Mr Reed?” said Fitz.
“Can’t say, my lad. They may, or they may not. If they knew how easily they could get the better of us they would make a rush. Tut, tut, tut! Kick that fellow, Poole. Can’t he sleep without snoring like that? Who is it?”
“I think it’s Winks, father.”
“Rouse him up, then.”
“Eh? Hullo! All right! My watch?”
“No, no,” said Poole. “Be quiet; you are snoring away as if you were sawing wood.”
“Was I, my lad?” whispered the man. “Well, I believe I dreamed I was at that game. Any fighting coming off?”
“No, not yet.”
“All right; then I’ll have another nap.”
But at that moment from out of the darkness, at apparently the edge of the jungle beyond the hacienda clearing, there was a sudden crashing as of the breaking of wood, followed instantly by an exceedingly shrill and piercing shriek, the rustle and beating of leaves, two or three low piteous sobs, and then silence for a few moments, followed by a soft rustling which died away.
“Steady there!” whispered the skipper, as he heard the click of a lock. “Don’t fire, my lad. It would only be wasting a charge.”
“But the savage has killed somebody, Mr Reed,” whispered Fitz, in a voice he did not know as his own; and he crouched rigidly there with the butt of his piece to his shoulder, aiming in the direction of the sounds, and with every nerve upon the strain.
“Yes,” said the skipper coolly; “the savage has killed somebody and has carried him off. There, you can hear the faint rustling still.”
“But a savage could not carry a man off like that,” said Fitz wonderingly.
“No,” replied the skipper, with a low chuckle. “But that savage has gone off with the body he seized. Don’t you know what it was, my lad?”
“No,” replied Fitz wonderingly.
“Then I’ll tell you, as far as I know myself. I should say that was one of those great cats, the tigers, as they call them here, the jaguars. He was prowling along in one of those big trees till he could see a monkey roosting, and then it was a leap like a cat at a rat, and he carried him off.”
“Ah!” said Fitz, with a sigh. “I thought it was something worse.”
“Couldn’t have been any worse for the monkey,” said Poole, laughing.
“No,” continued Fitz thoughtfully; “but I didn’t know there were jaguars here.”
“Didn’t you, my lad?” said the skipper quietly. “Why, we are just at the edge of the impenetrable jungle. There is only this strip of land between it and the sea, and the only way into it is up that little river. If we were to row up there we should have right and left pretty well every wild creature that inhabits the South American jungles: tigers—you have had a taste of the snakes this afternoon—water-hogs, tapirs, pumas too, I dare say. There goes another of those great alligators slapping the water with his tail.”
“Would there be any of the great serpents?” asked Fitz.
“Any number,” replied the skipper, “if we could penetrate to where they are; the great tree-living ones, and those water-boas that live among the swamps and pools.”
“They grow very big, don’t they?” said Fitz, who began to find the conversation interesting.
“All sizes. Big as you or me round the thickest part, and as long as—”
“A hundred feet?” said Poole.
“Well, I don’t know about that, my boy,” said the skipper. “I shouldn’t like to meet one that size. I saw the skin of one that was over thirty, and I have heard tell by people out here that they had seen them five-and-forty and fifty feet long. They may grow to that size in these hot, steamy jungles. There is no reason why they shouldn’t, when whales grow to seventy or eighty feet long in the sea; but I believe those monster anacondas of fifty feet long were only skins, and that either they or the stories had been very much stretched.”
“What time do you think it is, father?”
“Well, by the feel of the night, my lad, I should say it’s about three.”
“As late as that, father? Time seems to have gone very quickly.”
“Quickly, eh? That’s proof positive, my boy, that you have had a nap or two. I have not, and I have found it slow.”
Chapter Twenty Seven.A Junction.The skipper moved off into the darkness, and all was wonderfully still once more in the clearing. There was the dense jungle all round, but not a sound broke the silence, for it was the peculiar period between the going to rest of the myriad creatures who prey by night, and the waking up of those expectant of the sun.Then there was a sound of about the most commonplace, matter-of-fact character that can be imagined. Fitz, as he lay half upon a heap of dry leaves and canes, opened his mouth very widely, yawned portentously and loudly, ending with, “Oh, dear me!” and a quickly-uttered correction of what seemed to him like bad manners: “I beg your pardon!”“Ha, ha!” laughed Poole, “I was doing just the same. Here, you are a pretty sort of fellow,” he continued, “to be on the watch, and kick up a shindy like that! Suppose the enemy had been sneaking in.”He had hardly finished speaking when Fitz caught him by the arm and sprang up, for there was a faint rustling, and the two lads felt more than saw that some one was approaching them. Relief came directly, for instead of a sudden attack, it was the skipper who spoke.“Silence!” he said softly. “Here, if you two lads are as sleepy as that, lie down again till sunrise.”“No, no, father,” said Poole; “I am all right now. You must be tired out. Burnett and I will go your rounds now.”“Thanks, my lad; but no, thank you.”“But you may trust me, father, and I will call you at daybreak.”“No, my boy; I couldn’t sleep if I tried.”“No more could I now, father. Let me help you, then; and go round to see that the watch is all right.”“Very well. You go that way, and have a quiet chat with the man on duty. It will rouse him up. I am going round here.”The skipper moved off directly, and Poole, before starting off in the indicated direction, whispered to Fitz—“You can have another snooze till I come back.”“Thank you; but I am going along with you.”Quite willing to accept his companionship, Poole led the way slowly and cautiously; but at the end of a few yards he stopped short.“What’s the matter?” whispered Fitz.“Nothing yet; but I was just thinking. Is there any password?”“I dunno,” whispered Fitz.“I didn’t ask father, and it would be rather awkward if we were challenged and shot at.”“Oh, there’s no fear of that. You’d know by the voice which of the men it was who spoke, and he’d know yours when you answered.”“To be sure. False alarm. Come on.” It seemed darker than ever as they went forward on what seemed to be the track, but proved to be off it, for all at once as they were going cautiously on, literally feeling their way, Poole caught his foot against a stump and nearly fell headlong.“Bother!” he ejaculated loudly, to add to the noise he made, and instantly a gruff voice from their right growled out, “Who goes there?” accompanying the question with a clicking of a rifle-lock. “Friends,” cried Fitz sharply. “The word.”“Teal” cried Poole, as he scrambled up. “Aren’t right,” growled the same voice. “That you, Mr Poole?”“Oh, it’s you, Chips!” cried the lad, in a tone full of relief.“Winks it is,” was the reply; “but the skipper said I warn’t to let anybody pass without he said Sponson.”“Sponson,” cried Fitz, laughing.“Ah, you know now,” growled the carpenter, “because I telled you; but it don’t seem right somehow. But you aren’t enemies, of course.”“Not much,” said Poole. “Well, how are you getting on, Chips?”“Oh, tidy, sir, tidy; only it’s raither dull work, and precious damp. A bit wearisome like with nothing to do but chew. Thought when I heard you that there was going to be something to warm one up a bit. Wonderful how chilly it gets before the sun’s up. I should just like to have a bit of timber here, and my saw.”“To let the enemy know exactly where we are?”“Ah, of course; that wouldn’t do. But I always feel when I haven’t got another job on the way that it’s a good thing to do to cut up a bit of timber into boards.”“Why?” asked Fitz, more for the sake of speaking than from any desire to know.“Plaisters, my lad.”“Plaisters?”“Ay; for sore hulls. A bit of thin board’s always handy off a coast where there’s rocks, and there’s many a time when, if the carpenter had had plenty of sticking-plaister for a vessel’s skin, a good ship could have been saved from going down. Nice place this. What a spot it would have been if it had been an island and the schooner had been wrecked!”“What do you want the schooner wrecked for?” cried Poole.“Me, sir? I don’t want the schooner wrecked. I only said if it had been, and because you young gents was talking the other day about being on a desolate island to play Robinson Crusoe for a bit.”“Oh yes, I remember,” said Fitz.“So do I, sir. It set me thinking about that chap a good deal. Some men do get chances in life. Just think of him! Why, that fellow had everything a chap could wish for. Aren’t talking too loud, are we, Mr Poole?”“Oh no. No one could hear us whispering like this.”“That’s right. I am glad you young gents come, for it was getting very unked and queer all alone. Quite cheers a fellow up. Set down, both on you.”“Thanks, no,” said Fitz; “the ground’s too wet.”“Nay, I don’t mean on the ground. Feel just behind you. There aren’t a arm-chair, but a big bit of timber as has been cut down.—There, that’s better. May as well make one’s miserable life happy, and I don’t suppose we shall have anybody sneaking round now.—Ah, yes, that there Robinson Crusoe did have a fine time of it. Everything his own, including a ship safely docked ashore full of stores, and nothing to do but break her up and sort the bits. And there he’d got all the timbers, keel-knees, planks, tree-nails, ropes, spars and yards, and plenty of sheet-metal, I’ll be bound, for copper bottoming. Why, with plenty of time on his hands, he might have built anything, from a yawl to a schooner. But he didn’t seem to me to shine much in naval architecter. Why, at first he hadn’t a soul much above a raft.”“It was very useful, though,” said Fitz.“Nay; more trouble, sir, than it was worth. Better have built himself some kind of a boat at once. Look at his raft! Always a-sinking, or fouling, or shooting off its cargo, or trying to navigate itself. I don’t believe in rafts. They’re no use unless you want to use one to get washed ashore. For my part—Pst!”The boys sprang up at the man’s whispered signal, Fitz the more actively from the fact that the carpenter’s horny hand had suddenly gripped his knee so forcibly that he had hard work to restrain a cry of pain.“Somebody coming,” whispered Poole, quite unnecessarily, for a loud rustling through the bushes was announcing the approach of the expected enemy.“Stand by!” roared the carpenter, and his rifle flashed a line of light through the darkness as he fired in the direction of the sounds. “Now, my lads,” he whispered, “double back into the ship.”As the words passed his lips a voice from out of the darkness shouted in broken English, and with a very Spanish accent—“Don’t fire! Friends! Friends! Friends!”The words checked the retreat on the hacienda, but they did not clear away the watch’s doubts.“Yes,” growled the carpenter, “so you says, but it’s too dark to see your faces.” Then aloud, “Who are you? Give the word.”“Friends!” was shouted again.“Well! Where’s the word?—He don’t say Sponson, Mr Poole,” added the carpenter, in a whisper.“Captain Reed! Captain Reed!” cried the same voice, from where all was perfectly still now, for the sounds of the advance had ceased.“Who wants Captain Reed?” shouted Poole.“Ah, yes, I know you,” came excitedly. “Tell your father Don Ramon is here with his men.”
The skipper moved off into the darkness, and all was wonderfully still once more in the clearing. There was the dense jungle all round, but not a sound broke the silence, for it was the peculiar period between the going to rest of the myriad creatures who prey by night, and the waking up of those expectant of the sun.
Then there was a sound of about the most commonplace, matter-of-fact character that can be imagined. Fitz, as he lay half upon a heap of dry leaves and canes, opened his mouth very widely, yawned portentously and loudly, ending with, “Oh, dear me!” and a quickly-uttered correction of what seemed to him like bad manners: “I beg your pardon!”
“Ha, ha!” laughed Poole, “I was doing just the same. Here, you are a pretty sort of fellow,” he continued, “to be on the watch, and kick up a shindy like that! Suppose the enemy had been sneaking in.”
He had hardly finished speaking when Fitz caught him by the arm and sprang up, for there was a faint rustling, and the two lads felt more than saw that some one was approaching them. Relief came directly, for instead of a sudden attack, it was the skipper who spoke.
“Silence!” he said softly. “Here, if you two lads are as sleepy as that, lie down again till sunrise.”
“No, no, father,” said Poole; “I am all right now. You must be tired out. Burnett and I will go your rounds now.”
“Thanks, my lad; but no, thank you.”
“But you may trust me, father, and I will call you at daybreak.”
“No, my boy; I couldn’t sleep if I tried.”
“No more could I now, father. Let me help you, then; and go round to see that the watch is all right.”
“Very well. You go that way, and have a quiet chat with the man on duty. It will rouse him up. I am going round here.”
The skipper moved off directly, and Poole, before starting off in the indicated direction, whispered to Fitz—
“You can have another snooze till I come back.”
“Thank you; but I am going along with you.”
Quite willing to accept his companionship, Poole led the way slowly and cautiously; but at the end of a few yards he stopped short.
“What’s the matter?” whispered Fitz.
“Nothing yet; but I was just thinking. Is there any password?”
“I dunno,” whispered Fitz.
“I didn’t ask father, and it would be rather awkward if we were challenged and shot at.”
“Oh, there’s no fear of that. You’d know by the voice which of the men it was who spoke, and he’d know yours when you answered.”
“To be sure. False alarm. Come on.” It seemed darker than ever as they went forward on what seemed to be the track, but proved to be off it, for all at once as they were going cautiously on, literally feeling their way, Poole caught his foot against a stump and nearly fell headlong.
“Bother!” he ejaculated loudly, to add to the noise he made, and instantly a gruff voice from their right growled out, “Who goes there?” accompanying the question with a clicking of a rifle-lock. “Friends,” cried Fitz sharply. “The word.”
“Teal” cried Poole, as he scrambled up. “Aren’t right,” growled the same voice. “That you, Mr Poole?”
“Oh, it’s you, Chips!” cried the lad, in a tone full of relief.
“Winks it is,” was the reply; “but the skipper said I warn’t to let anybody pass without he said Sponson.”
“Sponson,” cried Fitz, laughing.
“Ah, you know now,” growled the carpenter, “because I telled you; but it don’t seem right somehow. But you aren’t enemies, of course.”
“Not much,” said Poole. “Well, how are you getting on, Chips?”
“Oh, tidy, sir, tidy; only it’s raither dull work, and precious damp. A bit wearisome like with nothing to do but chew. Thought when I heard you that there was going to be something to warm one up a bit. Wonderful how chilly it gets before the sun’s up. I should just like to have a bit of timber here, and my saw.”
“To let the enemy know exactly where we are?”
“Ah, of course; that wouldn’t do. But I always feel when I haven’t got another job on the way that it’s a good thing to do to cut up a bit of timber into boards.”
“Why?” asked Fitz, more for the sake of speaking than from any desire to know.
“Plaisters, my lad.”
“Plaisters?”
“Ay; for sore hulls. A bit of thin board’s always handy off a coast where there’s rocks, and there’s many a time when, if the carpenter had had plenty of sticking-plaister for a vessel’s skin, a good ship could have been saved from going down. Nice place this. What a spot it would have been if it had been an island and the schooner had been wrecked!”
“What do you want the schooner wrecked for?” cried Poole.
“Me, sir? I don’t want the schooner wrecked. I only said if it had been, and because you young gents was talking the other day about being on a desolate island to play Robinson Crusoe for a bit.”
“Oh yes, I remember,” said Fitz.
“So do I, sir. It set me thinking about that chap a good deal. Some men do get chances in life. Just think of him! Why, that fellow had everything a chap could wish for. Aren’t talking too loud, are we, Mr Poole?”
“Oh no. No one could hear us whispering like this.”
“That’s right. I am glad you young gents come, for it was getting very unked and queer all alone. Quite cheers a fellow up. Set down, both on you.”
“Thanks, no,” said Fitz; “the ground’s too wet.”
“Nay, I don’t mean on the ground. Feel just behind you. There aren’t a arm-chair, but a big bit of timber as has been cut down.—There, that’s better. May as well make one’s miserable life happy, and I don’t suppose we shall have anybody sneaking round now.—Ah, yes, that there Robinson Crusoe did have a fine time of it. Everything his own, including a ship safely docked ashore full of stores, and nothing to do but break her up and sort the bits. And there he’d got all the timbers, keel-knees, planks, tree-nails, ropes, spars and yards, and plenty of sheet-metal, I’ll be bound, for copper bottoming. Why, with plenty of time on his hands, he might have built anything, from a yawl to a schooner. But he didn’t seem to me to shine much in naval architecter. Why, at first he hadn’t a soul much above a raft.”
“It was very useful, though,” said Fitz.
“Nay; more trouble, sir, than it was worth. Better have built himself some kind of a boat at once. Look at his raft! Always a-sinking, or fouling, or shooting off its cargo, or trying to navigate itself. I don’t believe in rafts. They’re no use unless you want to use one to get washed ashore. For my part—Pst!”
The boys sprang up at the man’s whispered signal, Fitz the more actively from the fact that the carpenter’s horny hand had suddenly gripped his knee so forcibly that he had hard work to restrain a cry of pain.
“Somebody coming,” whispered Poole, quite unnecessarily, for a loud rustling through the bushes was announcing the approach of the expected enemy.
“Stand by!” roared the carpenter, and his rifle flashed a line of light through the darkness as he fired in the direction of the sounds. “Now, my lads,” he whispered, “double back into the ship.”
As the words passed his lips a voice from out of the darkness shouted in broken English, and with a very Spanish accent—
“Don’t fire! Friends! Friends! Friends!”
The words checked the retreat on the hacienda, but they did not clear away the watch’s doubts.
“Yes,” growled the carpenter, “so you says, but it’s too dark to see your faces.” Then aloud, “Who are you? Give the word.”
“Friends!” was shouted again.
“Well! Where’s the word?—He don’t say Sponson, Mr Poole,” added the carpenter, in a whisper.
“Captain Reed! Captain Reed!” cried the same voice, from where all was perfectly still now, for the sounds of the advance had ceased.
“Who wants Captain Reed?” shouted Poole.
“Ah, yes, I know you,” came excitedly. “Tell your father Don Ramon is here with his men.”
Chapter Twenty Eight.Strange doings.All doubts as to the character of the new-comers were chased away by the coming up of the skipper to welcome the Don, who had nothing but bad news to communicate.He had passed the night in full retreat with the remnant of his followers before the forces of the rival President.“Everything has gone wrong,” he said. “I have lost heavily, and thought that I should never have been able to join my friends. What about the hacienda? Have you done anything for its defence?”“The best we could,” replied the skipper. “I suppose you know that the enemy had been here, that there had been a fight, and that they had wrecked the place.”“I? No!” cried the Don, in a voice full of despair. “I sent a party of my friends here to meet you, and this was therendezvous. Don’t tell me that they have been attacked and beaten.”“I have as good as told you that,” said the skipper dryly.“Ah–h–h!” panted the Don.“We have put the place in as good a state of defence as there was time for, but we have not seen a soul.”“It is terrible,” groaned the Don. “My poor friends! prisoners, or driven off! But you! You have your brave men.”“I have about half my crew here, sir,” said the skipper sternly; “but we haven’t come to fight, only to bring what you know.”“Ah! The guns, the ammunition, the store of rifles!” cried the Don joyously. “Magnificent! Oh, you brave Englishmen! And you have them landed safe?”“No,” replied the skipper, as the middy’s ears literally tingled at all he heard. “How could I land guns up here? And what could you do with them in these pathless tracts? Where are your horses and mules, even if there were roads?”“True, true, true!” groaned the Don. “Fortune is against me now. But,” he added sharply, “the rifles—cartridges?”“Ah, as many of them as you like,” cried the skipper, and Fitz Burnett’s sense of duty began to awaken once again as he seemed in some undefined way to be getting hopelessly mixed up with people against whom it was his duty to war.“Excellent; and you have them in the hacienda?”“No, no; aboard my vessel.”“But where is this vessel? You could not get her up the river?”“No; she is lying off the mouth. I came up here in a boat to meet you and get your instructions, after, as you know, being checked at San Cristobal and Velova, where your emissaries brought your despatches.”“Brave, true fellows! But the gunboat! Were you seen?”“Seen? Yes, and nearly taken. I only escaped by the skin of my teeth.”“You were too clever,” cried the Don enthusiastically. “But you should have sunk that gunboat. It would have meant life and success to me. Why did not you send her to the bottom?”“Well,” said the skipper quietly, “first, because I am not at war, and second, because she would have sent me to the bottom if I had tried.”“No, no,” cried the Don enthusiastically. “You English are too clever and too brave. The captain of that gunboat is a fool. You could easily have done this thing. But you have the guns you brought all safe aboard?”“Yes.”“And you have some of your brave men with you?”“Yes; more than half my crew.”“Then I am saved, for you will fight upon my side, and every one of your brave Englishmen is worth a hundred of the miserable three parts Indian rabble bravos and cut-throats who follow Villarayo’s flag.”“Well, I didn’t come here to fight, Don Ramon, and I have no right to strengthen your force,” said the skipper sternly. “My duty is to land the munitions of war consigned to you; and that duty I shall do.”“But your men! They are armed?”“Oh yes. Every one has his rifle and revolver, and knows how to use them.”“And suppose you are attacked?” said the Don, catching him by the arm.“Well,” said the skipper dryly, “we English have a habit of hitting back if we are tackled, and if anybody interferes with us in what we have to do, I dare say we shall give a pretty good account of ourselves. But at the present moment it seems to me that it’s my duty to get back to my ship and wait until you show me where I can land my cargo.”“Ah!” said the Don, and as he spoke Fitz had his first announcement that day was near at hand, for he began to dimly see the eager, animated countenance of the Spaniard, and to make out the figures of his well-armed followers clustering round.“Well, sir, what is to be done?”“One moment; let me think. It will be safest, perhaps, for you to return to the ship and wait.”“Where?” said the skipper. “That gunboat is hanging about the coast, waiting to capture us if she can.”“Yes, I know; I know. And ashore Villarayo’s men are swarming. They have hunted us through the pass all night, and hundreds of them are coming along the coast to cut us off from reaching boats and escaping out to sea.”“Then it’s time we were off,” said the skipper sharply.“Too late,” replied the Don.“But my schooner?”“Will they capture that?” cried the Don.“Well no,” replied the skipper. “There’s not much fear, sir; my mate will look out too sharply. No. That will be safe. Don Ramon, if you will take my advice, you and your party had better break up and take to flight for the present, while I will make for any port you like to name and wait your orders, ready for when you can gather your friends together and make another attempt.”“Ah, yes, Captain Reed, you mean well; but where shall I flee? This is my last place of refuge! Here, at my own home! It is best perhaps that you and your men should get back to your ship. I and my friends are pretty well surrounded, and have but two ways open to us. The one is to surrender to Villarayo’s merciless cut-throats and die like dogs; the other, to stand at bay behind the walls of my poor home, fight to the last, and die for our wretched country like soldiers and like men. Shake hands, captain, in your brave English way. I and my friends thank you for all you have done, and for making, as you say you have, a little stronghold where we can hold on to the last. It is not your fault, neither is it mine. I could have won the day, and brought happiness and peace to my poor land; but it was not to be. Villarayo has been too strong. That war-vessel with its mighty gun holds us at its mercy. Whoever has that to back him up can rule this place; for any fort that we could raise, even with the guns you have brought, would be crumbled into the dust. There! Farewell! You have your boat. Save yourself and your true, brave men. Quickly, while there is time!”“Yes, Don Ramon; that must be so,” said the skipper, and Fitz Burnett’s cheeks began to burn, heated with the spirit within him, as he listened to the speaker’s words, almost in disgust, for in his excitement it seemed as cowardly as cruel to leave these brave Spaniards to such a fate.But then came the change, and his heart gave a leap, and his eyes flashed with pride. He thought no more of his own position in the Royal Navy than he did of the complications that had placed him where he was. The British fighting spirit that has made our nation what it is was strong within him, and his fingers tingled to clasp the skipper’s hand, and failing that, he tightly gripped Poole’s arm, as the lad’s father said—“No, Don Ramon, I can’t leave you in the lurch like this. You and your fellows must come with me.”“No,” said the Don proudly; “my place is here,” and he drew himself up, looking every inch in the broadening light the soldier and the man.What more the skipper would have spoken remained unsaid, forcrack, crack, crack! sounding smothered amongst the trees, came the reports of the rifles and the replies made by Don Ramon’s vedettes as they were driven in, and the skipper’s eyes flashed as he placed a little whistle to his lips and blew shrilly, bringing his own men together at the run.Then taking in the position in one quick glance, he could see a puff of smoke arising from the direction of the river and the boat, telling only too plainly that even had he wished to escape with his men, the way to safety was cut off.But in those moments no such idea entered his head, any more than it did that of Fitz or Poole. The way was open to the hacienda, and joining hands with the Spanish Don, he began to retire towards the defence he had prepared, and in a very few minutes the house had been reached, and the breastworks manned by the mingled force, consisting of Don Ramon’s followers and the schooner’s crew, whose shots began to tell in such a way that the enemy’s advance was checked, and the bright sun rose above the distant jungle, lighting up the enemy at bay.
All doubts as to the character of the new-comers were chased away by the coming up of the skipper to welcome the Don, who had nothing but bad news to communicate.
He had passed the night in full retreat with the remnant of his followers before the forces of the rival President.
“Everything has gone wrong,” he said. “I have lost heavily, and thought that I should never have been able to join my friends. What about the hacienda? Have you done anything for its defence?”
“The best we could,” replied the skipper. “I suppose you know that the enemy had been here, that there had been a fight, and that they had wrecked the place.”
“I? No!” cried the Don, in a voice full of despair. “I sent a party of my friends here to meet you, and this was therendezvous. Don’t tell me that they have been attacked and beaten.”
“I have as good as told you that,” said the skipper dryly.
“Ah–h–h!” panted the Don.
“We have put the place in as good a state of defence as there was time for, but we have not seen a soul.”
“It is terrible,” groaned the Don. “My poor friends! prisoners, or driven off! But you! You have your brave men.”
“I have about half my crew here, sir,” said the skipper sternly; “but we haven’t come to fight, only to bring what you know.”
“Ah! The guns, the ammunition, the store of rifles!” cried the Don joyously. “Magnificent! Oh, you brave Englishmen! And you have them landed safe?”
“No,” replied the skipper, as the middy’s ears literally tingled at all he heard. “How could I land guns up here? And what could you do with them in these pathless tracts? Where are your horses and mules, even if there were roads?”
“True, true, true!” groaned the Don. “Fortune is against me now. But,” he added sharply, “the rifles—cartridges?”
“Ah, as many of them as you like,” cried the skipper, and Fitz Burnett’s sense of duty began to awaken once again as he seemed in some undefined way to be getting hopelessly mixed up with people against whom it was his duty to war.
“Excellent; and you have them in the hacienda?”
“No, no; aboard my vessel.”
“But where is this vessel? You could not get her up the river?”
“No; she is lying off the mouth. I came up here in a boat to meet you and get your instructions, after, as you know, being checked at San Cristobal and Velova, where your emissaries brought your despatches.”
“Brave, true fellows! But the gunboat! Were you seen?”
“Seen? Yes, and nearly taken. I only escaped by the skin of my teeth.”
“You were too clever,” cried the Don enthusiastically. “But you should have sunk that gunboat. It would have meant life and success to me. Why did not you send her to the bottom?”
“Well,” said the skipper quietly, “first, because I am not at war, and second, because she would have sent me to the bottom if I had tried.”
“No, no,” cried the Don enthusiastically. “You English are too clever and too brave. The captain of that gunboat is a fool. You could easily have done this thing. But you have the guns you brought all safe aboard?”
“Yes.”
“And you have some of your brave men with you?”
“Yes; more than half my crew.”
“Then I am saved, for you will fight upon my side, and every one of your brave Englishmen is worth a hundred of the miserable three parts Indian rabble bravos and cut-throats who follow Villarayo’s flag.”
“Well, I didn’t come here to fight, Don Ramon, and I have no right to strengthen your force,” said the skipper sternly. “My duty is to land the munitions of war consigned to you; and that duty I shall do.”
“But your men! They are armed?”
“Oh yes. Every one has his rifle and revolver, and knows how to use them.”
“And suppose you are attacked?” said the Don, catching him by the arm.
“Well,” said the skipper dryly, “we English have a habit of hitting back if we are tackled, and if anybody interferes with us in what we have to do, I dare say we shall give a pretty good account of ourselves. But at the present moment it seems to me that it’s my duty to get back to my ship and wait until you show me where I can land my cargo.”
“Ah!” said the Don, and as he spoke Fitz had his first announcement that day was near at hand, for he began to dimly see the eager, animated countenance of the Spaniard, and to make out the figures of his well-armed followers clustering round.
“Well, sir, what is to be done?”
“One moment; let me think. It will be safest, perhaps, for you to return to the ship and wait.”
“Where?” said the skipper. “That gunboat is hanging about the coast, waiting to capture us if she can.”
“Yes, I know; I know. And ashore Villarayo’s men are swarming. They have hunted us through the pass all night, and hundreds of them are coming along the coast to cut us off from reaching boats and escaping out to sea.”
“Then it’s time we were off,” said the skipper sharply.
“Too late,” replied the Don.
“But my schooner?”
“Will they capture that?” cried the Don.
“Well no,” replied the skipper. “There’s not much fear, sir; my mate will look out too sharply. No. That will be safe. Don Ramon, if you will take my advice, you and your party had better break up and take to flight for the present, while I will make for any port you like to name and wait your orders, ready for when you can gather your friends together and make another attempt.”
“Ah, yes, Captain Reed, you mean well; but where shall I flee? This is my last place of refuge! Here, at my own home! It is best perhaps that you and your men should get back to your ship. I and my friends are pretty well surrounded, and have but two ways open to us. The one is to surrender to Villarayo’s merciless cut-throats and die like dogs; the other, to stand at bay behind the walls of my poor home, fight to the last, and die for our wretched country like soldiers and like men. Shake hands, captain, in your brave English way. I and my friends thank you for all you have done, and for making, as you say you have, a little stronghold where we can hold on to the last. It is not your fault, neither is it mine. I could have won the day, and brought happiness and peace to my poor land; but it was not to be. Villarayo has been too strong. That war-vessel with its mighty gun holds us at its mercy. Whoever has that to back him up can rule this place; for any fort that we could raise, even with the guns you have brought, would be crumbled into the dust. There! Farewell! You have your boat. Save yourself and your true, brave men. Quickly, while there is time!”
“Yes, Don Ramon; that must be so,” said the skipper, and Fitz Burnett’s cheeks began to burn, heated with the spirit within him, as he listened to the speaker’s words, almost in disgust, for in his excitement it seemed as cowardly as cruel to leave these brave Spaniards to such a fate.
But then came the change, and his heart gave a leap, and his eyes flashed with pride. He thought no more of his own position in the Royal Navy than he did of the complications that had placed him where he was. The British fighting spirit that has made our nation what it is was strong within him, and his fingers tingled to clasp the skipper’s hand, and failing that, he tightly gripped Poole’s arm, as the lad’s father said—
“No, Don Ramon, I can’t leave you in the lurch like this. You and your fellows must come with me.”
“No,” said the Don proudly; “my place is here,” and he drew himself up, looking every inch in the broadening light the soldier and the man.
What more the skipper would have spoken remained unsaid, forcrack, crack, crack! sounding smothered amongst the trees, came the reports of the rifles and the replies made by Don Ramon’s vedettes as they were driven in, and the skipper’s eyes flashed as he placed a little whistle to his lips and blew shrilly, bringing his own men together at the run.
Then taking in the position in one quick glance, he could see a puff of smoke arising from the direction of the river and the boat, telling only too plainly that even had he wished to escape with his men, the way to safety was cut off.
But in those moments no such idea entered his head, any more than it did that of Fitz or Poole. The way was open to the hacienda, and joining hands with the Spanish Don, he began to retire towards the defence he had prepared, and in a very few minutes the house had been reached, and the breastworks manned by the mingled force, consisting of Don Ramon’s followers and the schooner’s crew, whose shots began to tell in such a way that the enemy’s advance was checked, and the bright sun rose above the distant jungle, lighting up the enemy at bay.