Chapter Nineteen.A Disabled Crew.“I thought it was all over with you, sir,” said Tom Fillot, who, regardless of those over whom he had passed, had plunged aft and thrown himself upon the coxswain, bearing him and the young midshipman down into the stern-sheets of the boat, and holding the former till he was dragged away, laid in the bottom, and held down forward, in spite of his struggles and cries.“I thought so, too, Tom. Ugh! how horrible! As if our position was not bad enough before; it is too hard to have a madman on board.”“’Tis, sir; but I wonder we ain’t all mad. My head’s bad enough for me to be. Are you much hurt, sir?”“More frightened than hurt. I thought we should have been over into the black water.”“And it you had been, he’d ha’ drowned you, as sure as sure, sir, for we couldn’t ha’ found you in the darkness.”“And the worst of it is, I don’t know what to do,” said Mark. “If Dr Whitney were only here.”“No use to wish, sir. If it was, I’d wish theNaughtylasswas here to try and catch the schooner and her crew. There is one thing to wish for, though, and that’s for to-morrow morning to come instead of to-night, sir.”“Yes, and I’m afraid it’s a long way off yet,” said Mark, with a sigh, as he looked round at the veil of black darkness which shut them in, and then sat listening to the struggles and cries of the unfortunate coxswain, till by degrees they grew weaker and weaker, and the men who had been holding him relaxed their efforts, for their prisoner sank into a heavy stupor.Startling and painful as this episode in their night’s adventures had been, it had had one advantage, that of making the time pass more swiftly; and in consequence it was with a feeling of wonder that the young officer turned sharply round as Tom Fillot said drily,—“Good morning, sir.”“What! What do you mean?”“First signs of it, sir. Listen! you can hear the birds beginning to pipe.”“Yes; that’s a bird’s whistle,” said Mark. “Then we can’t be so very far from the shore.”“That’s right, sir, and what I hope is that we’re not very far from theNaughtylass, and that they’ll be at work with the spy-glasses to see where we are.”“And I’ve got to face the captain,” thought Mark, “and give him an account of our night’s work. How shall I do it? It’s horrible to go back like this.”As the time glided on, the sounds grew more frequent from the shore, and by degrees there was a lightening around them, and they made out that they were slowly gliding along over the calm sea beneath a thick canopy of mist, some eight or ten feet above their head; and this was gradually growing opalescent, and shot with bright tints, till all beneath was fairly light, and the midshipman looked round for theNautilusand the schooner.But there were no signs of either, perhaps because the mist prevented them from seeing fifty yards in any direction.There was plenty to see, however, inboard, and at the first glance round, before his gaze was concentrated upon his officer, Mark Vandean’s heart sank within him at the sight of the wretched, dilapidated men, whom he had seen on the previous evening looking so smart and active. To a man they were battered, bruised, and bore traces of the terrible struggle through which they had passed. The coxswain lay asleep, and, upon examining him, he seemed cool, and with the hope that he might wake up calm and collected, Mark gave one look at Tom Fillot—who was the most disfigured of all, the blows he had received having caused his face to swell up till he was hardly recognisable—and then devoted his attention to Mr Russell, who lay senseless.It seemed terrible to have him once more lying helpless in the bottom of the boat, and as the lad gazed at his companion, he began to think it would be wise to study surgery, ready for acting in an emergency like this.Mark did what he could with Tom Fillot’s help, doubling up a jacket for a pillow, and laying the lieutenant at his ease, before taking advantage of the mist beginning to disappear beneath the powerful rays of the morning sun to try and make out their position.This was soon done. They were about a couple of miles from the shore, and the tide was carrying them southward right away from the river at whose mouth the schooner had been ashore, for the water was perfectly clear here, while there it had been muddy and discoloured.Getting a clear view northward as the sun rose higher, both Mark and Tom Fillot carefully scanned the horizon in search of theNautilus, but she was not in view. There was a possibility of her being round a headland which stretched out some ten miles away, but that was all.The next search was for the schooner; and, as she was nowhere in sight seaward, they had to content themselves with the possibility of her having taken refuge in some river or creek, such as were plentiful enough on the low-lying shore.Mark thought of his previous experience in an open boat, as he looked at their position, lying there with a crew suffering from the effects of their encounter—two men seriously injured, and neither provisions nor water. As to weapons, some of the men had preserved theirs, but others were unarmed.Tom Fillot watched his officer as he looked round, and then ventured an observation.“Looks lively, sir, don’t it?”“It’s horrible, Tom; but we must act, and at once.”“Right, sir, and we’re ready. Four on us can take an oar well enough, if you’ll give the word.”“We must row in shore and coast along till we come to a stream.”“Not row out after the ship, sir?”“Without food or water? Have you forgotten our last trip?” cried Mark.“No, sir, and never shall forget it,” said the man, with a shiver. “You’re right, sir, of course. Water we must have, victuals if we can get any. Nothing like having an officer with you, clever as you may think yourself.”Five minutes later the men were rowing steadily toward the land, while Mark rejoiced at the only piece of good fortune he had encountered since the previous night when he lay down, and that was in the fact that to get rid of the party who had captured the schooner, the slaver captain had not scrupled to send them adrift in his own boat, one which proved to be light, swift, strong, and admirably adapted for facing the heavy swell that deluged the shore.Mark’s time was pretty well divided between steering, watching his patients, and keeping a look-out for an inlet into which the boat could be run. So as not to weary the men, he made them row with the tide until they had gone south some miles, and he was hesitating as to whether he ought not to turn back, when there were signs ahead of the mouth of a river whose banks were heavily timbered. These signs proved to be correct, and in half an hour the boat was steered into a narrow canal-like channel among the mangrove growth, made fast to a stem, and the men, feverish—hot and suffering, drank eagerly of the swiftly rushing water, forgetting its muddiness in the delicious coolness it imparted to their burning throats; while Fillot and his young officer busied themselves, as they lay in the shade of the overhanging trees, in bathing the heads of the two sufferers, in each case winning for reward sighs of satisfaction and content.“Hah!” ejaculated Tom Fillot, when, after holding down his face close to the water, and drinking for some time like a horse, he sat up with a tin baler in his hands, sipping from the full vessel, enjoying himself, and making comments for his comrades to hear.He had tried to smile, but the effort consequent upon the state of his swollen face was too painful, and he gave that up.“Yer health, messmets,” he said, raising the baler, “and wishing us all out of our difficulties.”He took another sip of the muddy fluid, and nodded as he passed the tin to the next man.“Drink hearty, messmet,” he said, “and pass it on. This is something like water. Reg’lar strong slab stuff as has got plenty o’ victuals in it as well as drink. Reg’lar meaty water, like soup.”“Why, it’s on’y mud, mate,” said the man who held the tin; “hadn’t we better let it settle?”“What for? Drink, my hearty. What’s mud but dust o’ the earth made wet? Well, we’re all made o’ the dust o’ the earth, ain’t we, and consequently wet dust’s just the stuff to make yer grow strong again. Deal better than salt junk and pickled pig and biscuit, I can tell yer. There, tip it up. It’s wonderful filling at the price.”The man laughed, and emptied the baler.“’Tarn’t bad, mate,” he said, as he leaned over the side to refill the tin.“Bad? I should think not. I feel like a noo man.”“And you looks it, too, matey,” said the other grinning. “I shouldn’t ha’ knowed you with that boiled duff fizz-mahogany o’ yourn. How much bigger’s it going to get?”“Well, of all the pot calling kettle black as ever I knowed on,” said Tom Fillot, “that’s about the rummest. Why, your head’s all o’ one side like an ugly turmut, and your eyes is on’y two slits.”“We ain’t none on us got much to boast on, ’cept our orficer,” said Dick Bannock. “Pass that there tin.”“To be sure,” said Tom Fillot, “and handsome is as handsome does. Might be a deal worse off, mates. Drink away; the mud won’t hurt us. We’re in the shade and got plenty o’ water. Different to being right out at sea in a calm, eh, Mr Vandean, sir?”“Don’t talk about it, my lad,” said Mark. “But look, Joe Dance is getting up. Pray don’t let him break loose again.”For the coxswain suddenly sat up and stared about him wildly. Then calming down, he cried,—“Got a drink o’ water, messmets?”“Plenty, my lad,” said Tom Fillot, passing the tin. “How’s your head this morning?”“Bit achey,” said the coxswain, who took the tin and drained it.“Hah!” he ejaculated, as he drew a long, deep breath, “that’s good, but you forgot to send it through the skipper’s pilfer.”“Warn’t time, matey,” said Tom watching him curiously. “’Sides, pilfered water ain’t good for you.”“Feel better this morning, Dance?” said Mark.“Yes, sir, thankye sir. Head aches a deal and feels muzzy like, and I didn’t sleep quite as I should like. Too much bad dream to please me.”“No wonder, mate,” struck in Tom Fillot. “Having your head rubbed so hard with a big bat ain’t good for no one.”Mark sat by his brother officer in the comparative coolness trying to think out some plan to adopt, for though they were resting in the shade, and the agonies of thirst were assuaged, he knew that it would not be long before they were all suffering from hunger, and he shuddered as he thought of the tales he had heard respecting the straits men had been driven to when perishing for want of food in an open boat.But though he thought long and patiently, no idea came to him better than for them to coast along till they came abreast of some village, though he felt very little hope of meeting with such good fortune upon that sparsely inhabited shore. Further north there were towns and villages, but these were hundreds of miles away.There was a possibility of their finding a native village, the home of some black chief, if they proceeded up the river; but it was chance work, and, unless compelled, Mark shrank from leaving the coast and cutting himself off from the chance of being seen by theNautilusif she came back in search of them. So he decided to keep along the shore.And now he blamed himself bitterly for his ignorance. For if he had devoted a little time to studying the charts, he might have had a fair knowledge of the coast, and the chance of finding some trading settlement north or south; while now, as he told himself, here he was in command of a boat, and, boy as he was, answerable to his superior officer for the lives of the men. Accident had placed him in his present position, but then officers had, as he knew, to be prepared for such emergencies, and he was not ready in the slightest degree.He made a vow to make up for lost time if the opportunity occurred again, and began once more to examine Mr Russell’s state.The insensibility continued still, and the faint hope he had nursed of the lieutenant recovering sufficiently to relieve him of his responsibility died away, so he landed with Fillot and began to look about him.The place he had selected at the river’s mouth, for the sake of the shade and water, was hidden from any vessel passing, but it was so suited for their purpose that he felt it would be unwise to change it, as they could row out if a vessel hove in sight, and a good watch would be kept. Anything was better than exposing the men to the broiling sun, weak as they were with their injuries, and he felt that such a course would be fatal to Mr Russell, so he determined to stay, at all events till the heat of the day had passed, and then make the men row steadily north.He had just come to this conclusion, when he caught sight of Tom Fillot’s occupation, which was the unravelling of the boat’s painter.“What’s that for, Fillot?” he asked, sharply.“Well, sir, I couldn’t see no fruit trees nor no fields o’ corn ashore, so I thought the best thing to do would be to have a try at ketching a fish.”
“I thought it was all over with you, sir,” said Tom Fillot, who, regardless of those over whom he had passed, had plunged aft and thrown himself upon the coxswain, bearing him and the young midshipman down into the stern-sheets of the boat, and holding the former till he was dragged away, laid in the bottom, and held down forward, in spite of his struggles and cries.
“I thought so, too, Tom. Ugh! how horrible! As if our position was not bad enough before; it is too hard to have a madman on board.”
“’Tis, sir; but I wonder we ain’t all mad. My head’s bad enough for me to be. Are you much hurt, sir?”
“More frightened than hurt. I thought we should have been over into the black water.”
“And it you had been, he’d ha’ drowned you, as sure as sure, sir, for we couldn’t ha’ found you in the darkness.”
“And the worst of it is, I don’t know what to do,” said Mark. “If Dr Whitney were only here.”
“No use to wish, sir. If it was, I’d wish theNaughtylasswas here to try and catch the schooner and her crew. There is one thing to wish for, though, and that’s for to-morrow morning to come instead of to-night, sir.”
“Yes, and I’m afraid it’s a long way off yet,” said Mark, with a sigh, as he looked round at the veil of black darkness which shut them in, and then sat listening to the struggles and cries of the unfortunate coxswain, till by degrees they grew weaker and weaker, and the men who had been holding him relaxed their efforts, for their prisoner sank into a heavy stupor.
Startling and painful as this episode in their night’s adventures had been, it had had one advantage, that of making the time pass more swiftly; and in consequence it was with a feeling of wonder that the young officer turned sharply round as Tom Fillot said drily,—
“Good morning, sir.”
“What! What do you mean?”
“First signs of it, sir. Listen! you can hear the birds beginning to pipe.”
“Yes; that’s a bird’s whistle,” said Mark. “Then we can’t be so very far from the shore.”
“That’s right, sir, and what I hope is that we’re not very far from theNaughtylass, and that they’ll be at work with the spy-glasses to see where we are.”
“And I’ve got to face the captain,” thought Mark, “and give him an account of our night’s work. How shall I do it? It’s horrible to go back like this.”
As the time glided on, the sounds grew more frequent from the shore, and by degrees there was a lightening around them, and they made out that they were slowly gliding along over the calm sea beneath a thick canopy of mist, some eight or ten feet above their head; and this was gradually growing opalescent, and shot with bright tints, till all beneath was fairly light, and the midshipman looked round for theNautilusand the schooner.
But there were no signs of either, perhaps because the mist prevented them from seeing fifty yards in any direction.
There was plenty to see, however, inboard, and at the first glance round, before his gaze was concentrated upon his officer, Mark Vandean’s heart sank within him at the sight of the wretched, dilapidated men, whom he had seen on the previous evening looking so smart and active. To a man they were battered, bruised, and bore traces of the terrible struggle through which they had passed. The coxswain lay asleep, and, upon examining him, he seemed cool, and with the hope that he might wake up calm and collected, Mark gave one look at Tom Fillot—who was the most disfigured of all, the blows he had received having caused his face to swell up till he was hardly recognisable—and then devoted his attention to Mr Russell, who lay senseless.
It seemed terrible to have him once more lying helpless in the bottom of the boat, and as the lad gazed at his companion, he began to think it would be wise to study surgery, ready for acting in an emergency like this.
Mark did what he could with Tom Fillot’s help, doubling up a jacket for a pillow, and laying the lieutenant at his ease, before taking advantage of the mist beginning to disappear beneath the powerful rays of the morning sun to try and make out their position.
This was soon done. They were about a couple of miles from the shore, and the tide was carrying them southward right away from the river at whose mouth the schooner had been ashore, for the water was perfectly clear here, while there it had been muddy and discoloured.
Getting a clear view northward as the sun rose higher, both Mark and Tom Fillot carefully scanned the horizon in search of theNautilus, but she was not in view. There was a possibility of her being round a headland which stretched out some ten miles away, but that was all.
The next search was for the schooner; and, as she was nowhere in sight seaward, they had to content themselves with the possibility of her having taken refuge in some river or creek, such as were plentiful enough on the low-lying shore.
Mark thought of his previous experience in an open boat, as he looked at their position, lying there with a crew suffering from the effects of their encounter—two men seriously injured, and neither provisions nor water. As to weapons, some of the men had preserved theirs, but others were unarmed.
Tom Fillot watched his officer as he looked round, and then ventured an observation.
“Looks lively, sir, don’t it?”
“It’s horrible, Tom; but we must act, and at once.”
“Right, sir, and we’re ready. Four on us can take an oar well enough, if you’ll give the word.”
“We must row in shore and coast along till we come to a stream.”
“Not row out after the ship, sir?”
“Without food or water? Have you forgotten our last trip?” cried Mark.
“No, sir, and never shall forget it,” said the man, with a shiver. “You’re right, sir, of course. Water we must have, victuals if we can get any. Nothing like having an officer with you, clever as you may think yourself.”
Five minutes later the men were rowing steadily toward the land, while Mark rejoiced at the only piece of good fortune he had encountered since the previous night when he lay down, and that was in the fact that to get rid of the party who had captured the schooner, the slaver captain had not scrupled to send them adrift in his own boat, one which proved to be light, swift, strong, and admirably adapted for facing the heavy swell that deluged the shore.
Mark’s time was pretty well divided between steering, watching his patients, and keeping a look-out for an inlet into which the boat could be run. So as not to weary the men, he made them row with the tide until they had gone south some miles, and he was hesitating as to whether he ought not to turn back, when there were signs ahead of the mouth of a river whose banks were heavily timbered. These signs proved to be correct, and in half an hour the boat was steered into a narrow canal-like channel among the mangrove growth, made fast to a stem, and the men, feverish—hot and suffering, drank eagerly of the swiftly rushing water, forgetting its muddiness in the delicious coolness it imparted to their burning throats; while Fillot and his young officer busied themselves, as they lay in the shade of the overhanging trees, in bathing the heads of the two sufferers, in each case winning for reward sighs of satisfaction and content.
“Hah!” ejaculated Tom Fillot, when, after holding down his face close to the water, and drinking for some time like a horse, he sat up with a tin baler in his hands, sipping from the full vessel, enjoying himself, and making comments for his comrades to hear.
He had tried to smile, but the effort consequent upon the state of his swollen face was too painful, and he gave that up.
“Yer health, messmets,” he said, raising the baler, “and wishing us all out of our difficulties.”
He took another sip of the muddy fluid, and nodded as he passed the tin to the next man.
“Drink hearty, messmet,” he said, “and pass it on. This is something like water. Reg’lar strong slab stuff as has got plenty o’ victuals in it as well as drink. Reg’lar meaty water, like soup.”
“Why, it’s on’y mud, mate,” said the man who held the tin; “hadn’t we better let it settle?”
“What for? Drink, my hearty. What’s mud but dust o’ the earth made wet? Well, we’re all made o’ the dust o’ the earth, ain’t we, and consequently wet dust’s just the stuff to make yer grow strong again. Deal better than salt junk and pickled pig and biscuit, I can tell yer. There, tip it up. It’s wonderful filling at the price.”
The man laughed, and emptied the baler.
“’Tarn’t bad, mate,” he said, as he leaned over the side to refill the tin.
“Bad? I should think not. I feel like a noo man.”
“And you looks it, too, matey,” said the other grinning. “I shouldn’t ha’ knowed you with that boiled duff fizz-mahogany o’ yourn. How much bigger’s it going to get?”
“Well, of all the pot calling kettle black as ever I knowed on,” said Tom Fillot, “that’s about the rummest. Why, your head’s all o’ one side like an ugly turmut, and your eyes is on’y two slits.”
“We ain’t none on us got much to boast on, ’cept our orficer,” said Dick Bannock. “Pass that there tin.”
“To be sure,” said Tom Fillot, “and handsome is as handsome does. Might be a deal worse off, mates. Drink away; the mud won’t hurt us. We’re in the shade and got plenty o’ water. Different to being right out at sea in a calm, eh, Mr Vandean, sir?”
“Don’t talk about it, my lad,” said Mark. “But look, Joe Dance is getting up. Pray don’t let him break loose again.”
For the coxswain suddenly sat up and stared about him wildly. Then calming down, he cried,—
“Got a drink o’ water, messmets?”
“Plenty, my lad,” said Tom Fillot, passing the tin. “How’s your head this morning?”
“Bit achey,” said the coxswain, who took the tin and drained it.
“Hah!” he ejaculated, as he drew a long, deep breath, “that’s good, but you forgot to send it through the skipper’s pilfer.”
“Warn’t time, matey,” said Tom watching him curiously. “’Sides, pilfered water ain’t good for you.”
“Feel better this morning, Dance?” said Mark.
“Yes, sir, thankye sir. Head aches a deal and feels muzzy like, and I didn’t sleep quite as I should like. Too much bad dream to please me.”
“No wonder, mate,” struck in Tom Fillot. “Having your head rubbed so hard with a big bat ain’t good for no one.”
Mark sat by his brother officer in the comparative coolness trying to think out some plan to adopt, for though they were resting in the shade, and the agonies of thirst were assuaged, he knew that it would not be long before they were all suffering from hunger, and he shuddered as he thought of the tales he had heard respecting the straits men had been driven to when perishing for want of food in an open boat.
But though he thought long and patiently, no idea came to him better than for them to coast along till they came abreast of some village, though he felt very little hope of meeting with such good fortune upon that sparsely inhabited shore. Further north there were towns and villages, but these were hundreds of miles away.
There was a possibility of their finding a native village, the home of some black chief, if they proceeded up the river; but it was chance work, and, unless compelled, Mark shrank from leaving the coast and cutting himself off from the chance of being seen by theNautilusif she came back in search of them. So he decided to keep along the shore.
And now he blamed himself bitterly for his ignorance. For if he had devoted a little time to studying the charts, he might have had a fair knowledge of the coast, and the chance of finding some trading settlement north or south; while now, as he told himself, here he was in command of a boat, and, boy as he was, answerable to his superior officer for the lives of the men. Accident had placed him in his present position, but then officers had, as he knew, to be prepared for such emergencies, and he was not ready in the slightest degree.
He made a vow to make up for lost time if the opportunity occurred again, and began once more to examine Mr Russell’s state.
The insensibility continued still, and the faint hope he had nursed of the lieutenant recovering sufficiently to relieve him of his responsibility died away, so he landed with Fillot and began to look about him.
The place he had selected at the river’s mouth, for the sake of the shade and water, was hidden from any vessel passing, but it was so suited for their purpose that he felt it would be unwise to change it, as they could row out if a vessel hove in sight, and a good watch would be kept. Anything was better than exposing the men to the broiling sun, weak as they were with their injuries, and he felt that such a course would be fatal to Mr Russell, so he determined to stay, at all events till the heat of the day had passed, and then make the men row steadily north.
He had just come to this conclusion, when he caught sight of Tom Fillot’s occupation, which was the unravelling of the boat’s painter.
“What’s that for, Fillot?” he asked, sharply.
“Well, sir, I couldn’t see no fruit trees nor no fields o’ corn ashore, so I thought the best thing to do would be to have a try at ketching a fish.”
Chapter Twenty.What Mark said to the Crew.The position of the men would have been delightful if they had had a fair stock of provisions. For the cool water rippled by their boat, there was a refreshing breeze in the shady trees, and a pleasant sensation of dreamy repose and restfulness came over all as they lay about watching the dazzling sea and beautiful verdant tropic shore.And as he gazed, Mark felt that undoubtedly fruit of some kind could be found sufficient to sustain life; and, with the determination to wait till another day, when the men would be better able to act, forgetful of the fact that fasting would make them more unfit, he thought of landing again directly after daylight, for a search, and then went to the boat and sat back to gaze out at sea.“Mr Vandean, sir! Mr Vandean!”“Eh? Yes! What’s the matter?”“Nothing sir, only I couldn’t wake you up.”“Was I asleep?”“Yes, sir; we’ve all been asleep, more shame for me to say so, and the lads have only just woke me up.”“Oh, it’s horrible!” cried Mark; “how can I ever trust myself again?”“Oh, don’t you take on about that, sir: human natur’s human natur. Everybody’s weak and queer with the knocking about we had, and the proper thing for us was to have a good snooze, and we’ve only been getting ready to do a good night’s work.”Mark looked at Mr Russell, who lay breathing comfortably enough, and then, in a stern way, he gave orders for the boat to be unmoored, and Dance rose at once, seeming feeble, but quite in his right mind, and ready to resent an attempt on the part of Fillot to relieve him of the task. A good thrust was given to the boat out into the rushing stream, oars fell on either side, and the men began to row, so as to get out of the mouth of the river and begin making their way north.But in a very few minutes Mark was enlightened as to the state of affairs. While they slept the tide had turned, and in place of a swift stream of fresh water running out, they were in the rapid tidal current running in, any doubt he might have had on the subject being set at rest by scooping up a little water with his hand, to taste it, and find it salt.The men were pulling steadily, but with a feeble, slow stroke, which at first kept them about stationary. Then by slow degrees the boat gave a little and a little more, till in the waning light Mark saw a cluster of trees ashore, by which they had been passing, begin to glide the other way.“Pull, my lads, pull!” he cried, and the men tugged again for a few minutes, and managed to keep abreast of the trees, but their strokes again grew more feeble, and, in spite of spurt after spurt, it was evident enough that the tide was too strong for men suffering from injuries, and famishing with hunger, nothing having passed their lips save water for many hours.“Here,” cried Tom Fillot, “you don’t half pull. Let me come. We’ll soon get outside, where the current won’t be so strong.”“It’s o’ no use, mate,” said Dick Bannock. “She’s too much for us. You can’t do no good. After getting well, and a lot o’ beef and biscuit, we might do it, but there’s no pulling agin that ’ere.”“You don’t half try,” said Tom Fillot, sitting down and getting an oar over the side to add his strength, when all pulled again, working hard for quite half an hour, when Mark called to them to stop.“Waste of strength, my lads,” he said; “we’ve been drifting all the time.”“Yes, sir,” said Tom Fillot. “I knowed it and was only waiting for you to speak. Most too dark to see, but I’m ’bout sure.”“We must let her go up with the tide, Tom, or else moor her again by the trees.”“Well, we should be brought back again, sir; but I think it would be best to make fast.”“Steadily, my lads,” said Mark; “let’s pull in shore with the tide till I see a good place.”“Or, feel it, sir,” whispered Tom Fillot.“Yes, or feel it, Tom,” said Mark. “How dark it’s getting. Easy—easy there; just dip so as to get nearer the shore. The current’s so swift we may be capsized.”“Easy it is, sir,” said Tom, and they rowed gently on with the current, getting nearer and nearer the shore with its heavy fringe of verdure, Mark watching eagerly in the gathering blackness for a big tree with overhanging boughs, but all in vain.It was so dark now that they seemed to be gliding along right in the shadow, while more out towards the middle of what was evidently a broad river—the stream widening above the mouth—it was comparatively light, sufficiently so for them to see any object afloat.“Can’t you make anything we can hook on to, sir?” said Tom Fillot.“No, my lad, not yet. But I shall directly. You be ready.”“Ready it is, sir. If I see a chance, shall I ketch hold?”“Hist!”“What’s the matter, sir?”“Talk lower. What’s that? It may be enemies.”“Phew!” whistled Tom Fillot, softly. “It was behind me. I didn’t see that. There, you have it.”He caught hold of the overhanging bough of a tree and brought the boat up as they both stood there watching a gleaming light at a little distance, which gradually was made out to be a lanthorn carried by someone here and there.“Ashore,” whispered Mark.“Afloat,” said Tom. “It’s somebody aboard ship. Hark at that!”There was the rattle of a chain, apparently being let out through the hawse-holes of a vessel, then a little more rattling, followed by the disappearance of the light, and silence once more.“What do you make of it, sir?” whispered Tom.As he spoke there came a strange, plaintive, smothered sound, so full of agony that Mark shuddered.“I can hardly tell,” he said. “I thought at first it was theNautilus.”“No, sir; people on board theNaughtylassdon’t howl like that.”“Then—no: it can’t be! Is it the slaver?” faltered Mark, as his heart beat rapidly with excitement.“It’s she or another on the cowardly beggars,” whispered Tom Fillot, hoarsely. “Don’t make a sound, my lads.”“But oh, it can’t be,” cried Mark, trembling now with eagerness.“Don’t see why not, sir. She was bound to go into hiding a bit till our ship had gone, and she’s crept in here to lie by, and sail perhaps when the tide turns.”“Take a turn with a rope round that branch, Tom,” whispered Mark; “and not a sound.”“Trust me, sir, for that,” was whispered back; and there was a little rustling heard as Mark carefully made his way in the darkness to where Tom Fillot stood.“Sit down,” whispered Mark. “I want all the men to hear. Lean this way, all of you.”There was another rustling sound, and a certain amount of deep breathing as Mark whispered softly,—“Mind, not a word when I’ve done, or we shall be heard aboard that vessel. She’s not two hundred yards away.”There was not a sound, and after waiting a few moments to command his voice and to try and stay the tumultuous beating of his heart, Mark went on,—“My lads, that must be the schooner waiting, as Tom Fillot said.”He paused again, for his words would hardly come. Then, more and more huskily from his emotion:“My lads, I know you’re weak, but you’ve got the pluck. The crew of that schooner stole upon us in the night, struck you all down, and pitched us into the boat.”There was another pause—a longer one, for it required a desperate effort to get out the words. Then, so faintly as to be hardly heard, but with a strength in them which electrified the listeners, Mark Vandean, midshipman and mere boy, said to the stout men around him,—“It’s dark as pitch now, lads, so couldn’t we steal aboard and serve them the same?”
The position of the men would have been delightful if they had had a fair stock of provisions. For the cool water rippled by their boat, there was a refreshing breeze in the shady trees, and a pleasant sensation of dreamy repose and restfulness came over all as they lay about watching the dazzling sea and beautiful verdant tropic shore.
And as he gazed, Mark felt that undoubtedly fruit of some kind could be found sufficient to sustain life; and, with the determination to wait till another day, when the men would be better able to act, forgetful of the fact that fasting would make them more unfit, he thought of landing again directly after daylight, for a search, and then went to the boat and sat back to gaze out at sea.
“Mr Vandean, sir! Mr Vandean!”
“Eh? Yes! What’s the matter?”
“Nothing sir, only I couldn’t wake you up.”
“Was I asleep?”
“Yes, sir; we’ve all been asleep, more shame for me to say so, and the lads have only just woke me up.”
“Oh, it’s horrible!” cried Mark; “how can I ever trust myself again?”
“Oh, don’t you take on about that, sir: human natur’s human natur. Everybody’s weak and queer with the knocking about we had, and the proper thing for us was to have a good snooze, and we’ve only been getting ready to do a good night’s work.”
Mark looked at Mr Russell, who lay breathing comfortably enough, and then, in a stern way, he gave orders for the boat to be unmoored, and Dance rose at once, seeming feeble, but quite in his right mind, and ready to resent an attempt on the part of Fillot to relieve him of the task. A good thrust was given to the boat out into the rushing stream, oars fell on either side, and the men began to row, so as to get out of the mouth of the river and begin making their way north.
But in a very few minutes Mark was enlightened as to the state of affairs. While they slept the tide had turned, and in place of a swift stream of fresh water running out, they were in the rapid tidal current running in, any doubt he might have had on the subject being set at rest by scooping up a little water with his hand, to taste it, and find it salt.
The men were pulling steadily, but with a feeble, slow stroke, which at first kept them about stationary. Then by slow degrees the boat gave a little and a little more, till in the waning light Mark saw a cluster of trees ashore, by which they had been passing, begin to glide the other way.
“Pull, my lads, pull!” he cried, and the men tugged again for a few minutes, and managed to keep abreast of the trees, but their strokes again grew more feeble, and, in spite of spurt after spurt, it was evident enough that the tide was too strong for men suffering from injuries, and famishing with hunger, nothing having passed their lips save water for many hours.
“Here,” cried Tom Fillot, “you don’t half pull. Let me come. We’ll soon get outside, where the current won’t be so strong.”
“It’s o’ no use, mate,” said Dick Bannock. “She’s too much for us. You can’t do no good. After getting well, and a lot o’ beef and biscuit, we might do it, but there’s no pulling agin that ’ere.”
“You don’t half try,” said Tom Fillot, sitting down and getting an oar over the side to add his strength, when all pulled again, working hard for quite half an hour, when Mark called to them to stop.
“Waste of strength, my lads,” he said; “we’ve been drifting all the time.”
“Yes, sir,” said Tom Fillot. “I knowed it and was only waiting for you to speak. Most too dark to see, but I’m ’bout sure.”
“We must let her go up with the tide, Tom, or else moor her again by the trees.”
“Well, we should be brought back again, sir; but I think it would be best to make fast.”
“Steadily, my lads,” said Mark; “let’s pull in shore with the tide till I see a good place.”
“Or, feel it, sir,” whispered Tom Fillot.
“Yes, or feel it, Tom,” said Mark. “How dark it’s getting. Easy—easy there; just dip so as to get nearer the shore. The current’s so swift we may be capsized.”
“Easy it is, sir,” said Tom, and they rowed gently on with the current, getting nearer and nearer the shore with its heavy fringe of verdure, Mark watching eagerly in the gathering blackness for a big tree with overhanging boughs, but all in vain.
It was so dark now that they seemed to be gliding along right in the shadow, while more out towards the middle of what was evidently a broad river—the stream widening above the mouth—it was comparatively light, sufficiently so for them to see any object afloat.
“Can’t you make anything we can hook on to, sir?” said Tom Fillot.
“No, my lad, not yet. But I shall directly. You be ready.”
“Ready it is, sir. If I see a chance, shall I ketch hold?”
“Hist!”
“What’s the matter, sir?”
“Talk lower. What’s that? It may be enemies.”
“Phew!” whistled Tom Fillot, softly. “It was behind me. I didn’t see that. There, you have it.”
He caught hold of the overhanging bough of a tree and brought the boat up as they both stood there watching a gleaming light at a little distance, which gradually was made out to be a lanthorn carried by someone here and there.
“Ashore,” whispered Mark.
“Afloat,” said Tom. “It’s somebody aboard ship. Hark at that!”
There was the rattle of a chain, apparently being let out through the hawse-holes of a vessel, then a little more rattling, followed by the disappearance of the light, and silence once more.
“What do you make of it, sir?” whispered Tom.
As he spoke there came a strange, plaintive, smothered sound, so full of agony that Mark shuddered.
“I can hardly tell,” he said. “I thought at first it was theNautilus.”
“No, sir; people on board theNaughtylassdon’t howl like that.”
“Then—no: it can’t be! Is it the slaver?” faltered Mark, as his heart beat rapidly with excitement.
“It’s she or another on the cowardly beggars,” whispered Tom Fillot, hoarsely. “Don’t make a sound, my lads.”
“But oh, it can’t be,” cried Mark, trembling now with eagerness.
“Don’t see why not, sir. She was bound to go into hiding a bit till our ship had gone, and she’s crept in here to lie by, and sail perhaps when the tide turns.”
“Take a turn with a rope round that branch, Tom,” whispered Mark; “and not a sound.”
“Trust me, sir, for that,” was whispered back; and there was a little rustling heard as Mark carefully made his way in the darkness to where Tom Fillot stood.
“Sit down,” whispered Mark. “I want all the men to hear. Lean this way, all of you.”
There was another rustling sound, and a certain amount of deep breathing as Mark whispered softly,—
“Mind, not a word when I’ve done, or we shall be heard aboard that vessel. She’s not two hundred yards away.”
There was not a sound, and after waiting a few moments to command his voice and to try and stay the tumultuous beating of his heart, Mark went on,—
“My lads, that must be the schooner waiting, as Tom Fillot said.”
He paused again, for his words would hardly come. Then, more and more huskily from his emotion:
“My lads, I know you’re weak, but you’ve got the pluck. The crew of that schooner stole upon us in the night, struck you all down, and pitched us into the boat.”
There was another pause—a longer one, for it required a desperate effort to get out the words. Then, so faintly as to be hardly heard, but with a strength in them which electrified the listeners, Mark Vandean, midshipman and mere boy, said to the stout men around him,—
“It’s dark as pitch now, lads, so couldn’t we steal aboard and serve them the same?”
Chapter Twenty One.A Desperate Attempt.For the boat quivered as to a man all sprang up, and forgetting everything in their excitement, the men were about to cheer, but were brought back to a knowledge of their position by that softly-uttered warning sound just as a lanthorn was seen moving at a distance once more, followed by a sharp sound like the closing of a hatch.The boat rocked a little again as the men sank back in their places, while Mark felt as if he were being suffocated, as he trembled, and felt the perspiration stand in big drops upon his forehead.For he was startled at his venturesome plan, knowing that such a task would be that of a strong, experienced, determined man, and now that he had made the proposal he felt as if he must have been mad.To carry out such a venture needed quite fresh, active men. Those to whom he had proposed the attempt were in no wise fit, and to induce them to try and recapture the schooner was like tempting them to their death.“It is all foolishness,” he said to himself in the brief instants during which these thoughts flashed through his brain, but the next moment he awoke to the fact that he had set a spark in contact with a train of human gunpowder, that the spark had caught, and that it was impossible now to stop.“Heads close together, mates,” whispered Tom Fillot. “Not a sound on your lives. Come, Mr Vandean, sir, say the word—when. Now? At once?”“No, no,” whispered back Mark; “you are all weak and ill. I’ve been thinking about it since I spoke, and it is too much for you to do.”A low, angry murmur arose, and Tom Fillot chuckled.“Too much for us, sir? Not it. You’ve only got to give the word, and there’s that in us now as’ll carry us through anything. Only you lead us, sir, and we’ll do all the work. Is that the right word, maties?”“Yes,” came like a hiss from the whole party.“There, sir. You hear. Don’t you be afraid as we won’t do our duty by you.”“No, no, Tom Fillot, I’m not a bit afraid of that, but the venture seems too wild.”“Not it, sir. Why, we’re all red hot to be let go; so now then, what about the plans?”“I have none, and we had better give up the business.”“You’re saying that to save us, sir, but we don’t want to be saved the trouble. We want to get that schooner back, and serve out the rough ’uns who half killed all on us. And what’s more, me and my mates liked the taste o’ the prize-money we had got to our mouths afore it were snatched away, so we want to get it back again. That’s so, ain’t it, lads?”“Ay, ay,” was whispered so deeply that it hardly reached Mark’s ears; but there was a fierce earnestness in it that told how strong was the determination on the part of the men to try and wipe out the past night’s disgrace, while, just as he thought this, by a strange coincidence, Tom Fillot whispered,—“We must take her, sir. You can’t go back and meet the skipper without the schooner.”The most cunningly contrived advice could not have affected Mark more powerfully. His heart beat rapidly, and, carried away now by the contagious enthusiasm of the men, he said,—“Right; then we will take her.”A low humming buzz went up at this, and Mark went on,—“We shall wait till everything is quite still on board, and then let the boat drift alongside. Dance will hold on with the hook; we shall board her and take them by surprise as they did us, unless their watch is sharper than ours.”“You trust us, sir. We’ll have her,” whispered Tom Fillot. “We must.”“Then, now—silence. We must wait for a time, the later the better. When I give the word, Tom Fillot will let the boat drift, two men will give a few dips with oars, and I shall steer her alongside; then Dance will hook on. You will all follow me—”“And the schooner’s ours once more.”“If it is the schooner,” said Mark, dubiously.“If she ain’t, she’s a slaver, sir,” replied Tom Fillot, “and that’s enough for we.”They waited in the silence and darkness, listening intently for every sound, but very little was heard from the vessel. Once there were footsteps, and later on they made out a glow of light upon the water, which they judged rightly to be the reflection from the cabin windows, which of course was farthest from them, the vessel being moored from the stem.Then they sat listening to the rippling of the swiftly-running water, and the peculiarly weird cries and other sounds which came from the shore, terribly suggestive of prowling beasts seeking their nightly food.It must have been getting toward two bells when Mark, who had been bending over Mr Russell, to try and make out by touch how he was, started up in horror, for, from the direction of the moored vessel, there came a burst of cries, as if someone was being tortured in a terrible way.“What’s that?” cried Mark, in an excited whisper.“What I wanted to hear, sir,” replied Tom Fillot in the same tone. “It might ha’ been as that warn’t a slaver, after all; but that there noise settles it.”“Then you think it was the poor wretches crying out?”“Sure on it, sir; as sure as I am that there’s somebody going to shout at ’em to be quiet, or he’ll come and chuck some of ’em overboard.”Even as the man spoke, footsteps were heard, and then there was a sharp sound like the banging of the top of the hatch with a capstan bar, followed by a fierce shout delivered in a threatening way.Then came a low, piteous moaning and sobbing, mingled with the crying of children, and once more the top of the hatch was banged.“Guess I’m coming down to give it to some of you. Stop that! Do yer hear?”These words came clearly enough over the water in the silence of the tropic night, and once more all was still again, and there was a low whistling, as if someone were walking back to the cabin-hatch, where he stood for a few minutes, and then went below.“Tom,” said Mark, “that’s the slaver skipper.”“Yes, sir, so I s’pose. Nobody else wouldn’t bully like that.”“I mean the skipper of the schooner we took.”“Think so, sir?” cried the man, excitedly.“I’m sure of it. I know his voice again. That’s the man who had me thrown into the boat.”“That’s right, then, sir. I couldn’t tell, because my head was all dumb with the crack I got; but you weren’t hit, and of course you’d know.”Just then there came a low, piteous, half-stifled wail from the vessel, which went so home to Mark’s feelings, that his voice sounded changed and suffocated, as he whispered,—“I’ve often said that I was sorry I came to sea, Tom Fillot, so as to be sent on this horrible slavery business, but I’m glad now.”“That’s right, sir.”“And we’ll have that schooner back, and set those poor creatures free if I die for it.”“That you shall, sir,” cried Tom Fillot. “No, no, that you shan’t, I mean.”“Not take her?” said Mark, half aloud in his surprise.“Hist! No, no, sir. I didn’t mean that; I mean not die for it.”“Oh, I see.”“You shall take her, sir, as soon as you give the word; but, begging your pardon, sir, if I might ask a favour for me and the men—”“Yes; what is it?”“Don’t be too hard on us, sir, in the way of orders.”“What do you mean? I won’t ask you to do anything I shall not try to do myself.”“Oh, it ain’t that, Mr Vandean, sir. We know you for a fine, plucky young gent, as we’d follow anywhere. What I meant was, don’t be too stiff with the men in the way o’ stopping ’em. We don’t want to kill any of the beggars, but we should like to give it ’em as hard as we can.”“Do, Tom,” whispered Mark, excitedly. “The beasts! the wretches! the unmanly brutes! Oh, how can those poor blacks be such pitiful, miserable cowards, and not rise up and kill the villains who seize them and treat them in such a way!”“I’ll tell you, sir. It’s because they’ve been beaten. I don’t mean larruped with a stick, but beaten in some fight, and made prisoners up the country. Since then they’ve been chained and driven and starved and knocked about till all the man’s gone out of ’em, and made ’em so that they haven’t got a spark o’ pluck left. You take ’em and treat ’em well, and it all comes back, like it did to poor old Soup and poor old Taters. They was fast growing into good, stiff, manly sort o’ messmates, with nothing wrong in ’em but their black skins, and I don’t see as that’s anything agin a man. All a matter o’ taste, sir. Dessay the black ladies thinks they’re reg’lar han’some, and us and our white skins ugly as sin.”“We must have that schooner, Tom Fillot,” said Mark, after a short pause.“You’ve got it, sir, and we’ll sail her up to the port with flying colours. You’ll see.”“I hope you’ll turn out a true prophet, Tom.”“So do I, sir, and I’m just going to whisper to the boys what you say, and then I’m thinking it’ll soon be time to go on board and kick those chaps over the side.”“No killing, Tom.”“No, sir. You trust us. We won’t go quite so far as that,” said the sailor grimly; and he crept away to begin whispering to his messmates, while Mark sat straining his eyes in the direction of the schooner, hot, excited, but without the slightest sensation of shrinking. This had given place to an intense longing for action, which made his heart beat with a heavy throb, while, from time to time, there was a strange swelling in his throat, as he thought of the agony of the poor creatures pent-up in the stifling heat of the schooner’s hold, some of them, perhaps, dying, others dead, and waiting to join their fellows in the silent waters, happily released from their pain.He was so deeply plunged in thought that he did not notice Tom Fillot’s return, and he gave quite a start as the man laid a hand upon his knee.“Look there, sir,” he whispered.“Eh? where?”“Over the trees, behind me.”“Fire?” whispered Mark, excitedly, as he gazed at a warm glow away beyond the forest.“No, sir; the moon. She’ll soon be up, and we must have that schooner in the dark.”“Then we’ll begin at once,” said Mark, decisively.“Right, sir. The lads have some of ’em got their cutlashes, and them as ain’t have each got two good hard fists; and it strikes me as they’ll use ’em too. So when you’re ready, sir, give the word.”Mark felt for his dirk, which was safe in his belt, and then thought of the quiet little parsonage at home, and of the horror that would assail his mother if she could know of the perilous enterprise upon which he was bound. Then came the recollection of his grave, stern-looking father, and of what would be his feelings.“Would he say don’t go?” thought Mark.The answer seemed to come at once.“No; he’d say, ‘It’s your duty, boy. In God’s name go and do your best.’”“I’m ready, Tom Fillot,” he said half aloud, as he felt for and seized the rudder-lines. “Now, my lads.”There was a low buzz of excitement, and then, in obedience to an order, a couple of oars were softly thrust into the water. Dance stood ready, but there was no boathook, and he fretfully asked what he was to do.“Hold on by the chains, mate,” whispered Tom Fillot, “and I’ll help you. Dessay we can make the painter fast afore we get aboard.”As he spoke, he was busily loosening the rope which held them to the tree, and then stood holding the end just round the bough.“Ready, sir, when you like to say ‘Let go!’”Mark paused a moment or two, breathing hard, and tried to think of anything that had been left undone, knowing as he did that the slightest hitch in the proceedings might mean failure; but he could think of nothing, and leaning forward, he whispered,—“You understand, my lads? Drop down, make fast, all in silence. Then follow me aboard, make for the cabin, and knock down every man who tries to get on deck.”“Ay, ay, sir,” came in a whisper that was terribly impressive in its earnestness.Nothing then remained but for him to say “Let go!” But he hesitated yet, and looked about him, to see that in a very few minutes the moon’s edge would be rising above the forest, flooding the river with its silvery light. If a watch was kept, which seemed to be certain, they would be seen, the captain and crew alarmed before they could get aboard, and, with so weak an attacking party, they would be at a terrible disadvantage. So hesitating no longer than to give himself time to loosen his dirk in its sheath, he leaned forward once more, and in a low, earnest whisper gave the order,—“Go!”There was a faint rustle as the rope passed over the bough, a little splash as it struck the water, the two oars dipped without a sound, as the boat swung round, and they glided rapidly up the river with the tide.The distance, at the rate of speed at which they were going, was extremely short, and Mark had to whisper to the men to pull harder, so as to make the boat answer to the rudder: while the moon rose higher, and though still invisible above the horizon, sent upward so warm a glow that the topmasts of the schooner became visible, and Mark was able to steer right for her bows.“Now!” he whispered, “in with your oars.”He was obeyed, and the men laid them in, but made a slight noise—a mere trifle of sound, but it was sufficient to alarm the man forward, who was keeping watch; and to Mark’s horror, he heard a quick movement, followed by a shout of alarm.But it was just as the boat grazed up against the schooner’s side, glided along, and Tom Fillot gripped the chains, stopped her course, and made fast the painter.“What’s the matter? Are they getting out?” cried the skipper, hurrying on deck, and of course upsetting the plan of keeping him and his men below.But before he had quite finished his question, Mark’s voice rang out,—“Forward!” and he sprang up in the chains, followed by his men, leaped on deck, and directly after there was aflash and the report of a pistol, but the man who fired it was driven headlong down upon the deck, to roll over and over until stopped by the bulwark.It was the skipper who fired, and then went down with a fierce cry of rage, for Tom Fillot had rushed at him, striking him in violent collision, the weight of the running sailor being sufficient to send him flying. But he struggled up in a moment, and using his pistol as a club, struck with it fiercely in all directions as he cheered on his men, and bravely resisted the attempt to drive him and his followers below.It was still very dark; the schooner’s crew had rushed up at the first alarm, and as fast as they cleared the combings of the hatch, they dashed at their assailants, with the consequence that in a very few seconds the deck was a confusion of struggling, yelling, and cursing men, the two parties fighting hard for their different aims, to beat the defenders below—to drive the attacking party overboard into their boat or into the river—anywhere to clear the deck.It was a wild and savage affair, the energy of desperation being fully developed on either side. Weapons were little used, for the two parties closed in a fierce struggle, or else struck out with their fists; and as the two parties were pretty well balanced for numbers, the fight was obstinate to a degree.Cheering on his men, Mark had been one of the first to leap on deck, and, once there, he had dashed, dirk in hand, at the first sailor he encountered, and immediately found out that even if armed with a dirk, a middy of seventeen is no match for a sturdy, well-built fellow of thirty; and though he caught his adversary by the throat with one hand, and pointed his dirk with the other, as he bade the man surrender, matters went badly for him.For the man, who knew that the capture of the vessel meant endless trouble and loss to him, had not the slightest intention of surrendering to a mere boy, and in two vigorous efforts he sent Mark’s dirk flying in one direction, and hurled him in another so violently that the lad fell heavily on his head and shoulder, and for the space of two minutes there was no one to hold the command.But Mark’s semi-insensibility only lasted those two minutes; then he was fully awake to the shouting and struggling going on around and over him. Naturally objecting to be trampled, jumped upon, and used as a stumbling-block for friends and enemies to fall over, he exerted himself to get out of the way, rolled over and found his dirk beneath him, rose to his feet, aching, half-stunned, and, in pain intense enough to enrage him, he once more rushed at the nearest man, roaring to his followers to come on.The orders were unnecessary, for the men had come on, and were locked in the embrace of their enemies, but the cry stimulated the brave fellows to fresh exertion, and to the rage and mortification of the Yankee skipper, the schooner’s crew were driven back step by step aft, till the next thing seemed to be that they would be forced below, the hatch clapped on, and the Englishmen be masters of the slaver.But it was not so. Load a gun with powder, fire it, and the force of the preparation will drive the bullet a certain distance. But then the powder has exploded, and its force is at an end. So it was with Mark’s followers; the force in them was expended and sent the slavers right aft, but there was no more power left. They were all weak and suffering, and in obeying Mark’s last cry they were completely spent, while their enemies were vigorous and strong.Finding out the weakness of the attacking party, the slavers ceased giving way, rebounded, and the tables were rapidly turned, Mark’s men being driven back step by step, forward and to the side over which they had come to the attack. It was in vain that they shouted to one another to stand by and come on, and that Tom Fillot bounded about, making his fists fly like windmill sails, while Mark’s voice was heard above the din: they were thoroughly beaten. It was weak and injured men fighting against the well-fed, strong and hearty, and in spite of true British pluck and determination, the former gave way more and more, till the fight resolved itself into assault against stubborn resistance, the men seeming to say by their acts, “Well, if you are to pitch us overboard, you shall have as much trouble as we can give you.”“Ah, would yer!” roared Tom Fillot, making one of his rushes in time to upset a couple of the schooner’s men, who had seized Mark in spite of his struggles, and were about to throw him over the side.As the men went down Mark had another fall, but he gathered himself up, looking extremely vicious now, and while Tom Fillot was still struggling with the slavers, one of whom had got hold of his leg, another man made at the midshipman, and drove at him with a capstan bar, not striking, but thrusting fiercely at his face with the end.Mark ducked, avoided the blow, and naturally sought to make reprisal with the ineffective little weapon he held, lunging out so sharply that it went home in the man’s shoulder, and he yelled out, dropped the bar, and fled.“Why didn’t you do that before, ten times over, sir?” cried Tom Fillot, kicking himself free. “It’s too late now, sir. I’m afraid we’re beat this time.”“No, no, no,” cried Mark, angrily. “Come on, my lads!” and he made a rush, which must have resulted in his being struck down, for he advanced quite alone, Tom Fillot, who would have followed, being beaten back along with the rest, till they stood against the bulwarks—that is, those who could stand, three being down on their knees.“Mr Vandean, sir—help! help!” roared Tom Fillot just in the nick of time; and, striking out fiercely with his dirk, Mark returned to his men and released poor Dance, who was one of the weakest, by giving his assailant a sharp dig with the steel.“Now, my lads, never mind the boy,” cried the Yankee skipper; “over with them.”The men, who had drawn back for the moment, made a rush at Tom Fillot, seized him, there was a short struggle, a loud splash, and the schooners men had got rid of the most vigorous of their assailants.A shout and another heave, and Dance had gone. Then Dick Bannock, who kicked and cursed like a madman, was swung up and tossed over. The rest followed, and, with his back to the bulwarks and his dirk advanced, Mark stood alone upon the deck, last of the gallant little crew, knowing that his turn had come, but ready to make whoever seized him smart for the indignity about to be put upon a British officer, even if he were a boy.“Bah! rush him,” roared the captain, and Mark had time for two blows at his assailants, whom he could now see clearly from where he had run right to the bows, for a flood of moonlight softly swept over the scene.Then as he struggled hard with the men cursing and buffeting him with their fists, there came a loud, wildly appealing cry, as it seemed to him, from the hold where the poor blacks were confined; and it was with a bitter feeling of despair at his being unable to help them, that Mark made his last effort to free himself. The next moment he was jerked out from the side of the schooner, fell with a tremendous splash in the swiftly-running tide; there was a flashing as of silver in the moonbeams, then black darkness, and the thunder of the rushing waters in his ears.
For the boat quivered as to a man all sprang up, and forgetting everything in their excitement, the men were about to cheer, but were brought back to a knowledge of their position by that softly-uttered warning sound just as a lanthorn was seen moving at a distance once more, followed by a sharp sound like the closing of a hatch.
The boat rocked a little again as the men sank back in their places, while Mark felt as if he were being suffocated, as he trembled, and felt the perspiration stand in big drops upon his forehead.
For he was startled at his venturesome plan, knowing that such a task would be that of a strong, experienced, determined man, and now that he had made the proposal he felt as if he must have been mad.
To carry out such a venture needed quite fresh, active men. Those to whom he had proposed the attempt were in no wise fit, and to induce them to try and recapture the schooner was like tempting them to their death.
“It is all foolishness,” he said to himself in the brief instants during which these thoughts flashed through his brain, but the next moment he awoke to the fact that he had set a spark in contact with a train of human gunpowder, that the spark had caught, and that it was impossible now to stop.
“Heads close together, mates,” whispered Tom Fillot. “Not a sound on your lives. Come, Mr Vandean, sir, say the word—when. Now? At once?”
“No, no,” whispered back Mark; “you are all weak and ill. I’ve been thinking about it since I spoke, and it is too much for you to do.”
A low, angry murmur arose, and Tom Fillot chuckled.
“Too much for us, sir? Not it. You’ve only got to give the word, and there’s that in us now as’ll carry us through anything. Only you lead us, sir, and we’ll do all the work. Is that the right word, maties?”
“Yes,” came like a hiss from the whole party.
“There, sir. You hear. Don’t you be afraid as we won’t do our duty by you.”
“No, no, Tom Fillot, I’m not a bit afraid of that, but the venture seems too wild.”
“Not it, sir. Why, we’re all red hot to be let go; so now then, what about the plans?”
“I have none, and we had better give up the business.”
“You’re saying that to save us, sir, but we don’t want to be saved the trouble. We want to get that schooner back, and serve out the rough ’uns who half killed all on us. And what’s more, me and my mates liked the taste o’ the prize-money we had got to our mouths afore it were snatched away, so we want to get it back again. That’s so, ain’t it, lads?”
“Ay, ay,” was whispered so deeply that it hardly reached Mark’s ears; but there was a fierce earnestness in it that told how strong was the determination on the part of the men to try and wipe out the past night’s disgrace, while, just as he thought this, by a strange coincidence, Tom Fillot whispered,—
“We must take her, sir. You can’t go back and meet the skipper without the schooner.”
The most cunningly contrived advice could not have affected Mark more powerfully. His heart beat rapidly, and, carried away now by the contagious enthusiasm of the men, he said,—
“Right; then we will take her.”
A low humming buzz went up at this, and Mark went on,—
“We shall wait till everything is quite still on board, and then let the boat drift alongside. Dance will hold on with the hook; we shall board her and take them by surprise as they did us, unless their watch is sharper than ours.”
“You trust us, sir. We’ll have her,” whispered Tom Fillot. “We must.”
“Then, now—silence. We must wait for a time, the later the better. When I give the word, Tom Fillot will let the boat drift, two men will give a few dips with oars, and I shall steer her alongside; then Dance will hook on. You will all follow me—”
“And the schooner’s ours once more.”
“If it is the schooner,” said Mark, dubiously.
“If she ain’t, she’s a slaver, sir,” replied Tom Fillot, “and that’s enough for we.”
They waited in the silence and darkness, listening intently for every sound, but very little was heard from the vessel. Once there were footsteps, and later on they made out a glow of light upon the water, which they judged rightly to be the reflection from the cabin windows, which of course was farthest from them, the vessel being moored from the stem.
Then they sat listening to the rippling of the swiftly-running water, and the peculiarly weird cries and other sounds which came from the shore, terribly suggestive of prowling beasts seeking their nightly food.
It must have been getting toward two bells when Mark, who had been bending over Mr Russell, to try and make out by touch how he was, started up in horror, for, from the direction of the moored vessel, there came a burst of cries, as if someone was being tortured in a terrible way.
“What’s that?” cried Mark, in an excited whisper.
“What I wanted to hear, sir,” replied Tom Fillot in the same tone. “It might ha’ been as that warn’t a slaver, after all; but that there noise settles it.”
“Then you think it was the poor wretches crying out?”
“Sure on it, sir; as sure as I am that there’s somebody going to shout at ’em to be quiet, or he’ll come and chuck some of ’em overboard.”
Even as the man spoke, footsteps were heard, and then there was a sharp sound like the banging of the top of the hatch with a capstan bar, followed by a fierce shout delivered in a threatening way.
Then came a low, piteous moaning and sobbing, mingled with the crying of children, and once more the top of the hatch was banged.
“Guess I’m coming down to give it to some of you. Stop that! Do yer hear?”
These words came clearly enough over the water in the silence of the tropic night, and once more all was still again, and there was a low whistling, as if someone were walking back to the cabin-hatch, where he stood for a few minutes, and then went below.
“Tom,” said Mark, “that’s the slaver skipper.”
“Yes, sir, so I s’pose. Nobody else wouldn’t bully like that.”
“I mean the skipper of the schooner we took.”
“Think so, sir?” cried the man, excitedly.
“I’m sure of it. I know his voice again. That’s the man who had me thrown into the boat.”
“That’s right, then, sir. I couldn’t tell, because my head was all dumb with the crack I got; but you weren’t hit, and of course you’d know.”
Just then there came a low, piteous, half-stifled wail from the vessel, which went so home to Mark’s feelings, that his voice sounded changed and suffocated, as he whispered,—
“I’ve often said that I was sorry I came to sea, Tom Fillot, so as to be sent on this horrible slavery business, but I’m glad now.”
“That’s right, sir.”
“And we’ll have that schooner back, and set those poor creatures free if I die for it.”
“That you shall, sir,” cried Tom Fillot. “No, no, that you shan’t, I mean.”
“Not take her?” said Mark, half aloud in his surprise.
“Hist! No, no, sir. I didn’t mean that; I mean not die for it.”
“Oh, I see.”
“You shall take her, sir, as soon as you give the word; but, begging your pardon, sir, if I might ask a favour for me and the men—”
“Yes; what is it?”
“Don’t be too hard on us, sir, in the way of orders.”
“What do you mean? I won’t ask you to do anything I shall not try to do myself.”
“Oh, it ain’t that, Mr Vandean, sir. We know you for a fine, plucky young gent, as we’d follow anywhere. What I meant was, don’t be too stiff with the men in the way o’ stopping ’em. We don’t want to kill any of the beggars, but we should like to give it ’em as hard as we can.”
“Do, Tom,” whispered Mark, excitedly. “The beasts! the wretches! the unmanly brutes! Oh, how can those poor blacks be such pitiful, miserable cowards, and not rise up and kill the villains who seize them and treat them in such a way!”
“I’ll tell you, sir. It’s because they’ve been beaten. I don’t mean larruped with a stick, but beaten in some fight, and made prisoners up the country. Since then they’ve been chained and driven and starved and knocked about till all the man’s gone out of ’em, and made ’em so that they haven’t got a spark o’ pluck left. You take ’em and treat ’em well, and it all comes back, like it did to poor old Soup and poor old Taters. They was fast growing into good, stiff, manly sort o’ messmates, with nothing wrong in ’em but their black skins, and I don’t see as that’s anything agin a man. All a matter o’ taste, sir. Dessay the black ladies thinks they’re reg’lar han’some, and us and our white skins ugly as sin.”
“We must have that schooner, Tom Fillot,” said Mark, after a short pause.
“You’ve got it, sir, and we’ll sail her up to the port with flying colours. You’ll see.”
“I hope you’ll turn out a true prophet, Tom.”
“So do I, sir, and I’m just going to whisper to the boys what you say, and then I’m thinking it’ll soon be time to go on board and kick those chaps over the side.”
“No killing, Tom.”
“No, sir. You trust us. We won’t go quite so far as that,” said the sailor grimly; and he crept away to begin whispering to his messmates, while Mark sat straining his eyes in the direction of the schooner, hot, excited, but without the slightest sensation of shrinking. This had given place to an intense longing for action, which made his heart beat with a heavy throb, while, from time to time, there was a strange swelling in his throat, as he thought of the agony of the poor creatures pent-up in the stifling heat of the schooner’s hold, some of them, perhaps, dying, others dead, and waiting to join their fellows in the silent waters, happily released from their pain.
He was so deeply plunged in thought that he did not notice Tom Fillot’s return, and he gave quite a start as the man laid a hand upon his knee.
“Look there, sir,” he whispered.
“Eh? where?”
“Over the trees, behind me.”
“Fire?” whispered Mark, excitedly, as he gazed at a warm glow away beyond the forest.
“No, sir; the moon. She’ll soon be up, and we must have that schooner in the dark.”
“Then we’ll begin at once,” said Mark, decisively.
“Right, sir. The lads have some of ’em got their cutlashes, and them as ain’t have each got two good hard fists; and it strikes me as they’ll use ’em too. So when you’re ready, sir, give the word.”
Mark felt for his dirk, which was safe in his belt, and then thought of the quiet little parsonage at home, and of the horror that would assail his mother if she could know of the perilous enterprise upon which he was bound. Then came the recollection of his grave, stern-looking father, and of what would be his feelings.
“Would he say don’t go?” thought Mark.
The answer seemed to come at once.
“No; he’d say, ‘It’s your duty, boy. In God’s name go and do your best.’”
“I’m ready, Tom Fillot,” he said half aloud, as he felt for and seized the rudder-lines. “Now, my lads.”
There was a low buzz of excitement, and then, in obedience to an order, a couple of oars were softly thrust into the water. Dance stood ready, but there was no boathook, and he fretfully asked what he was to do.
“Hold on by the chains, mate,” whispered Tom Fillot, “and I’ll help you. Dessay we can make the painter fast afore we get aboard.”
As he spoke, he was busily loosening the rope which held them to the tree, and then stood holding the end just round the bough.
“Ready, sir, when you like to say ‘Let go!’”
Mark paused a moment or two, breathing hard, and tried to think of anything that had been left undone, knowing as he did that the slightest hitch in the proceedings might mean failure; but he could think of nothing, and leaning forward, he whispered,—
“You understand, my lads? Drop down, make fast, all in silence. Then follow me aboard, make for the cabin, and knock down every man who tries to get on deck.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” came in a whisper that was terribly impressive in its earnestness.
Nothing then remained but for him to say “Let go!” But he hesitated yet, and looked about him, to see that in a very few minutes the moon’s edge would be rising above the forest, flooding the river with its silvery light. If a watch was kept, which seemed to be certain, they would be seen, the captain and crew alarmed before they could get aboard, and, with so weak an attacking party, they would be at a terrible disadvantage. So hesitating no longer than to give himself time to loosen his dirk in its sheath, he leaned forward once more, and in a low, earnest whisper gave the order,—
“Go!”
There was a faint rustle as the rope passed over the bough, a little splash as it struck the water, the two oars dipped without a sound, as the boat swung round, and they glided rapidly up the river with the tide.
The distance, at the rate of speed at which they were going, was extremely short, and Mark had to whisper to the men to pull harder, so as to make the boat answer to the rudder: while the moon rose higher, and though still invisible above the horizon, sent upward so warm a glow that the topmasts of the schooner became visible, and Mark was able to steer right for her bows.
“Now!” he whispered, “in with your oars.”
He was obeyed, and the men laid them in, but made a slight noise—a mere trifle of sound, but it was sufficient to alarm the man forward, who was keeping watch; and to Mark’s horror, he heard a quick movement, followed by a shout of alarm.
But it was just as the boat grazed up against the schooner’s side, glided along, and Tom Fillot gripped the chains, stopped her course, and made fast the painter.
“What’s the matter? Are they getting out?” cried the skipper, hurrying on deck, and of course upsetting the plan of keeping him and his men below.
But before he had quite finished his question, Mark’s voice rang out,—“Forward!” and he sprang up in the chains, followed by his men, leaped on deck, and directly after there was aflash and the report of a pistol, but the man who fired it was driven headlong down upon the deck, to roll over and over until stopped by the bulwark.
It was the skipper who fired, and then went down with a fierce cry of rage, for Tom Fillot had rushed at him, striking him in violent collision, the weight of the running sailor being sufficient to send him flying. But he struggled up in a moment, and using his pistol as a club, struck with it fiercely in all directions as he cheered on his men, and bravely resisted the attempt to drive him and his followers below.
It was still very dark; the schooner’s crew had rushed up at the first alarm, and as fast as they cleared the combings of the hatch, they dashed at their assailants, with the consequence that in a very few seconds the deck was a confusion of struggling, yelling, and cursing men, the two parties fighting hard for their different aims, to beat the defenders below—to drive the attacking party overboard into their boat or into the river—anywhere to clear the deck.
It was a wild and savage affair, the energy of desperation being fully developed on either side. Weapons were little used, for the two parties closed in a fierce struggle, or else struck out with their fists; and as the two parties were pretty well balanced for numbers, the fight was obstinate to a degree.
Cheering on his men, Mark had been one of the first to leap on deck, and, once there, he had dashed, dirk in hand, at the first sailor he encountered, and immediately found out that even if armed with a dirk, a middy of seventeen is no match for a sturdy, well-built fellow of thirty; and though he caught his adversary by the throat with one hand, and pointed his dirk with the other, as he bade the man surrender, matters went badly for him.
For the man, who knew that the capture of the vessel meant endless trouble and loss to him, had not the slightest intention of surrendering to a mere boy, and in two vigorous efforts he sent Mark’s dirk flying in one direction, and hurled him in another so violently that the lad fell heavily on his head and shoulder, and for the space of two minutes there was no one to hold the command.
But Mark’s semi-insensibility only lasted those two minutes; then he was fully awake to the shouting and struggling going on around and over him. Naturally objecting to be trampled, jumped upon, and used as a stumbling-block for friends and enemies to fall over, he exerted himself to get out of the way, rolled over and found his dirk beneath him, rose to his feet, aching, half-stunned, and, in pain intense enough to enrage him, he once more rushed at the nearest man, roaring to his followers to come on.
The orders were unnecessary, for the men had come on, and were locked in the embrace of their enemies, but the cry stimulated the brave fellows to fresh exertion, and to the rage and mortification of the Yankee skipper, the schooner’s crew were driven back step by step aft, till the next thing seemed to be that they would be forced below, the hatch clapped on, and the Englishmen be masters of the slaver.
But it was not so. Load a gun with powder, fire it, and the force of the preparation will drive the bullet a certain distance. But then the powder has exploded, and its force is at an end. So it was with Mark’s followers; the force in them was expended and sent the slavers right aft, but there was no more power left. They were all weak and suffering, and in obeying Mark’s last cry they were completely spent, while their enemies were vigorous and strong.
Finding out the weakness of the attacking party, the slavers ceased giving way, rebounded, and the tables were rapidly turned, Mark’s men being driven back step by step, forward and to the side over which they had come to the attack. It was in vain that they shouted to one another to stand by and come on, and that Tom Fillot bounded about, making his fists fly like windmill sails, while Mark’s voice was heard above the din: they were thoroughly beaten. It was weak and injured men fighting against the well-fed, strong and hearty, and in spite of true British pluck and determination, the former gave way more and more, till the fight resolved itself into assault against stubborn resistance, the men seeming to say by their acts, “Well, if you are to pitch us overboard, you shall have as much trouble as we can give you.”
“Ah, would yer!” roared Tom Fillot, making one of his rushes in time to upset a couple of the schooner’s men, who had seized Mark in spite of his struggles, and were about to throw him over the side.
As the men went down Mark had another fall, but he gathered himself up, looking extremely vicious now, and while Tom Fillot was still struggling with the slavers, one of whom had got hold of his leg, another man made at the midshipman, and drove at him with a capstan bar, not striking, but thrusting fiercely at his face with the end.
Mark ducked, avoided the blow, and naturally sought to make reprisal with the ineffective little weapon he held, lunging out so sharply that it went home in the man’s shoulder, and he yelled out, dropped the bar, and fled.
“Why didn’t you do that before, ten times over, sir?” cried Tom Fillot, kicking himself free. “It’s too late now, sir. I’m afraid we’re beat this time.”
“No, no, no,” cried Mark, angrily. “Come on, my lads!” and he made a rush, which must have resulted in his being struck down, for he advanced quite alone, Tom Fillot, who would have followed, being beaten back along with the rest, till they stood against the bulwarks—that is, those who could stand, three being down on their knees.
“Mr Vandean, sir—help! help!” roared Tom Fillot just in the nick of time; and, striking out fiercely with his dirk, Mark returned to his men and released poor Dance, who was one of the weakest, by giving his assailant a sharp dig with the steel.
“Now, my lads, never mind the boy,” cried the Yankee skipper; “over with them.”
The men, who had drawn back for the moment, made a rush at Tom Fillot, seized him, there was a short struggle, a loud splash, and the schooners men had got rid of the most vigorous of their assailants.
A shout and another heave, and Dance had gone. Then Dick Bannock, who kicked and cursed like a madman, was swung up and tossed over. The rest followed, and, with his back to the bulwarks and his dirk advanced, Mark stood alone upon the deck, last of the gallant little crew, knowing that his turn had come, but ready to make whoever seized him smart for the indignity about to be put upon a British officer, even if he were a boy.
“Bah! rush him,” roared the captain, and Mark had time for two blows at his assailants, whom he could now see clearly from where he had run right to the bows, for a flood of moonlight softly swept over the scene.
Then as he struggled hard with the men cursing and buffeting him with their fists, there came a loud, wildly appealing cry, as it seemed to him, from the hold where the poor blacks were confined; and it was with a bitter feeling of despair at his being unable to help them, that Mark made his last effort to free himself. The next moment he was jerked out from the side of the schooner, fell with a tremendous splash in the swiftly-running tide; there was a flashing as of silver in the moonbeams, then black darkness, and the thunder of the rushing waters in his ears.
Chapter Twenty Two.Unexpected Allies.“Here, hi! Look-out, lads! Where’s our orficer?”These words greeted Mark Vandean as, after a few struggles, his head shot up from the black water into the bright moonlight, and, giving it a good shake, he struck out for the boat.The cold plunge had braced him up, clearing away the brain mists caused by exhaustion in the fight; and now once more he was himself, ready to save his own life, and think, as an officer should, about his men. Of course his first thoughts ought to have been about saving his men, and self afterwards; but he followed the natural instinct, and strove to reach the boat.“Here I am,” he shouted, as soon as he could get his breath; “shove out an oar.”Tom Fillot had already caught sight of his wet face shining in the moonlight, and thrusting an oar over the stern, began to paddle to turn the boat, but was checked directly by the painter, which he had made fast to the chains when they boarded the schooner.To have stopped to unfasten it would have meant too much loss of time, so throwing himself on his chest, he reached out as far as he could with the oar toward Mark, who had been borne down from where he was plunged in at the bows toward the boat.“Lay hold, sir!” cried Tom, excitedly.“Yah! Cowards! Look-out!” was yelled behind Tom; the boat received a violent jerk as Dick Bannock gave it a thrust right away from the schooner, and simultaneously the men were deluged with water by a tremendous splash close to their side. Then a big wave rose and lapped over into the boat, striking Mark just as his fingers touched the tip of the oar blade, and the next moment he was swept on by the tide up the river.“All right, sir!” cried Tom Fillot, loudly; “swim steady. We’ll have you directly. You, Dick Bannock, cut that painter. Now, then: oars!”He dropped down into a seat, and pulled a big stroke to send the boat’s head round.“Here, help me aboard, mate,” cried a voice.“And me, messmet,” cried another, the two speakers holding on by the side which they had reached after being thrown from the schooner.“No, no, hold on, mates,” cried Tom. “Let’s get Mr Vandean first. What was that ’ere?”“Pig o’ ballast they chucked over to stave the bottom,” growled Dick Bannock, beginning to row. “If I hadn’t shoved her off, they’d ha’ sunk us.”“We’ll sink them yet,” growled Tom Fillot. “Coming, Mr Van, sir. We’ll have you directly. Easy, mates,” he cried, throwing in his oar, and leaning over again toward where Mark was swimming steadily facing the tide, but letting himself drift, content to keep afloat.“Can you reach him, mate?” growled Dick.“Not quite; pull your oar,” cried Tom. “That’s right. Hooray! Got him!”This last was given with a yell of triumph, as he made a snatch at Mark’s wrist, caught it firmly, and hauled the dripping lad over into the boat.“Thankye,” said Mark, panting. “I’m all right. Now then, help these two fellows in.—Well done!”He said this breathlessly as he stood up and gave himself a shake, and then as the two men who had held on went to their places, he resumed his seat and looked round.“Who’s missing?” he cried.“All here, sir, ’cept poor Joe Dance. I ain’t seen him.”“Ain’t looked,” said a faint voice from under the men’s legs. “They chucked me over, and I’m afeard I’ve squashed poor Mr Russell, for I come right down upon him.”“Then nobody’s missing,” cried Mark, joyously. “Look here, my lads; oars out—pull! pull!”The men obeyed as vigorously as they could, rowing back toward the schooner, but slowly, for the tide was running sharply still, and the fight was hard.“What yer going to do, sir?” said Tom Fillot, in a low tone.“Do?” cried Mark, excitedly, for his blood was regularly up; “why, have another try, of course.”“Well done us!” said Dick Bannock, thickly. “I’m ready. We ain’t beat.”“No good, sir,” growled Tom Fillot, in a low, deep voice. “We ain’t beat, but we can’t do it, sir, for want o’ strength.”“What?” cried Mark, who was determined upon his mad project—mad now in the face of so many difficulties. “There isn’t a man here who will not follow me, and I’m sure you won’t turn tail, Tom Fillot.”“Not me, sir,” said the man; “you’re orficer, and where you goes I follows. It’s hard lines to let go of a prize like that. Lay her close alongside, sir?”“Yes, of course,” cried Mark, standing up as they began to near the schooner once more. “Why, there’s something the matter on board—they’re fighting—they’re killing the blacks. Here, pull, men, pull. Quick! Don’t you see? The blacks have got loose, and are fighting for their liberty; pull!”The men forgot their pains and weakness once more as a fierce yelling, shouting, and shrieking arose from the deck of the schooner. Then shots were fired, and as the boat approached, now unobserved, they could see that the crew were driving back quite a little crowd of naked blacks, who seemed helpless before the attack of the armed men, but still in their desperation they gave way slowly, uttering fierce cries of rage and despair.It was all plain in the bright moonlight which flooded the scene, and Mark could see the slaver captain making a rush here and a rush there, and at each effort he struck down some poor wretch with a heavy bludgeon he wielded with terrible force.Then, as the boat glided in close under the stern, all this was shut out, but the noise increased.“Now, my lads!” whispered Mark, “we shall take ’em between two fires. As soon as the blacks see us come they’ll fight like fury, and we shall win. Do you see, Tom Fillot?”“See, sir? yes. It’s all right. We’ll have ’em yet. I’ll make fast to the main chains, and then up we go. But don’t give the word till I’m ready, sir. I can fight now.”The preparations took almost less time than the talking, and then, freshly nerved by the exciting scene on deck, Mark Vandean and his men climbed on board to collect for a rush, just as the blacks were making a desperate stand. There in the front were two of the stoutest armed with capstan bars, and as the crew of the boat were about to dash forward, these two blacks yelled together and charged at the schooner’s men, striking out so savagely that two of their adversaries went down, and the next they attacked shrank back.“Stand aside!” roared the slaver skipper, raising a pistol, but it was not fired, for as the two blacks whirled their bars about and fought on, Mark gave a cheer, his men followed suit, and, taking the schooner’s crew in the rear, they were scattered at the first charge.What followed was a series of furious, short hand-to-hand conflicts, men being driven in among the blacks, who came on now wild with excitement. They seized their enemies and, in spite of their struggles, hurled them overboard to swim for the shore, till only the skipper was left, and he was being hunted from place of vantage to place of vantage, till he made a dash and ran down into the cabin. But the biggest of the blacks, one of the two armed with capstan bars, rushed down after him, followed by his brave companion, and the next minute there was the sound of a plunge, evidently from the cabin window.Mark and Tom Fillot rushed to the stern together, and looked over.“Have they killed him?” said the midshipman, hoarsely.“No, sir; he’s swimming like a seal—the warmint. He’ll reach the shore. But hadn’t you better get us together, sir? The niggers may have a turn at us now. P’r’aps they don’t know we’re friends.”“Oh yes they do, Tom; they must have seen how we fought for them.” But all the same the lad gave a long piercing whistle, and his men clustered about him, ready for the blacks, who were now coming aft in a body.“It means another fight, sir,” whispered Tom. “Can’t anybody say in nigger lingo as we’re friends?”“Yes, friends; all friends,” cried a harsh voice, as the great, perfectly nude, black sprang up out of the hatchway, and threw down his heavy wooden bar, an example followed by the other, while, as the moon now shone full upon their convulsed and excited faces, Tom Fillot burst into a roar of laughter, rushed forward, and slapped first one and then the other on the bare shoulder, yelling out,—“Here’s a game, mates; why, it’s old Soup and Taters. Why, my black-mugged messmates, we thought you was both on you drowned. What’s become of yourtog-a-ree?”The blacks’ faces relaxed into a broad smile, as, led by Mark, the men crowded round to shake hands warmly, while the crowd of slaves set up a peculiar cry, and danced about them, waving their arms, ending by going down upon their knees about Mark and laying their foreheads on the deck, while the women in the background set up a strangely wild wail.“Then you two escaped,” cried Mark, as soon as the excitement had subsided a little; and the big black tried to explain, but could only get out the words, “All right, messmate,” and then spoke volubly in his own tongue.“Never mind, sir; they did get off,” cried Tom Fillot. “They must have been chucked below along with the rest, and then kep’ prisoners.”“And a good job for us, Tom,” said Mark.“Ay, ay, sir, and no mistake, for we couldn’t have took the schooner again without them.”“There, silence!” cried Mark. “These men must keep the blacks in order, while you, my lads, get the arms together. We must have a strong watch kept. The scoundrels may try to retake the schooner.”“They’d better, sir,” growled Tom, who was in the act of restoring his cutlass to its sheath. “I didn’t use this,” he muttered, “but if they came again I’m sorry for the chap as hits at me.”The watch was set, and when Mark could extricate himself from the crowd of blacks who pressed about him, he looked round for Soup and Taters, even going so far as to ask for them, rather unwillingly, by these names, but they were missing.He forgot all about them directly in the business and excitement which followed, for there was much to be done. One of his first tasks was to have the schooner’s boat run up to the davits, and Mr Russell carefully lifted out, and borne down into the Yankee skipper’s comfortable cabin. Then he found out more and more how multitudinous are the demands made upon an officer. In this case he had to play the part of surgeon as well, for many of the blacks were, like his own men, suffering from contusions, though fortunately no one seemed to be seriously injured; and the brilliant moonlight was a great aid in his endeavour to restore something like order on board.“I want those two fellows,” cried Mark at last, angrily; “they could be of so much use in managing the blacks.”“Here they are, sir,” cried one of the men. “They’ve been below.”“What have they been doing below—getting at the provisions?”He asked no more, for at that moment the two men came forward, smiling, in their neat white man-o’-war garments, which had been confiscated by the slaver captain when he turned them below into the hold with the rest of the blacks, little thinking that by this act he was contriving the means of restoring them all to liberty.“Hah! that’s better!” cried Mark smiling. “Now then see to these poor creatures. I’m going to serve out something for them to eat and drink.”With the help of a little pantomime he made them readily understand, and they went forward to the blacks, who at once sat down quietly on the deck and waited.At the words eating and drinking, Tom Fillot had gone below, and by the time his officer was ready to show the way to the stores, biscuit and water were being served out and eagerly attacked by all.“And now I think it’s our turn,” said Mark, who had become conscious of a peculiar sensation of faintness.“I’ve put something ready for you in the cabin, sir,” whispered Tom Fillot.But Mark was too sensible of his responsibility to go below to eat and rest, and his refreshment consisted of the same food as was partaken of by the rest—to wit, biscuit moistened with water.For there was the watch to visit, the tide to be examined for the hour of its change, and a score of other little matters to attend to, in addition to noting Mr Russell’s condition from to time.“How soon will it be high water?” asked Mark at last, after wearily watching the constant flow.“Must be soon, sir,” said Tom Fillot, who seemed to have dropped into the position of first lieutenant. “Beg pardon, sir, you mean to sail with the ebb?”“Certainly. We must not stay here. That scoundrel may return with help.”“You’re right, sir. Sooner we’re out at sea the better I shall like it.”“Exactly. I want the men to go below and have a good rest. Poor lads! they have been slaves.”“To save slaves, sir; but beg pardon, sir; you won’ be offended?”“Offended? No, Tom Fillot; you’ve been too good a friend,” cried the midshipman, eagerly. “What were you going to say?”“Only this, sir. What we’re most feared of is the Yankee skipper coming back!”“Of course.”“Then why not strengthen the watch, sir?”“How? I wish I could.”“Oh, I’ll soon show you how, sir. You get Soup and Taters, and make ’em understand what you want, and it will be all right.”“But what do I want, Tom?”“I’ll show you, sir, and I think you can make ’em understand. Tell ’em to pick out half-a-dozen of the strongest young blacks, and we’ll give ’em a cutlash and a belt apiece, and set ’em to keep guard by the schooner’s side.”“But would it be safe, Tom?” cried Mark eagerly.“Not very, sir, for the skipper and his men. Soup’ll explain it to ’em, and once they know, you see if they don’t do all that dooty splendid, and leave us free to navigate the schooner.”“Navigate the schooner, Tom?” said Mark, rather dolefully, as he thought of his shortcomings in that direction.“Oh, it’ll be easy enough, sir. All we’ve got to do is to sail doo north and hug the shore. We can’t go wrong.”Soup and Taters were summoned, and grasped the idea readily enough, with the result that in a very short time they had under their command six of the blacks keeping watch and ward against surprise, leaving the weary crew opportunity for getting up the anchor when the tide turned. Then a sail was hoisted for steering purposes, and the men gave a hearty cheer as they began to drop down the river with their prize.“Lor’, mates!” said Dick Bannock, “who’d ha’ thought of our getting of her after all. Shows as it never does to say die. ‘Persewere,’ says you, ‘and never mind the difficoolties.’ What yer larfin’ for, Tom Fillot? Don’t I say what’s true?”“I warn’t laughing at you, messmate, but at the niggers keeping watch.”“Ay, they do look rum,” said Dick, smiling; “but they do splendid. Seem proud o’ their uniform too, eh?”“Yes,” said Joe Dance, who was leaning his back against the bulwark, “but you might give ’em a bit of something else to put on.”“Well, yes, I might—a sword-belt ain’t much for a man to wear, and his legs would be very thin to get ’em hid behind a scabbard. But we shall see, my lad, we shall see.”
“Here, hi! Look-out, lads! Where’s our orficer?”
These words greeted Mark Vandean as, after a few struggles, his head shot up from the black water into the bright moonlight, and, giving it a good shake, he struck out for the boat.
The cold plunge had braced him up, clearing away the brain mists caused by exhaustion in the fight; and now once more he was himself, ready to save his own life, and think, as an officer should, about his men. Of course his first thoughts ought to have been about saving his men, and self afterwards; but he followed the natural instinct, and strove to reach the boat.
“Here I am,” he shouted, as soon as he could get his breath; “shove out an oar.”
Tom Fillot had already caught sight of his wet face shining in the moonlight, and thrusting an oar over the stern, began to paddle to turn the boat, but was checked directly by the painter, which he had made fast to the chains when they boarded the schooner.
To have stopped to unfasten it would have meant too much loss of time, so throwing himself on his chest, he reached out as far as he could with the oar toward Mark, who had been borne down from where he was plunged in at the bows toward the boat.
“Lay hold, sir!” cried Tom, excitedly.
“Yah! Cowards! Look-out!” was yelled behind Tom; the boat received a violent jerk as Dick Bannock gave it a thrust right away from the schooner, and simultaneously the men were deluged with water by a tremendous splash close to their side. Then a big wave rose and lapped over into the boat, striking Mark just as his fingers touched the tip of the oar blade, and the next moment he was swept on by the tide up the river.
“All right, sir!” cried Tom Fillot, loudly; “swim steady. We’ll have you directly. You, Dick Bannock, cut that painter. Now, then: oars!”
He dropped down into a seat, and pulled a big stroke to send the boat’s head round.
“Here, help me aboard, mate,” cried a voice.
“And me, messmet,” cried another, the two speakers holding on by the side which they had reached after being thrown from the schooner.
“No, no, hold on, mates,” cried Tom. “Let’s get Mr Vandean first. What was that ’ere?”
“Pig o’ ballast they chucked over to stave the bottom,” growled Dick Bannock, beginning to row. “If I hadn’t shoved her off, they’d ha’ sunk us.”
“We’ll sink them yet,” growled Tom Fillot. “Coming, Mr Van, sir. We’ll have you directly. Easy, mates,” he cried, throwing in his oar, and leaning over again toward where Mark was swimming steadily facing the tide, but letting himself drift, content to keep afloat.
“Can you reach him, mate?” growled Dick.
“Not quite; pull your oar,” cried Tom. “That’s right. Hooray! Got him!”
This last was given with a yell of triumph, as he made a snatch at Mark’s wrist, caught it firmly, and hauled the dripping lad over into the boat.
“Thankye,” said Mark, panting. “I’m all right. Now then, help these two fellows in.—Well done!”
He said this breathlessly as he stood up and gave himself a shake, and then as the two men who had held on went to their places, he resumed his seat and looked round.
“Who’s missing?” he cried.
“All here, sir, ’cept poor Joe Dance. I ain’t seen him.”
“Ain’t looked,” said a faint voice from under the men’s legs. “They chucked me over, and I’m afeard I’ve squashed poor Mr Russell, for I come right down upon him.”
“Then nobody’s missing,” cried Mark, joyously. “Look here, my lads; oars out—pull! pull!”
The men obeyed as vigorously as they could, rowing back toward the schooner, but slowly, for the tide was running sharply still, and the fight was hard.
“What yer going to do, sir?” said Tom Fillot, in a low tone.
“Do?” cried Mark, excitedly, for his blood was regularly up; “why, have another try, of course.”
“Well done us!” said Dick Bannock, thickly. “I’m ready. We ain’t beat.”
“No good, sir,” growled Tom Fillot, in a low, deep voice. “We ain’t beat, but we can’t do it, sir, for want o’ strength.”
“What?” cried Mark, who was determined upon his mad project—mad now in the face of so many difficulties. “There isn’t a man here who will not follow me, and I’m sure you won’t turn tail, Tom Fillot.”
“Not me, sir,” said the man; “you’re orficer, and where you goes I follows. It’s hard lines to let go of a prize like that. Lay her close alongside, sir?”
“Yes, of course,” cried Mark, standing up as they began to near the schooner once more. “Why, there’s something the matter on board—they’re fighting—they’re killing the blacks. Here, pull, men, pull. Quick! Don’t you see? The blacks have got loose, and are fighting for their liberty; pull!”
The men forgot their pains and weakness once more as a fierce yelling, shouting, and shrieking arose from the deck of the schooner. Then shots were fired, and as the boat approached, now unobserved, they could see that the crew were driving back quite a little crowd of naked blacks, who seemed helpless before the attack of the armed men, but still in their desperation they gave way slowly, uttering fierce cries of rage and despair.
It was all plain in the bright moonlight which flooded the scene, and Mark could see the slaver captain making a rush here and a rush there, and at each effort he struck down some poor wretch with a heavy bludgeon he wielded with terrible force.
Then, as the boat glided in close under the stern, all this was shut out, but the noise increased.
“Now, my lads!” whispered Mark, “we shall take ’em between two fires. As soon as the blacks see us come they’ll fight like fury, and we shall win. Do you see, Tom Fillot?”
“See, sir? yes. It’s all right. We’ll have ’em yet. I’ll make fast to the main chains, and then up we go. But don’t give the word till I’m ready, sir. I can fight now.”
The preparations took almost less time than the talking, and then, freshly nerved by the exciting scene on deck, Mark Vandean and his men climbed on board to collect for a rush, just as the blacks were making a desperate stand. There in the front were two of the stoutest armed with capstan bars, and as the crew of the boat were about to dash forward, these two blacks yelled together and charged at the schooner’s men, striking out so savagely that two of their adversaries went down, and the next they attacked shrank back.
“Stand aside!” roared the slaver skipper, raising a pistol, but it was not fired, for as the two blacks whirled their bars about and fought on, Mark gave a cheer, his men followed suit, and, taking the schooner’s crew in the rear, they were scattered at the first charge.
What followed was a series of furious, short hand-to-hand conflicts, men being driven in among the blacks, who came on now wild with excitement. They seized their enemies and, in spite of their struggles, hurled them overboard to swim for the shore, till only the skipper was left, and he was being hunted from place of vantage to place of vantage, till he made a dash and ran down into the cabin. But the biggest of the blacks, one of the two armed with capstan bars, rushed down after him, followed by his brave companion, and the next minute there was the sound of a plunge, evidently from the cabin window.
Mark and Tom Fillot rushed to the stern together, and looked over.
“Have they killed him?” said the midshipman, hoarsely.
“No, sir; he’s swimming like a seal—the warmint. He’ll reach the shore. But hadn’t you better get us together, sir? The niggers may have a turn at us now. P’r’aps they don’t know we’re friends.”
“Oh yes they do, Tom; they must have seen how we fought for them.” But all the same the lad gave a long piercing whistle, and his men clustered about him, ready for the blacks, who were now coming aft in a body.
“It means another fight, sir,” whispered Tom. “Can’t anybody say in nigger lingo as we’re friends?”
“Yes, friends; all friends,” cried a harsh voice, as the great, perfectly nude, black sprang up out of the hatchway, and threw down his heavy wooden bar, an example followed by the other, while, as the moon now shone full upon their convulsed and excited faces, Tom Fillot burst into a roar of laughter, rushed forward, and slapped first one and then the other on the bare shoulder, yelling out,—
“Here’s a game, mates; why, it’s old Soup and Taters. Why, my black-mugged messmates, we thought you was both on you drowned. What’s become of yourtog-a-ree?”
The blacks’ faces relaxed into a broad smile, as, led by Mark, the men crowded round to shake hands warmly, while the crowd of slaves set up a peculiar cry, and danced about them, waving their arms, ending by going down upon their knees about Mark and laying their foreheads on the deck, while the women in the background set up a strangely wild wail.
“Then you two escaped,” cried Mark, as soon as the excitement had subsided a little; and the big black tried to explain, but could only get out the words, “All right, messmate,” and then spoke volubly in his own tongue.
“Never mind, sir; they did get off,” cried Tom Fillot. “They must have been chucked below along with the rest, and then kep’ prisoners.”
“And a good job for us, Tom,” said Mark.
“Ay, ay, sir, and no mistake, for we couldn’t have took the schooner again without them.”
“There, silence!” cried Mark. “These men must keep the blacks in order, while you, my lads, get the arms together. We must have a strong watch kept. The scoundrels may try to retake the schooner.”
“They’d better, sir,” growled Tom, who was in the act of restoring his cutlass to its sheath. “I didn’t use this,” he muttered, “but if they came again I’m sorry for the chap as hits at me.”
The watch was set, and when Mark could extricate himself from the crowd of blacks who pressed about him, he looked round for Soup and Taters, even going so far as to ask for them, rather unwillingly, by these names, but they were missing.
He forgot all about them directly in the business and excitement which followed, for there was much to be done. One of his first tasks was to have the schooner’s boat run up to the davits, and Mr Russell carefully lifted out, and borne down into the Yankee skipper’s comfortable cabin. Then he found out more and more how multitudinous are the demands made upon an officer. In this case he had to play the part of surgeon as well, for many of the blacks were, like his own men, suffering from contusions, though fortunately no one seemed to be seriously injured; and the brilliant moonlight was a great aid in his endeavour to restore something like order on board.
“I want those two fellows,” cried Mark at last, angrily; “they could be of so much use in managing the blacks.”
“Here they are, sir,” cried one of the men. “They’ve been below.”
“What have they been doing below—getting at the provisions?”
He asked no more, for at that moment the two men came forward, smiling, in their neat white man-o’-war garments, which had been confiscated by the slaver captain when he turned them below into the hold with the rest of the blacks, little thinking that by this act he was contriving the means of restoring them all to liberty.
“Hah! that’s better!” cried Mark smiling. “Now then see to these poor creatures. I’m going to serve out something for them to eat and drink.”
With the help of a little pantomime he made them readily understand, and they went forward to the blacks, who at once sat down quietly on the deck and waited.
At the words eating and drinking, Tom Fillot had gone below, and by the time his officer was ready to show the way to the stores, biscuit and water were being served out and eagerly attacked by all.
“And now I think it’s our turn,” said Mark, who had become conscious of a peculiar sensation of faintness.
“I’ve put something ready for you in the cabin, sir,” whispered Tom Fillot.
But Mark was too sensible of his responsibility to go below to eat and rest, and his refreshment consisted of the same food as was partaken of by the rest—to wit, biscuit moistened with water.
For there was the watch to visit, the tide to be examined for the hour of its change, and a score of other little matters to attend to, in addition to noting Mr Russell’s condition from to time.
“How soon will it be high water?” asked Mark at last, after wearily watching the constant flow.
“Must be soon, sir,” said Tom Fillot, who seemed to have dropped into the position of first lieutenant. “Beg pardon, sir, you mean to sail with the ebb?”
“Certainly. We must not stay here. That scoundrel may return with help.”
“You’re right, sir. Sooner we’re out at sea the better I shall like it.”
“Exactly. I want the men to go below and have a good rest. Poor lads! they have been slaves.”
“To save slaves, sir; but beg pardon, sir; you won’ be offended?”
“Offended? No, Tom Fillot; you’ve been too good a friend,” cried the midshipman, eagerly. “What were you going to say?”
“Only this, sir. What we’re most feared of is the Yankee skipper coming back!”
“Of course.”
“Then why not strengthen the watch, sir?”
“How? I wish I could.”
“Oh, I’ll soon show you how, sir. You get Soup and Taters, and make ’em understand what you want, and it will be all right.”
“But what do I want, Tom?”
“I’ll show you, sir, and I think you can make ’em understand. Tell ’em to pick out half-a-dozen of the strongest young blacks, and we’ll give ’em a cutlash and a belt apiece, and set ’em to keep guard by the schooner’s side.”
“But would it be safe, Tom?” cried Mark eagerly.
“Not very, sir, for the skipper and his men. Soup’ll explain it to ’em, and once they know, you see if they don’t do all that dooty splendid, and leave us free to navigate the schooner.”
“Navigate the schooner, Tom?” said Mark, rather dolefully, as he thought of his shortcomings in that direction.
“Oh, it’ll be easy enough, sir. All we’ve got to do is to sail doo north and hug the shore. We can’t go wrong.”
Soup and Taters were summoned, and grasped the idea readily enough, with the result that in a very short time they had under their command six of the blacks keeping watch and ward against surprise, leaving the weary crew opportunity for getting up the anchor when the tide turned. Then a sail was hoisted for steering purposes, and the men gave a hearty cheer as they began to drop down the river with their prize.
“Lor’, mates!” said Dick Bannock, “who’d ha’ thought of our getting of her after all. Shows as it never does to say die. ‘Persewere,’ says you, ‘and never mind the difficoolties.’ What yer larfin’ for, Tom Fillot? Don’t I say what’s true?”
“I warn’t laughing at you, messmate, but at the niggers keeping watch.”
“Ay, they do look rum,” said Dick, smiling; “but they do splendid. Seem proud o’ their uniform too, eh?”
“Yes,” said Joe Dance, who was leaning his back against the bulwark, “but you might give ’em a bit of something else to put on.”
“Well, yes, I might—a sword-belt ain’t much for a man to wear, and his legs would be very thin to get ’em hid behind a scabbard. But we shall see, my lad, we shall see.”