Chapter Thirty Four.In Desperation.“In the name of common sense, Tom Fillot, what are you talking about?” cried Mark, angrily.“The Yanks, sir.”“But what have they to do with it? Oh, my arm! It’s nearly dragged out of the socket. Here, speak out. What do you mean?”“Only this, sir: they were too cunning for us. They cheated us with that row they made.”“Look here,” cried Mark, pettishly, for he was in great pain, “I’m in no humour for listening to your rigmaroles. Help me to get this hatch undone, and then we must make a rush at them and drive them below. Nice state of affairs to beat the Americans, and all the time leave the way open for those wretched blacks to take us in the rear.”“You don’t see the rights of it, sir,” said Tom Fillot, dismally.“Yes, I do. The blacks thought they had a good chance of getting their own way, and they took it.”“Ah, you think it was the niggers, then?”“Why, of course. Bah! how stupid of me. They made that noise below in the forecastle—the Yankees, I mean.”“Yes, sir, you’ve got the right pig by the ear now,” said Tom Fillot. “They kicked up that row to cover the noise they made breaking through the bulk-heading, so as to get into the hold where the blacks are.”“Yes,” cried Mark, excitedly, “and the slaves fought and tried to keep them back. Of course; and we thought it was those poor fellows. Well, it was a cunning trick. A ship makes a bad prison for one’s enemies.”“Yes, sir; they’ve been one too many for us this time,” said Tom Fillot. “The Yankees are sharp, and no mistake.”“Do you mean to say, mate,” growled Dick Bannock, “that the Yanks got out through the hold where the niggers was?”“Yes; that’s it.”“Oh, very well; that’s it, then. Stow all that talking, mate, and let’s have a go at ’em again. Strikes me we’d better drive ’em overboard this time.”“Ay, but then they’d come up through the keel or in at the hawse-holes,” growled Tom Fillot.“Silence!” said Mark, sharply. “Who else is down here?”“There’s me,” said Stepney.“Fillot, Stepney, Bannock, and the black, isn’t it?”“Ay, ay, sir. You’re here, Soup?”“Ay, ay, sir,” came in the negro’s familiar voice.“Anybody wounded?” asked Mark, anxiously.“Too dark to see, sir,” growled Stepney. “I feel as if I’d got only one leg.”“Ah! your leg not broken?”“No, sir, I don’t think so. I’m a-feeling for it. It’s all right, sir; it’s here, only got it doubled under me when I fell. Aren’t we going to make someone’s head ache, sir, for this?”“We’re going to make a dash for them directly,” said Mark, in a voice full of suppressed excitement. “Ah! the light at last. Now we shall be able to see what we are going to do. Hush! what’s that?”For there was a loud rattling of chain forward, and Mark looked inquiringly at the face of Tom Fillot, which was gradually growing plainer in the coming light.“They’re a-hauling the chain cable out o’ the cask, sir, and running it back into the tier. Hadn’t we better make a try, sir, now they’re busy?”“Yes. Now then, Fillot—Bannock, open that hatch, and then follow me.”“Better let me go first, sir,” growled Tom. “I’m harder than you, and had better take the first hits.”“Don’t talk,” cried Mark, snappishly. “Now then, can you get it open?”“No, sir,” grumbled Tom, after a good deal of trying, thrusting and dragging at it. “Tight as a hoyster.”As he spoke, he and Bannock heaved and thrust at the door, and a heavy blow was struck upon it outside.“Keep below there, dew yew hear?” came in an unmistakable voice.“You might as well mind your own business,” growled Tom Fillot.“D’yer hear? Keep below.”The door cracked again with Tom Fillot’s efforts, and the next moment there was a sharp report, and a bullet crashed through.“Guess yew’d best keep from ahind that theer hatchway, strangers, for I’m out o’ practyse, and I’m going to make a target o’ that theer door.”“Stand down, Tom,” said Mark.“Oh, I ain’t feared, sir, if you like to say keep on,” cried Tom Fillot.“I know that, my lad; but I’m not going to run foolish risks.”The man came down, and the little party stood gazing at each other in the low ceiled cabin, as the first rays of the rising sun flooded the place, and they could see the schooner astern, with Joe Dance, and Taters the black, looking over the bows eagerly, as if wondering what had taken place.Mark turned to where Mr Russell lay, in the same calm state of stupor, and the sun lit up his face.“Don’t look like dying, sir,” said Tom Fillot. “Strikes me, sir, as he’s getting all the best of it.”Mark turned upon him angrily, and Tom Fillot gave him a deprecating look.“Beg pardon, sir. It’s my tongue, not me. It will talk.”“I suppose the others are imprisoned in the forecastle,” said Mark, ignoring his remark.“Dessay, sir. That’s why they were getting the chain out of the cask.”“I hope they are not much hurt.”“Oh, I don’t suppose they are, sir. We Naughtylasses are all about as hard a lot as the captain could pick out.”“Ay, ay,” said Dick Bannock, “they’re knocked about, same as we.”Just then there reached them a savage yell; the report of a pistol, and then another; and it was evident from the sounds that a fierce conflict was going on, exciting the men so that they made another desperate effort to get out; but the cabin entrance was too strong, and Mark ran to the window.“Can we reach the deck from here?” he cried in his excitement, feeling as he did that the cause of the sounds was that the blacks were making an effort on their behalf against their old enslavers, and that at any cost they must get on deck and help.Dragging open the cabin light, Mark began to climb out, but had just time to avoid a blow from a heavy bar, struck at him by someone looking over the poop, and evidently on guard there to keep them from reaching the deck in that direction.“Let me try, sir,” said Tom. “I can dodge him, perhaps, and get up.”“Let’s try together,” said Mark; and looking up again, he could see that there was only one man, a sour, sinister-looking fellow, who seemed to take intense delight in his task.“Wall,” he shouted to them, “come on. Sharks is getting hungry, I dessay.”His words sent a chill through Mark, and he hesitated as he thought of the consequences of receiving a blow, losing his hold, and falling under the schooner’s stern, where, in all probability, one or two of the savage fish were waiting for the unfortunate slaves who died and were thrown out of such vessels from time to time.This idea did not strike Tom Fillot, who got well out and was about to climb up, when a blow came with awhishwithin an inch of his head.“Miss is as good as a mile,” he said, coolly. “Here you, sir; it’s rank mutiny to resist the Queen’s men. Put down that capstan bar and surrender.”“Come up and take it away from me, mister,” said the American, with a laugh. “Wall, why don’t you come on?”“I’m a-coming,” said Tom Fillot, “only that bar’s a bit in my way. Better lay it down, mate, for I get a bit nasty if I’m hurt, and if you let me run my head again it, I might be in a passion, and chuck you overboard.”“Oh, I shouldn’t mind,” said the American, laughing. “Come on.”Tom made a feint of climbing up, but there was another fierce blow at him, and all the while quite a battle was raging somewhere on deck, the sounds of blows and firing, with yells, oaths, and shrieks of agony reaching their ears in a confused murmur.“Come on, Tom,” cried Mark, who was completely carried away by the excitement, and half maddened by the knowledge that if they could make a diversion, the schooner and its cargo might yet be saved.“Right, sir,” cried Tom.“Forward, then!”Mark reached up, caught at the ornamental work of the stern, and in another moment would have drawn himself on deck, but the man struck a savage blow at him, and, as Mark threw himself sidewise to avoid the bar, one hand gave way, and in his efforts to save himself, the other followed, his feet seemed to be dragged from the ledge of the window upon which he stood, and he fell headlong. But he was checked, and the next moment found himself hanging head downwards, with his face pretty close to the murky water, in which he fancied he could see the broad shovel nose of a shark.He fell no farther, for, quick as light, Tom had made a dash at him as he slipped, and managed to grasp one leg, which glided through his great, strong hand till he gripped it fast by the ankle.“Hold on tight to me,” cried Tom, excitedly; and two men grasped him firmly as he hung over the window-ledge, supporting Mark suspended there, face downward, and just above the level of the sea.
“In the name of common sense, Tom Fillot, what are you talking about?” cried Mark, angrily.
“The Yanks, sir.”
“But what have they to do with it? Oh, my arm! It’s nearly dragged out of the socket. Here, speak out. What do you mean?”
“Only this, sir: they were too cunning for us. They cheated us with that row they made.”
“Look here,” cried Mark, pettishly, for he was in great pain, “I’m in no humour for listening to your rigmaroles. Help me to get this hatch undone, and then we must make a rush at them and drive them below. Nice state of affairs to beat the Americans, and all the time leave the way open for those wretched blacks to take us in the rear.”
“You don’t see the rights of it, sir,” said Tom Fillot, dismally.
“Yes, I do. The blacks thought they had a good chance of getting their own way, and they took it.”
“Ah, you think it was the niggers, then?”
“Why, of course. Bah! how stupid of me. They made that noise below in the forecastle—the Yankees, I mean.”
“Yes, sir, you’ve got the right pig by the ear now,” said Tom Fillot. “They kicked up that row to cover the noise they made breaking through the bulk-heading, so as to get into the hold where the blacks are.”
“Yes,” cried Mark, excitedly, “and the slaves fought and tried to keep them back. Of course; and we thought it was those poor fellows. Well, it was a cunning trick. A ship makes a bad prison for one’s enemies.”
“Yes, sir; they’ve been one too many for us this time,” said Tom Fillot. “The Yankees are sharp, and no mistake.”
“Do you mean to say, mate,” growled Dick Bannock, “that the Yanks got out through the hold where the niggers was?”
“Yes; that’s it.”
“Oh, very well; that’s it, then. Stow all that talking, mate, and let’s have a go at ’em again. Strikes me we’d better drive ’em overboard this time.”
“Ay, but then they’d come up through the keel or in at the hawse-holes,” growled Tom Fillot.
“Silence!” said Mark, sharply. “Who else is down here?”
“There’s me,” said Stepney.
“Fillot, Stepney, Bannock, and the black, isn’t it?”
“Ay, ay, sir. You’re here, Soup?”
“Ay, ay, sir,” came in the negro’s familiar voice.
“Anybody wounded?” asked Mark, anxiously.
“Too dark to see, sir,” growled Stepney. “I feel as if I’d got only one leg.”
“Ah! your leg not broken?”
“No, sir, I don’t think so. I’m a-feeling for it. It’s all right, sir; it’s here, only got it doubled under me when I fell. Aren’t we going to make someone’s head ache, sir, for this?”
“We’re going to make a dash for them directly,” said Mark, in a voice full of suppressed excitement. “Ah! the light at last. Now we shall be able to see what we are going to do. Hush! what’s that?”
For there was a loud rattling of chain forward, and Mark looked inquiringly at the face of Tom Fillot, which was gradually growing plainer in the coming light.
“They’re a-hauling the chain cable out o’ the cask, sir, and running it back into the tier. Hadn’t we better make a try, sir, now they’re busy?”
“Yes. Now then, Fillot—Bannock, open that hatch, and then follow me.”
“Better let me go first, sir,” growled Tom. “I’m harder than you, and had better take the first hits.”
“Don’t talk,” cried Mark, snappishly. “Now then, can you get it open?”
“No, sir,” grumbled Tom, after a good deal of trying, thrusting and dragging at it. “Tight as a hoyster.”
As he spoke, he and Bannock heaved and thrust at the door, and a heavy blow was struck upon it outside.
“Keep below there, dew yew hear?” came in an unmistakable voice.
“You might as well mind your own business,” growled Tom Fillot.
“D’yer hear? Keep below.”
The door cracked again with Tom Fillot’s efforts, and the next moment there was a sharp report, and a bullet crashed through.
“Guess yew’d best keep from ahind that theer hatchway, strangers, for I’m out o’ practyse, and I’m going to make a target o’ that theer door.”
“Stand down, Tom,” said Mark.
“Oh, I ain’t feared, sir, if you like to say keep on,” cried Tom Fillot.
“I know that, my lad; but I’m not going to run foolish risks.”
The man came down, and the little party stood gazing at each other in the low ceiled cabin, as the first rays of the rising sun flooded the place, and they could see the schooner astern, with Joe Dance, and Taters the black, looking over the bows eagerly, as if wondering what had taken place.
Mark turned to where Mr Russell lay, in the same calm state of stupor, and the sun lit up his face.
“Don’t look like dying, sir,” said Tom Fillot. “Strikes me, sir, as he’s getting all the best of it.”
Mark turned upon him angrily, and Tom Fillot gave him a deprecating look.
“Beg pardon, sir. It’s my tongue, not me. It will talk.”
“I suppose the others are imprisoned in the forecastle,” said Mark, ignoring his remark.
“Dessay, sir. That’s why they were getting the chain out of the cask.”
“I hope they are not much hurt.”
“Oh, I don’t suppose they are, sir. We Naughtylasses are all about as hard a lot as the captain could pick out.”
“Ay, ay,” said Dick Bannock, “they’re knocked about, same as we.”
Just then there reached them a savage yell; the report of a pistol, and then another; and it was evident from the sounds that a fierce conflict was going on, exciting the men so that they made another desperate effort to get out; but the cabin entrance was too strong, and Mark ran to the window.
“Can we reach the deck from here?” he cried in his excitement, feeling as he did that the cause of the sounds was that the blacks were making an effort on their behalf against their old enslavers, and that at any cost they must get on deck and help.
Dragging open the cabin light, Mark began to climb out, but had just time to avoid a blow from a heavy bar, struck at him by someone looking over the poop, and evidently on guard there to keep them from reaching the deck in that direction.
“Let me try, sir,” said Tom. “I can dodge him, perhaps, and get up.”
“Let’s try together,” said Mark; and looking up again, he could see that there was only one man, a sour, sinister-looking fellow, who seemed to take intense delight in his task.
“Wall,” he shouted to them, “come on. Sharks is getting hungry, I dessay.”
His words sent a chill through Mark, and he hesitated as he thought of the consequences of receiving a blow, losing his hold, and falling under the schooner’s stern, where, in all probability, one or two of the savage fish were waiting for the unfortunate slaves who died and were thrown out of such vessels from time to time.
This idea did not strike Tom Fillot, who got well out and was about to climb up, when a blow came with awhishwithin an inch of his head.
“Miss is as good as a mile,” he said, coolly. “Here you, sir; it’s rank mutiny to resist the Queen’s men. Put down that capstan bar and surrender.”
“Come up and take it away from me, mister,” said the American, with a laugh. “Wall, why don’t you come on?”
“I’m a-coming,” said Tom Fillot, “only that bar’s a bit in my way. Better lay it down, mate, for I get a bit nasty if I’m hurt, and if you let me run my head again it, I might be in a passion, and chuck you overboard.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t mind,” said the American, laughing. “Come on.”
Tom made a feint of climbing up, but there was another fierce blow at him, and all the while quite a battle was raging somewhere on deck, the sounds of blows and firing, with yells, oaths, and shrieks of agony reaching their ears in a confused murmur.
“Come on, Tom,” cried Mark, who was completely carried away by the excitement, and half maddened by the knowledge that if they could make a diversion, the schooner and its cargo might yet be saved.
“Right, sir,” cried Tom.
“Forward, then!”
Mark reached up, caught at the ornamental work of the stern, and in another moment would have drawn himself on deck, but the man struck a savage blow at him, and, as Mark threw himself sidewise to avoid the bar, one hand gave way, and in his efforts to save himself, the other followed, his feet seemed to be dragged from the ledge of the window upon which he stood, and he fell headlong. But he was checked, and the next moment found himself hanging head downwards, with his face pretty close to the murky water, in which he fancied he could see the broad shovel nose of a shark.
He fell no farther, for, quick as light, Tom had made a dash at him as he slipped, and managed to grasp one leg, which glided through his great, strong hand till he gripped it fast by the ankle.
“Hold on tight to me,” cried Tom, excitedly; and two men grasped him firmly as he hung over the window-ledge, supporting Mark suspended there, face downward, and just above the level of the sea.
Chapter Thirty Five.History Repeating Itself.“How do you like that?” cried the man, leaning over the poop.“I’ll tell you bime by,” said Tom Fillot beneath his breath. Then aloud, “All right, my lad. I’ve got you, you know that.”Mark did know it as he hung there with his teeth set fast, for Tom Fillot’s fingers pressed into his flesh, and seemed to be crushing it against the bones of his ankle.“Hi, some on you, get more grip o’ me,” shouted Tom. “Get well hold, Dick. You, too, Bob. Now, then, haul away, and have us both in together.”This was as he hung out of the window from the waist, holding Mark Vandean; and exerting their great strength, the two sailors—for Tom was helpless—drew him right back and inward till Bannock could seize Mark’s other leg.As they drew him in the man overhead made a savage blow at the boy with the bar he held, but it fell short.“All right, sir, we’ll pay all that back,” said Tom, as Mark stood on the cabin floor once more, looking rather white, and listening to the smothered cries and yells still coming from the deck, while the big black’s face was a study to see in his wild excitement.He had hardly noted Mark’s adventure, being all the time close up by the cabin door, listening to the brave fight made by his compatriots; and now, as a fresh pistol-shot was heard, he came from the door.“All righ’!” he cried. “No, no. Come. Fight.”There was an ominous silence on deck succeeding his words, then a murmur of voices and the banging down of a hatch. Next came a loud splash, and Mark dashed to the cabin window to look-out for that which he felt sure he would see. And there it was—the body of a man floating slowly by, and then on backward in the schooner’s wake, the body of one of the blacks, with wild upturned eyes set in death, and, as it seemed to Mark, a look of horror and appeal in the stern, staring face, gazing heavenward, as if asking why such things should be.A low, deep sigh made the young officer start and look round from the dead figure which fascinated him, to see the big black, whose face was working, and he looked hard now at the young officer, and pointed back at the cabin door, as if asking to be led on deck to avenge his fellow-countryman who had passed before them, another victim to the hated slaving—a black bar across a grand nation’s fair fame.“Yes,” said Mark, slowly, as he looked at the negro, and met his appealing eyes, and spoke as if the man could comprehend every word, “we will punish them for this. The wretches deserve no mercy at our hands.”The great black could hardly grasp a word, but he smiled, as if a great satisfaction had filled his breast. For the tones in which the boy officer spoke and his manner were sufficient to make him stand back against the bulkhead with his arms folded, as if waiting for his superior’s orders, and patiently watching as Mark called what may be dubbed a council of war.The difficulty was to propose a plan of action, but Tom Fillot said cheerily:“Don’t know that there’s much difficulty about it, sir. Them Yankees have shown us the way. All we’ve got to do is to follow their lead. Why not?”“’Cause they’ll take jolly good care we don’t, messmate,” said Dick Bannock, wagging his head. “We’ve guv ’em a lesson in taking care of prisoners, and take my word on it, Tom Fillot, they’ve larnt it by heart.”“Hark!” cried Tom Fillot; “they’re a-lowering down the boat.”For the chirruping of the little wheels of the falls sounded familiarly on their ears.“It’s to go to the other schooner,” cried Mark, excitedly. “They’ll take Dance and Grote prisoners too. Do you think you could reach the tow-rope, Tom?”The sailor looked out from the little window and upward.“No, sir,” he said, despondently. “Too high up, and that chap’s waiting to give me one on the head.”“Yes; that will not do,” cried Mark, as the splash of the schooner’s boat in the water was heard, and the voice of the skipper shouting some directions.Mark stood hesitating for a few moments, and then, acting upon a sudden thought, he placed his hands to his mouth, reached out of the cabin window, and shouted with all his might:“Schooner ahoy! Coxswain!”“Ay, ay, sir,” cried Dance from the bows of the towed vessel, just as the boat with five men in glided into sight close to her right.“Danger! Prisoners!”“Hi! yew stop that!” cried a voice from the boat, and a man stood up and pointed a pistol at the midshipman.“Ay, ay, sir,” cried Dance.“Keep the schooner off, and follow at a distance,” roared Mark.Bang!There was a puff of smoke, the dull thud of a bullet striking the side of the cabin window, and, directly following, the sharp report.“Loose the schooner,” yelled Mark, between his hands.“Go in, yew,” roared the man in the boat, presenting his pistol again; but at that moment Tom Fillot took aim with an empty bottle he had kicked from out of a locker, and hurled it over Mark’s head with all his might.So true was Tom’s aim, and so swiftly was the bottle sent, that the American had not time to avoid it, and received a heavy blow in the chest, sufficient to disorder his aim as he fired again.“Ay, ay, sir,” cried Dance, who seemed quite clear again in his head.“Quick, then,” cried Mark, excitedly. “Cut the tow-rope and stand off.”“Yah!” came in a roar from the boat, as the man suddenly sat down, “give way—pull, boys—pull like steam!”The men began to send the boat through the water, making it foam, and they had but a cable’s length to go, but the moments were lengthened out by excitement, and it seemed to Mark as if Joe Dance would never get the cable cut in time.For while the oars splashed and the men pulled, the coxswain tried to get out his knife, and as Mark and the others watched him, he was evidently nervous, and fumbled. Then he tried to open it with his teeth, but the spring was strong, and he had to alter his tactics and begin to open it with his forefinger and thumb nail, and still it seemed as if he could not get it open; and all the time the boat was rapidly setting nearer. In another few seconds it would be alongside, and the Americans would be on board, five against two, unless Taters made a brave defence. There were a couple of dozen blacks on deck, but they were only staring stupidly at the approaching boat, and Joe Dance was still fumbling with his knife, while Grote had disappeared.“Oh, if I was only there!” cried Tom Fillot.“They might have saved that schooner,” groaned Mark. “Oh, Tom, Tom, is there nothing we can do?”“No, sir; only look on. Hah! at last.”“Yes, he’s sawing at the cable with his knife.”“And it’s blunt as hoop iron,” groaned Tom.“They’re alongside. It’s all over. Was there ever such luck?”“Cut, you beggar, cut!” yelled Tom Fillot.“Too late—too late!” said Mark bitterly, as he saw Dance still hacking at the cable, and the boat pulled alongside, while the bow man threw in his oar, and seized a boathook as he rose in his place.In another minute the Americans would have been on deck, and the schooner taken; but, just as Mark Vandean’s heart sank heavy as lead, Grote suddenly appeared with an axe in his hand, while his words of warning came clearly to where they stood looking on.“Stand aside!”Then—Chop!One dull, heavy blow, and the hawser, cut closely through where it passed over the bows, dropped with a splash into the water and disappeared.The little party at the cabin window sent out a cheer and then a groan, for the bow man had hooked on, and the Americans began to climb up, their leader having his hands on the bulwarks, and sprang aboard, when something black, which proved to be Taters’ fist, struck him in the face, and he fell back.Another’s head appeared above the side, and there was another blow and a splash.Almost simultaneously Grote struck at another man with a capstan bar, and to avoid the blow, the man ducked his head, lost his hold, and, less fortunate than Mark had been, was hurled with a tremendous splash into the water, in company with the second man, while another got his head up in time to receive a crack which sent him also backward into the sea.The man holding on loosed his hold to save his companions, who were swimming; and as the Nautiluses at the cabin window breathlessly watched and saw them picked up, they became as much interested in the fate of one of the party as if he had been a friend.“Get an oar over,” cried Mark. “Scull your boat to that man; he’s going down.”“The muddle-head!” cried Tom Fillot. “Can’t he scull?”No doubt they were hard upon the man, who was doing his best. He had helped two men into the boat—no easy task when they are half-stunned, and by consequence comparatively helpless—and he had been doing his best to get to the others, who had paddled feebly and then thrown up their hands to grasp wildly at vacancy, so that the case began to look hopeless indeed.For, failing in his efforts to scull the boat along with one oar, and evidently getting confused in his excitement, the uninjured man now sat down on a thwart and got two oars over the side to begin to row to where a drowning man lay, fully a dozen yards from him.“Gone!” cried Tom Fillot, excitedly, as the boat was pulled to the place where the man had made a last feeble struggle and then sunk.Mark drew a deep breath, and uttered a faint groan, as the sailor stood up in the boat, hitcher in hand, looking wildly about.A volley of cries now came from the poop, just over where the prisoners were watching. Words of advice, orders, abuse, were hurled at the man’s head, and Mark, as he watched, thought of his efforts in the cutter to save the blacks’ lives, and it seemed to him like a natural form of retaliation coming upon the slavers’ heads, as history almost repeated itself, with a difference.He was, he felt, spectator of a tragedy, and a cold sensation of horror almost paralysed him, but passed away instantly as he saw the man standing in the boat suddenly make a dash with the hook and draw something toward him.There was a cheer from the cabin window, as the boat careened over, and the nearly drowned man was dragged in.“Say, messmates,” said Tom Fillot, rubbing one ear, “that can’t be right.”“What, Tom?” cried Mark, excitedly.“Why, sir, our cheering at an enemy being saved. We ought to be glad to see him drown, oughtn’t we?”“It was the man, not the enemy, Tom,” said Mark.“Course, sir. I see now; I couldn’t make out why we cheered.”And now the little party noted for the first time that the vessel they were in had been gliding steadily on, trailing the divided tow-rope, and being lightened of her burden, was now far-away from the boat, while the second schooner, having one sail set, had also glided away. Then a second sail was hoisted a little, and the helm being seized, her course was altered so as to send her to the west.“Hurrah!” cried Mark, forgetting the officer in the elation of the boy. “Joe Dance will not let the Yankees overhaul him now. Look, he’s getting the blacks to help haul up the mainsail. Then that prize is all right,” he added, with a sigh of satisfaction.“Hope so, sir,” said Tom. “I should feel better satisfied, though, if we were aboard too. My, how we could stick to the ribs of this boat here, and lay her aboard some day, and take her again. Ah, here comes the boat.”In effect the boat was slowly pulled alongside, and amidst a great deal of shouting and noise, the prisoners could hear the men helped on board, and the boat hoisted into its place.
“How do you like that?” cried the man, leaning over the poop.
“I’ll tell you bime by,” said Tom Fillot beneath his breath. Then aloud, “All right, my lad. I’ve got you, you know that.”
Mark did know it as he hung there with his teeth set fast, for Tom Fillot’s fingers pressed into his flesh, and seemed to be crushing it against the bones of his ankle.
“Hi, some on you, get more grip o’ me,” shouted Tom. “Get well hold, Dick. You, too, Bob. Now, then, haul away, and have us both in together.”
This was as he hung out of the window from the waist, holding Mark Vandean; and exerting their great strength, the two sailors—for Tom was helpless—drew him right back and inward till Bannock could seize Mark’s other leg.
As they drew him in the man overhead made a savage blow at the boy with the bar he held, but it fell short.
“All right, sir, we’ll pay all that back,” said Tom, as Mark stood on the cabin floor once more, looking rather white, and listening to the smothered cries and yells still coming from the deck, while the big black’s face was a study to see in his wild excitement.
He had hardly noted Mark’s adventure, being all the time close up by the cabin door, listening to the brave fight made by his compatriots; and now, as a fresh pistol-shot was heard, he came from the door.
“All righ’!” he cried. “No, no. Come. Fight.”
There was an ominous silence on deck succeeding his words, then a murmur of voices and the banging down of a hatch. Next came a loud splash, and Mark dashed to the cabin window to look-out for that which he felt sure he would see. And there it was—the body of a man floating slowly by, and then on backward in the schooner’s wake, the body of one of the blacks, with wild upturned eyes set in death, and, as it seemed to Mark, a look of horror and appeal in the stern, staring face, gazing heavenward, as if asking why such things should be.
A low, deep sigh made the young officer start and look round from the dead figure which fascinated him, to see the big black, whose face was working, and he looked hard now at the young officer, and pointed back at the cabin door, as if asking to be led on deck to avenge his fellow-countryman who had passed before them, another victim to the hated slaving—a black bar across a grand nation’s fair fame.
“Yes,” said Mark, slowly, as he looked at the negro, and met his appealing eyes, and spoke as if the man could comprehend every word, “we will punish them for this. The wretches deserve no mercy at our hands.”
The great black could hardly grasp a word, but he smiled, as if a great satisfaction had filled his breast. For the tones in which the boy officer spoke and his manner were sufficient to make him stand back against the bulkhead with his arms folded, as if waiting for his superior’s orders, and patiently watching as Mark called what may be dubbed a council of war.
The difficulty was to propose a plan of action, but Tom Fillot said cheerily:
“Don’t know that there’s much difficulty about it, sir. Them Yankees have shown us the way. All we’ve got to do is to follow their lead. Why not?”
“’Cause they’ll take jolly good care we don’t, messmate,” said Dick Bannock, wagging his head. “We’ve guv ’em a lesson in taking care of prisoners, and take my word on it, Tom Fillot, they’ve larnt it by heart.”
“Hark!” cried Tom Fillot; “they’re a-lowering down the boat.”
For the chirruping of the little wheels of the falls sounded familiarly on their ears.
“It’s to go to the other schooner,” cried Mark, excitedly. “They’ll take Dance and Grote prisoners too. Do you think you could reach the tow-rope, Tom?”
The sailor looked out from the little window and upward.
“No, sir,” he said, despondently. “Too high up, and that chap’s waiting to give me one on the head.”
“Yes; that will not do,” cried Mark, as the splash of the schooner’s boat in the water was heard, and the voice of the skipper shouting some directions.
Mark stood hesitating for a few moments, and then, acting upon a sudden thought, he placed his hands to his mouth, reached out of the cabin window, and shouted with all his might:
“Schooner ahoy! Coxswain!”
“Ay, ay, sir,” cried Dance from the bows of the towed vessel, just as the boat with five men in glided into sight close to her right.
“Danger! Prisoners!”
“Hi! yew stop that!” cried a voice from the boat, and a man stood up and pointed a pistol at the midshipman.
“Ay, ay, sir,” cried Dance.
“Keep the schooner off, and follow at a distance,” roared Mark.
Bang!
There was a puff of smoke, the dull thud of a bullet striking the side of the cabin window, and, directly following, the sharp report.
“Loose the schooner,” yelled Mark, between his hands.
“Go in, yew,” roared the man in the boat, presenting his pistol again; but at that moment Tom Fillot took aim with an empty bottle he had kicked from out of a locker, and hurled it over Mark’s head with all his might.
So true was Tom’s aim, and so swiftly was the bottle sent, that the American had not time to avoid it, and received a heavy blow in the chest, sufficient to disorder his aim as he fired again.
“Ay, ay, sir,” cried Dance, who seemed quite clear again in his head.
“Quick, then,” cried Mark, excitedly. “Cut the tow-rope and stand off.”
“Yah!” came in a roar from the boat, as the man suddenly sat down, “give way—pull, boys—pull like steam!”
The men began to send the boat through the water, making it foam, and they had but a cable’s length to go, but the moments were lengthened out by excitement, and it seemed to Mark as if Joe Dance would never get the cable cut in time.
For while the oars splashed and the men pulled, the coxswain tried to get out his knife, and as Mark and the others watched him, he was evidently nervous, and fumbled. Then he tried to open it with his teeth, but the spring was strong, and he had to alter his tactics and begin to open it with his forefinger and thumb nail, and still it seemed as if he could not get it open; and all the time the boat was rapidly setting nearer. In another few seconds it would be alongside, and the Americans would be on board, five against two, unless Taters made a brave defence. There were a couple of dozen blacks on deck, but they were only staring stupidly at the approaching boat, and Joe Dance was still fumbling with his knife, while Grote had disappeared.
“Oh, if I was only there!” cried Tom Fillot.
“They might have saved that schooner,” groaned Mark. “Oh, Tom, Tom, is there nothing we can do?”
“No, sir; only look on. Hah! at last.”
“Yes, he’s sawing at the cable with his knife.”
“And it’s blunt as hoop iron,” groaned Tom.
“They’re alongside. It’s all over. Was there ever such luck?”
“Cut, you beggar, cut!” yelled Tom Fillot.
“Too late—too late!” said Mark bitterly, as he saw Dance still hacking at the cable, and the boat pulled alongside, while the bow man threw in his oar, and seized a boathook as he rose in his place.
In another minute the Americans would have been on deck, and the schooner taken; but, just as Mark Vandean’s heart sank heavy as lead, Grote suddenly appeared with an axe in his hand, while his words of warning came clearly to where they stood looking on.
“Stand aside!”
Then—Chop!
One dull, heavy blow, and the hawser, cut closely through where it passed over the bows, dropped with a splash into the water and disappeared.
The little party at the cabin window sent out a cheer and then a groan, for the bow man had hooked on, and the Americans began to climb up, their leader having his hands on the bulwarks, and sprang aboard, when something black, which proved to be Taters’ fist, struck him in the face, and he fell back.
Another’s head appeared above the side, and there was another blow and a splash.
Almost simultaneously Grote struck at another man with a capstan bar, and to avoid the blow, the man ducked his head, lost his hold, and, less fortunate than Mark had been, was hurled with a tremendous splash into the water, in company with the second man, while another got his head up in time to receive a crack which sent him also backward into the sea.
The man holding on loosed his hold to save his companions, who were swimming; and as the Nautiluses at the cabin window breathlessly watched and saw them picked up, they became as much interested in the fate of one of the party as if he had been a friend.
“Get an oar over,” cried Mark. “Scull your boat to that man; he’s going down.”
“The muddle-head!” cried Tom Fillot. “Can’t he scull?”
No doubt they were hard upon the man, who was doing his best. He had helped two men into the boat—no easy task when they are half-stunned, and by consequence comparatively helpless—and he had been doing his best to get to the others, who had paddled feebly and then thrown up their hands to grasp wildly at vacancy, so that the case began to look hopeless indeed.
For, failing in his efforts to scull the boat along with one oar, and evidently getting confused in his excitement, the uninjured man now sat down on a thwart and got two oars over the side to begin to row to where a drowning man lay, fully a dozen yards from him.
“Gone!” cried Tom Fillot, excitedly, as the boat was pulled to the place where the man had made a last feeble struggle and then sunk.
Mark drew a deep breath, and uttered a faint groan, as the sailor stood up in the boat, hitcher in hand, looking wildly about.
A volley of cries now came from the poop, just over where the prisoners were watching. Words of advice, orders, abuse, were hurled at the man’s head, and Mark, as he watched, thought of his efforts in the cutter to save the blacks’ lives, and it seemed to him like a natural form of retaliation coming upon the slavers’ heads, as history almost repeated itself, with a difference.
He was, he felt, spectator of a tragedy, and a cold sensation of horror almost paralysed him, but passed away instantly as he saw the man standing in the boat suddenly make a dash with the hook and draw something toward him.
There was a cheer from the cabin window, as the boat careened over, and the nearly drowned man was dragged in.
“Say, messmates,” said Tom Fillot, rubbing one ear, “that can’t be right.”
“What, Tom?” cried Mark, excitedly.
“Why, sir, our cheering at an enemy being saved. We ought to be glad to see him drown, oughtn’t we?”
“It was the man, not the enemy, Tom,” said Mark.
“Course, sir. I see now; I couldn’t make out why we cheered.”
And now the little party noted for the first time that the vessel they were in had been gliding steadily on, trailing the divided tow-rope, and being lightened of her burden, was now far-away from the boat, while the second schooner, having one sail set, had also glided away. Then a second sail was hoisted a little, and the helm being seized, her course was altered so as to send her to the west.
“Hurrah!” cried Mark, forgetting the officer in the elation of the boy. “Joe Dance will not let the Yankees overhaul him now. Look, he’s getting the blacks to help haul up the mainsail. Then that prize is all right,” he added, with a sigh of satisfaction.
“Hope so, sir,” said Tom. “I should feel better satisfied, though, if we were aboard too. My, how we could stick to the ribs of this boat here, and lay her aboard some day, and take her again. Ah, here comes the boat.”
In effect the boat was slowly pulled alongside, and amidst a great deal of shouting and noise, the prisoners could hear the men helped on board, and the boat hoisted into its place.
Chapter Thirty Six.After a Rest.“I wish I knew what was best to do,” said Mark Vandean. It was not long before he had to come to the conclusion that unless accident favoured them there was very little chance of escaping from the cabin, and he sat at the window at last, fretting with impatience, trying to master his disappointment, and comparing his fate with that of Bob Howlett, who was doubtless quietly going on with his duties, and amusing himself in his leisure teaching the chimpanzee to chew tobacco.“I wish I knew what was best to do,” Mark said to himself again.“See that, sir?”Mark looked round sharply.“See what?”“They’ve altered her course, sir, and are going after the other schooner.”It was plain enough, now that his attention was drawn to the fact. The coast which had been on the starboard side was now on the port, and there, about a mile away was the other schooner just gliding round, and with her sails filling for the other tack.“Joe Dance sees what they’re up to, sir, but he’ll never get away. Too short-handed.”“But he and Grote mean to try for it. Look, Tom.”“Ay, well done, my lads,” cried Tom Fillot, slapping his leg and then wincing. “Oh, how sore I am! He has the niggers hauling. Pull away, my lads, up with her. Go on, altogether—another pull. That’s her. Now then, sheet her home. My wig, look at her now, sir. She can sail.”“Yes, like a yacht,” cried Mark, as the great mainsail, which had been only half hoisted in a slovenly way, now spread its broad canvas to the light breeze, and the graceful vessel sped rapidly through the calm sea, and passed out of their sight. “Why, Tom, this boat will have to sail well to catch her.”“They won’t catch her, sir, by fair means. If they do, it will be by seamanship, and having plenty of hands to manoeuvre.”“Well, Tom, it seems as if we can do nothing?” said Mark.“No, sir, ’cept sit on the deck and growl, and that won’t do no good, will it? Wish we could see how Joe Dance is getting on.”“I’ve thought every way I can,” continued Mark, “but I can find no means of escape.”“Might perhaps get on deck when it’s dark, sir. Dessay I could manage to get up enough to make a jump on to the chap on the watch, and hold him till you were all alongside.”“A desperate venture, Tom.”“Yes, sir, and we’re all desperate now, I can tell you.”No more was said then, and after making a hearty meal from the provisions in the cabin, the men sat about and went off fast asleep, worn out as they were with watching and exertion.But Mark could not sleep. There was the great sense of responsibility to keep him awake, and the question always troubling him: Had he done the best as an officer who had succeeded to so important a charge?He went to where Mr Russell lay in his berth, and bent over him for a few minutes, but only to go away again with his feeling of misery increased, and seat himself once more at the cabin window in the hope of catching a glimpse of the other schooner when a tack was made; but fate did not favour him. All he could make out was that the vessel must be sailing south and south-west, and the one they were in keeping on in full pursuit.“I don’t wonder,” he thought. “It means a splendid profit for them to take her and her living freight.”It was terribly hot down in that cabin, and an intense longing came over the lad to get on deck in the fresh air. Then he looked longingly down into the clear sparkling water through which they were rushing, and thought of how delightful it would be to plunge down and swim.“Right into the jaws of some shark,” he muttered, bitterly, and then, “Oh, Bob Howlett, I wish you were here to take your share of the worry.”The heat and anxiety seemed too much for him, and despair made everything now look black; he could see no ray of light.But nature is very kind, and she came to the sufferer’s help, for as he looked round sourly at those in the cabin, Mr Russell in his stupor-like slumber, and the rest breathing heavily in perfect repose, he muttered:“Not one of them seems to care a bit. Even Tom Fillot and that black asleep, and at a time like this!”It is a bad thing to set up as a judge without a plentiful stock of profundity. Mark scowled angrily at the sleepers, and turned away in disgust to gaze out of the cabin window at the flashing sea and try in vain to catch sight of some sail, that might bring help.The next minute he, too, was sleeping heavily, for nature was building them all up again ready for the struggles yet to come.A heavy bang as of a closing door made Mark Vandean start up and strike his head against a piece of wood—a blow which for the moment increased his confusion.Where was he? What had happened?No answer came, but there was a question from out of the darkness.“Say, messmates, hear that?”“Tom Fillot.”“Ay, ay, sir.”“Where are we?”“Dunno, sir. Here, I think.”“But where is here, stupid?”“That’s a true word, sir. I am stupid—who’s this?”“Dick Bannock, AB, it is,” said the familiar voice of that seaman.“Know where we are, mate?”“No. Awake, I think.”“Well, we know that,” cried Mark, pettishly. “Yes, I remember now. I must have gone to sleep.”“That’s about as near as we shall get to it, sir,” said Tom Fillot. “This here’s the cabin, and there ought to be a locker here, with matches in it, and a lamp. Wait a moment.”There was a rustling as Mark listened, and the rush of the water came up from below, and he could feel that the schooner was gently careening over as she glided on through the calm sea.“Hooroar!” said Tom; and the next moment there was the scratch of a match, and the little cabin was illumined, showing Tom Fillot learning over a lamp, which directly after burned up, and showed that the cabin door must have been opened while they slept, for a tub of water and a bucketful of biscuits had been thrust in.“Look at that,” cried Dick Bannock. “Now, if we’d been awake, some of us might have got out and took the schooner again.”“Not much chance o’ that, messmate,” said Tom Fillot. “They’re too cunning not to have taken care. Don’t mean to starve us, seemingly.”“Put out the light,” said Mark, after a glance round, to see that Mr Russell was unchanged, and the next moment the cabin was in darkness.“Have your arms ready,” he whispered, “and keep silence. Perhaps—”He did not finish speaking, for a faint shadow lay across the cabin skylight, and he was aware of the fact that some one must have been watching, probably listening as well.The shadow passed away; and mounting on the cabin table by the midshipman’s orders, one of the men tried hard to find some way of opening the light, but short of breaking it open with sturdy blows of a sledge-hammer, there was no possibility of escape that way.After a time Mark whispered with Tom Fillot as to the renewal of an ascent through the cabin window and over the poop.“Proof o’ the puddin’s in the eatin’, sir,” said the sailor. “Only way is to try.”“Yes, by-and-by,” said Mark, “when all is quiet. Some of them are sure to go to sleep.”For there was a good deal of talking going on upon deck, and they could smell tobacco, and once there came down the rattle of a bottle neck against a glass.So the prisoners waited patiently in the darkness, Mark discussing from time to time the possibility of the second schooner having been captured, but they had no means of knowing. One thing was, however, certain—they were sailing very gently, evidently not in pursuit, and, judging by the stars, they were going south, and thus farther away from aid.Making a guess at its being about midnight, and when all was wonderfully still, Mark whispered his plans to the men. They were simple enough.He told them that he should climb up over the poop, and do so without exciting the attention of the hand at the helm, for it was possible, though doubtful, that the man set as sentry over them would be asleep. He had no reason to expect this, but it was probable, and he was going to try it.“Best let me go first, sir,” said Tom Fillot. “You might be knocked over at once, and dropped into the sea.”“If I am, you must haul me out again,” said the lad, coolly. “There’s a coil of signal or fishing line there, strong enough to hold me—there, in that locker. I shall make it fast round my waist, and if I get up in safety, I shall secure it to a belaying-pin, so that it will be handy for you who follow. Mind, as silently as cats. Get it out, and make it fast. Two of you can hold the end.”There was a slight rustling sound as Tom obeyed; the line was declared to be quite new, and kept there in store; and at last, amidst the deep breathing of the excited men, Mark prepared to climb out, while his followers in this forlorn hope were eager and waiting for their turn.The recollection of the last attempt would trouble the lad, try as he would to be calm and firm.“I can do it in less than a minute,” he said to himself; “but I wish that my heart would not beat quite so hard.”But it would beat all the same, and at a tremendous rate, as he, in imagination, saw the sentry ready to strike him down.“Ready, sir?” whispered Tom.“Yes. Got the line?”“Right, sir; and we’ll just keep touch of you, and pay it out. Moment you’ve made it fast.”“If I do,” whispered Mark.“You will, sir,” said the man, confidently. “Give four jigs, and up we come. Got your dirk?”“Yes.”“Draw it, sir; hold it in your teeth, to leave your hands free, and if any one comes at you use it. That thing can’t kill.”Mark drew a deep breath, thrust himself half out of the window, turned, and gazed up.All was perfectly silent—not a suggestion of an enemy above; and getting right out, the boy seized the carved ornamentation of the stern above the window, raised one foot, to find a resting-place on a kind of broad beading or streak, and began to climb.
“I wish I knew what was best to do,” said Mark Vandean. It was not long before he had to come to the conclusion that unless accident favoured them there was very little chance of escaping from the cabin, and he sat at the window at last, fretting with impatience, trying to master his disappointment, and comparing his fate with that of Bob Howlett, who was doubtless quietly going on with his duties, and amusing himself in his leisure teaching the chimpanzee to chew tobacco.
“I wish I knew what was best to do,” Mark said to himself again.
“See that, sir?”
Mark looked round sharply.
“See what?”
“They’ve altered her course, sir, and are going after the other schooner.”
It was plain enough, now that his attention was drawn to the fact. The coast which had been on the starboard side was now on the port, and there, about a mile away was the other schooner just gliding round, and with her sails filling for the other tack.
“Joe Dance sees what they’re up to, sir, but he’ll never get away. Too short-handed.”
“But he and Grote mean to try for it. Look, Tom.”
“Ay, well done, my lads,” cried Tom Fillot, slapping his leg and then wincing. “Oh, how sore I am! He has the niggers hauling. Pull away, my lads, up with her. Go on, altogether—another pull. That’s her. Now then, sheet her home. My wig, look at her now, sir. She can sail.”
“Yes, like a yacht,” cried Mark, as the great mainsail, which had been only half hoisted in a slovenly way, now spread its broad canvas to the light breeze, and the graceful vessel sped rapidly through the calm sea, and passed out of their sight. “Why, Tom, this boat will have to sail well to catch her.”
“They won’t catch her, sir, by fair means. If they do, it will be by seamanship, and having plenty of hands to manoeuvre.”
“Well, Tom, it seems as if we can do nothing?” said Mark.
“No, sir, ’cept sit on the deck and growl, and that won’t do no good, will it? Wish we could see how Joe Dance is getting on.”
“I’ve thought every way I can,” continued Mark, “but I can find no means of escape.”
“Might perhaps get on deck when it’s dark, sir. Dessay I could manage to get up enough to make a jump on to the chap on the watch, and hold him till you were all alongside.”
“A desperate venture, Tom.”
“Yes, sir, and we’re all desperate now, I can tell you.”
No more was said then, and after making a hearty meal from the provisions in the cabin, the men sat about and went off fast asleep, worn out as they were with watching and exertion.
But Mark could not sleep. There was the great sense of responsibility to keep him awake, and the question always troubling him: Had he done the best as an officer who had succeeded to so important a charge?
He went to where Mr Russell lay in his berth, and bent over him for a few minutes, but only to go away again with his feeling of misery increased, and seat himself once more at the cabin window in the hope of catching a glimpse of the other schooner when a tack was made; but fate did not favour him. All he could make out was that the vessel must be sailing south and south-west, and the one they were in keeping on in full pursuit.
“I don’t wonder,” he thought. “It means a splendid profit for them to take her and her living freight.”
It was terribly hot down in that cabin, and an intense longing came over the lad to get on deck in the fresh air. Then he looked longingly down into the clear sparkling water through which they were rushing, and thought of how delightful it would be to plunge down and swim.
“Right into the jaws of some shark,” he muttered, bitterly, and then, “Oh, Bob Howlett, I wish you were here to take your share of the worry.”
The heat and anxiety seemed too much for him, and despair made everything now look black; he could see no ray of light.
But nature is very kind, and she came to the sufferer’s help, for as he looked round sourly at those in the cabin, Mr Russell in his stupor-like slumber, and the rest breathing heavily in perfect repose, he muttered:
“Not one of them seems to care a bit. Even Tom Fillot and that black asleep, and at a time like this!”
It is a bad thing to set up as a judge without a plentiful stock of profundity. Mark scowled angrily at the sleepers, and turned away in disgust to gaze out of the cabin window at the flashing sea and try in vain to catch sight of some sail, that might bring help.
The next minute he, too, was sleeping heavily, for nature was building them all up again ready for the struggles yet to come.
A heavy bang as of a closing door made Mark Vandean start up and strike his head against a piece of wood—a blow which for the moment increased his confusion.
Where was he? What had happened?
No answer came, but there was a question from out of the darkness.
“Say, messmates, hear that?”
“Tom Fillot.”
“Ay, ay, sir.”
“Where are we?”
“Dunno, sir. Here, I think.”
“But where is here, stupid?”
“That’s a true word, sir. I am stupid—who’s this?”
“Dick Bannock, AB, it is,” said the familiar voice of that seaman.
“Know where we are, mate?”
“No. Awake, I think.”
“Well, we know that,” cried Mark, pettishly. “Yes, I remember now. I must have gone to sleep.”
“That’s about as near as we shall get to it, sir,” said Tom Fillot. “This here’s the cabin, and there ought to be a locker here, with matches in it, and a lamp. Wait a moment.”
There was a rustling as Mark listened, and the rush of the water came up from below, and he could feel that the schooner was gently careening over as she glided on through the calm sea.
“Hooroar!” said Tom; and the next moment there was the scratch of a match, and the little cabin was illumined, showing Tom Fillot learning over a lamp, which directly after burned up, and showed that the cabin door must have been opened while they slept, for a tub of water and a bucketful of biscuits had been thrust in.
“Look at that,” cried Dick Bannock. “Now, if we’d been awake, some of us might have got out and took the schooner again.”
“Not much chance o’ that, messmate,” said Tom Fillot. “They’re too cunning not to have taken care. Don’t mean to starve us, seemingly.”
“Put out the light,” said Mark, after a glance round, to see that Mr Russell was unchanged, and the next moment the cabin was in darkness.
“Have your arms ready,” he whispered, “and keep silence. Perhaps—”
He did not finish speaking, for a faint shadow lay across the cabin skylight, and he was aware of the fact that some one must have been watching, probably listening as well.
The shadow passed away; and mounting on the cabin table by the midshipman’s orders, one of the men tried hard to find some way of opening the light, but short of breaking it open with sturdy blows of a sledge-hammer, there was no possibility of escape that way.
After a time Mark whispered with Tom Fillot as to the renewal of an ascent through the cabin window and over the poop.
“Proof o’ the puddin’s in the eatin’, sir,” said the sailor. “Only way is to try.”
“Yes, by-and-by,” said Mark, “when all is quiet. Some of them are sure to go to sleep.”
For there was a good deal of talking going on upon deck, and they could smell tobacco, and once there came down the rattle of a bottle neck against a glass.
So the prisoners waited patiently in the darkness, Mark discussing from time to time the possibility of the second schooner having been captured, but they had no means of knowing. One thing was, however, certain—they were sailing very gently, evidently not in pursuit, and, judging by the stars, they were going south, and thus farther away from aid.
Making a guess at its being about midnight, and when all was wonderfully still, Mark whispered his plans to the men. They were simple enough.
He told them that he should climb up over the poop, and do so without exciting the attention of the hand at the helm, for it was possible, though doubtful, that the man set as sentry over them would be asleep. He had no reason to expect this, but it was probable, and he was going to try it.
“Best let me go first, sir,” said Tom Fillot. “You might be knocked over at once, and dropped into the sea.”
“If I am, you must haul me out again,” said the lad, coolly. “There’s a coil of signal or fishing line there, strong enough to hold me—there, in that locker. I shall make it fast round my waist, and if I get up in safety, I shall secure it to a belaying-pin, so that it will be handy for you who follow. Mind, as silently as cats. Get it out, and make it fast. Two of you can hold the end.”
There was a slight rustling sound as Tom obeyed; the line was declared to be quite new, and kept there in store; and at last, amidst the deep breathing of the excited men, Mark prepared to climb out, while his followers in this forlorn hope were eager and waiting for their turn.
The recollection of the last attempt would trouble the lad, try as he would to be calm and firm.
“I can do it in less than a minute,” he said to himself; “but I wish that my heart would not beat quite so hard.”
But it would beat all the same, and at a tremendous rate, as he, in imagination, saw the sentry ready to strike him down.
“Ready, sir?” whispered Tom.
“Yes. Got the line?”
“Right, sir; and we’ll just keep touch of you, and pay it out. Moment you’ve made it fast.”
“If I do,” whispered Mark.
“You will, sir,” said the man, confidently. “Give four jigs, and up we come. Got your dirk?”
“Yes.”
“Draw it, sir; hold it in your teeth, to leave your hands free, and if any one comes at you use it. That thing can’t kill.”
Mark drew a deep breath, thrust himself half out of the window, turned, and gazed up.
All was perfectly silent—not a suggestion of an enemy above; and getting right out, the boy seized the carved ornamentation of the stern above the window, raised one foot, to find a resting-place on a kind of broad beading or streak, and began to climb.
Chapter Thirty Seven.On Deck again.Nothing of a climb up over the stern of that schooner, a trifle compared to the same task on theNautilus; but it was hard work to Mark Vandean, who had to move by inches, getting well hold and drawing himself up till he was about to reach his hand over the top, when he felt one foot gliding from its support, and thought that he was gone. But a spasmodic clutch saved him, and after clinging there motionless and in a terribly constrained attitude for a time, he drew a long breath once more, reached up suddenly, got a secure hold, and then hung for a few moments before seeking about with his foot for a fresh resting-place.To his great delight, he found one directly; and, slight as it was, it was sufficient to enable him to raise his head very slowly till his eyes were level with the edge, and he could peer over the stern rail.That which he saw paralysed him, and he remained perfectly motionless, gazing at the black silhouette of the man at the helm seen against the dull, soft light shed by the binnacle lamp.This man was motionless, leaning on the wheel with his back to the spectator, but the light shone softly upon the forehead of another, seated on a coil of rope not six feet from Mark, and a little to his left.This man, whom he recognised at once as the fellow who had struck at him, was intent upon the task of shredding some tobacco up finely, and tucking it into the bowl of a pipe, dimly-seen below where the light from the lamp struck; and as Mark watched him, not daring to move for fear of being heard, the slaver finished his task.“Open that lantern,” he said shortly to the other; and, rising, he took a step forward, Mark taking advantage of the noise he made to lower his head and listen.The next moment the man altered his mind, as he stuck his pipe between his teeth, and turning and stepping aft, he came to the stern and looked over on the port side, Mark being more to starboard.Thump—thump—thump went the lad’s heart in those perilous moments, as he clung there close to the stern, preparing to drop the moment the man made a step to knock him off into the sea, and consoling himself with the knowledge that the line was tight round his waist, and that his friends had the other end ready to haul him into safety.They certainly were agonising moments, and yet the man did not stir, only seemed to gaze out over the sea, then downward; and at last he turned away from Mark and walked back to his companion.“Why didn’t you open the lantern?” he said, sourly.“Hands full,” came to Mark’s ears, as, unable to restrain his curiosity, the lad raised his head slightly and peered over again to see the lamp opened and the glare of light fall on the thin, sharp features of the smoker, as he drew the flame into the bowl of his pipe till the tobacco was glowing. Then the lantern was closed again with a snap, and the light was softened to a faint glow, shining on the binnacle and the black, shadowy figures before it.“Keep a sharp look-out,” said the man at the helm in a harsh growl; “don’t want them fellows to come up and break my head while I’m not looking.”“Not likely to. They’d better. Make out anything of the little schooner?”“Not since I saw her light. She’s ten mile away by now.”“She’ll be a cable’s length astern to-morrow,” said the man, significantly.“Will she?” thought Mark, but he felt directly after that he had made a slip, for he could see no way of carrying out the plans they had hatched below, and a miserable feeling of despondency came over him. For he knew that if he stirred and made the slightest noise, he must be heard by the man posted to guard against attack. To get on deck was next to impossible, and even if he did he would not be able to make the line fast unless—Mark shuddered and set aside the horrible thought, which was in full—unless he used his dirk.In open fight it would have been terrible enough, but then it would have been in self-defence, and for the sake of the poor enslaved creatures they were trying to save; but to wait there for an opportunity to strike would be like playing the assassin, and he felt that he would rather jump back into the sea and risk the sharks.It was hard work hanging there. His arms and wrists ached, his legs felt cramped, and a peculiar tingling numbness began to assail him, as more and more he was forced to the conclusion that there was only one way out of the difficulty, and that was to descend—if he could, for he knew that this would be as difficult a task again.There was a slight rustling, and raising his head once more very slowly, he looked over to dimly make out the figure of the man who was on guard leaning over the same part of the stern as before, and smoking, a faint glow arising from his pipe at every puff.“It’s all over,” thought Mark. “I shall have to drop into the water and let them haul me in. I can’t get down. If I move, he’ll come and break my head or smash my fingers.”In this spirit he turned his head a little to try and look downward, but it was too dark to see anything, and if it had been otherwise, he could at the most have seen his shoulder, in the cramped attitude he occupied.He had some idea of signalling by tugging at the cord, but he found that he could not get at it without loosening one hand, which was not to be thought of; besides, if he had tugged, in all probability Tom Fillot would have believed that it was the signal that the cord was made fast, tighten it, and drag him off. So at last he said to himself, “Now for it,” and prepared to drop.But he hesitated. Who would not under the circumstances? It was not many feet down, but the water was black, and there was the thought of the sharks.He tried to make up his mind for the bold plunge, but still he could not. The perspiration stood out on his forehead, his hands grew wet, and his breath came short; but at last, when feeling that his task must be done, for if he did not drop, Tom Fillot would begin to climb up, only to be struck back, he drew a long breath, and pressing his feet hard against the stern, instead of descending he began to draw himself up. Striving gently he glided on to the rail, and from there, as softly as a serpent, lowered himself to the deck, crept along for a few feet and then began to unfasten the line about his chest, and secured it to the stout iron upon which the block ran from side to side, and held down the heavy boom of the fore and aft mainsail.For all at once, when he was at his worst pitch of agony and despair at his failure, a familiar voice from somewhere forward cried sharply:“Jeffs.”“Hello,” said the man close by him, softly.“Forward!”The man went away, and Mark felt that his time had come. He might be able to make the rope fast after all, without being heard by the man at the wheel.He could hardly believe in his good fortune, for just as the fellow Jeffs went forward, the helmsman began to hum over some sea-song, pretty loudly, to amuse himself; while he held his hand below his eyes and gazed over it forward, to see what was going on, and why his companion had been summoned.He was still occupied in this way when Mark gave the line the signal tugs, and crept sidewise into the shelter of the bulwark, where all was perfectly black.There he crouched dirk in hand, listening to the beating of his heart, and the peculiar dull sound made by the line as it tightened, and this was supplemented by a crack or two as it gave over the wood across which it was strained.The man at the wheel was so intent upon his song, and that which was going on forward, that he did not notice the sounds which were terribly loud to the midshipman’s ear, till Tom Fillot had climbed up, was about to throw his legs over, but slipped.The noise he made in his slip was slight in the extreme, but unfortunately he uttered a sharp ejaculation as he saved himself from going down. The helmsman looked round, uttered a shout of warning, and picked up a heavy cudgel lying by him on the deck.Tom Fillot leaped forward, then back, and shouted:“Up with you, lads!” and then made a rush at the helmsman, avoided a blow aimed at him, and retaliated with a thrust which sent the man staggering back against the next corner, checking him for the moment, and giving Dick Bannock time to get over on to the poop.But before the others could mount, the schooner’s crew came with so fierce a rush that, being in the forefront boldly heading his little party of two, Mark was driven back to the rail, and tossed over, but made a desperate clutch to save himself, and caught at the line he had secured.It was a terrible scrape for his hands, but he held on, came with a heavy bang against the stern, and feeling as if his arms had been jerked from his shoulders, he hung there for a moment, and was then helped into the cabin by the black and Stepney, who had been stopped from climbing up by the strength of the defence. Then after a sturdy struggle there were a couple of heavy splashes in the dark water below, while from overhead came a jeering series of cheers.Fortunately, when the man left the wheel, the way of the schooner was to some extent stopped, or Tom Fillot and Bannock would have been hopelessly left behind, the slavers not having the slightest intention of lowering a boat to pick up their enemies; but under the circumstances, as the vessel rolled in the hollow with her sails flapping and the great booms swaying to and fro, the men rose and swam close under the stern, Dick Bannock getting hold of a ring-bolt, and holding on in the darkness, while Tom Fillot swam with all his strength to keep up.“Can’t lend you a hand, mate,” growled Dick, “or I would. Take a grip of me with your teeth—oh!”Dick uttered a yell, so firmly had Tom Fillot followed out his instructions, and there the pair hung as the wheel was seized once more, and the schooner began to glide rapidly through the water.“How long can you hold on?” cried Mark, whose hands were busy the while.No answer came, but by this time he had reached up as high as he could, and cut the line, at which the men on deck were jerking and tugging. There was enough for his purpose, and rapidly making a loop, he threw it down.“Get an arm through that, Tom, and we’ll haul you up,” cried Mark. “Got it!”There was a peculiar sound from Tom Fillot, and then a cheery “All right, sir,” as the line tightened. For his first utterance had been when his teeth were set fast in Dick Bannock’s trousers and leg, the second when he had quitted his hold.With four in the cabin to haul, and Tom Fillot’s activity to help, it was not long before he was up and in at the window, getting the noose of the line off his arm.“Hold on, Dick,” cried Mark, leaning out as far as he could.“Can’t, sir,” came like a groan. “There’s so little to hold on by.”“Here, quick! the line!” cried Mark, dragging it to him in loops, and, leaning out, he dropped it right on to the man, who made a desperate snatch at it, and twisted it round his wrist as the swift current seemed to snatch him from his hold.The lad’s heart felt as if it had stopped in those brief moments when he gazed down at the dimly-seen figure in the agitated water.“Right!” came the next moment; and then the word, “Haul.”In another minute Dick lay panting on the cabin floor, breathless and trembling, so that for a time he could not speak.“Better now?” said Mark, sympathetically.“Yes, sir,” said the man, faintly. “I’m a-coming round, sir, but that there was very near.”“Near?”“Yes, sir; I thought I was gone.”“But you warn’t, mate,” said Tom Fillot; “and you and me’s got to pollergise for making the cabin floor so wet.”“Never mind the cabin floor,” said Mark.“You dunno how juicy I am, sir, or you wouldn’t talk like that,” said Tom.“Are either of you much hurt?” said Mark. “Can’t tell yet, sir; haven’t had time to think. Pretty tidy, though, I should say.”“Let’s have a light and see.”“Oh, never mind about that, sir. We shan’t hurt, Dick and me. It was all wrastling, and no knives or pistols. We shall do. Sorry we didn’t get up quicker.”“It was a failure, Tom, but only the first time. They tried till they took the schooner; we’re going to try the same.”“That’s the way to take it, sir. Won’t try again to-night, I suppose?”“Of course not, nor yet that way, Tom. We’ll wait for morning now.”
Nothing of a climb up over the stern of that schooner, a trifle compared to the same task on theNautilus; but it was hard work to Mark Vandean, who had to move by inches, getting well hold and drawing himself up till he was about to reach his hand over the top, when he felt one foot gliding from its support, and thought that he was gone. But a spasmodic clutch saved him, and after clinging there motionless and in a terribly constrained attitude for a time, he drew a long breath once more, reached up suddenly, got a secure hold, and then hung for a few moments before seeking about with his foot for a fresh resting-place.
To his great delight, he found one directly; and, slight as it was, it was sufficient to enable him to raise his head very slowly till his eyes were level with the edge, and he could peer over the stern rail.
That which he saw paralysed him, and he remained perfectly motionless, gazing at the black silhouette of the man at the helm seen against the dull, soft light shed by the binnacle lamp.
This man was motionless, leaning on the wheel with his back to the spectator, but the light shone softly upon the forehead of another, seated on a coil of rope not six feet from Mark, and a little to his left.
This man, whom he recognised at once as the fellow who had struck at him, was intent upon the task of shredding some tobacco up finely, and tucking it into the bowl of a pipe, dimly-seen below where the light from the lamp struck; and as Mark watched him, not daring to move for fear of being heard, the slaver finished his task.
“Open that lantern,” he said shortly to the other; and, rising, he took a step forward, Mark taking advantage of the noise he made to lower his head and listen.
The next moment the man altered his mind, as he stuck his pipe between his teeth, and turning and stepping aft, he came to the stern and looked over on the port side, Mark being more to starboard.
Thump—thump—thump went the lad’s heart in those perilous moments, as he clung there close to the stern, preparing to drop the moment the man made a step to knock him off into the sea, and consoling himself with the knowledge that the line was tight round his waist, and that his friends had the other end ready to haul him into safety.
They certainly were agonising moments, and yet the man did not stir, only seemed to gaze out over the sea, then downward; and at last he turned away from Mark and walked back to his companion.
“Why didn’t you open the lantern?” he said, sourly.
“Hands full,” came to Mark’s ears, as, unable to restrain his curiosity, the lad raised his head slightly and peered over again to see the lamp opened and the glare of light fall on the thin, sharp features of the smoker, as he drew the flame into the bowl of his pipe till the tobacco was glowing. Then the lantern was closed again with a snap, and the light was softened to a faint glow, shining on the binnacle and the black, shadowy figures before it.
“Keep a sharp look-out,” said the man at the helm in a harsh growl; “don’t want them fellows to come up and break my head while I’m not looking.”
“Not likely to. They’d better. Make out anything of the little schooner?”
“Not since I saw her light. She’s ten mile away by now.”
“She’ll be a cable’s length astern to-morrow,” said the man, significantly.
“Will she?” thought Mark, but he felt directly after that he had made a slip, for he could see no way of carrying out the plans they had hatched below, and a miserable feeling of despondency came over him. For he knew that if he stirred and made the slightest noise, he must be heard by the man posted to guard against attack. To get on deck was next to impossible, and even if he did he would not be able to make the line fast unless—Mark shuddered and set aside the horrible thought, which was in full—unless he used his dirk.
In open fight it would have been terrible enough, but then it would have been in self-defence, and for the sake of the poor enslaved creatures they were trying to save; but to wait there for an opportunity to strike would be like playing the assassin, and he felt that he would rather jump back into the sea and risk the sharks.
It was hard work hanging there. His arms and wrists ached, his legs felt cramped, and a peculiar tingling numbness began to assail him, as more and more he was forced to the conclusion that there was only one way out of the difficulty, and that was to descend—if he could, for he knew that this would be as difficult a task again.
There was a slight rustling, and raising his head once more very slowly, he looked over to dimly make out the figure of the man who was on guard leaning over the same part of the stern as before, and smoking, a faint glow arising from his pipe at every puff.
“It’s all over,” thought Mark. “I shall have to drop into the water and let them haul me in. I can’t get down. If I move, he’ll come and break my head or smash my fingers.”
In this spirit he turned his head a little to try and look downward, but it was too dark to see anything, and if it had been otherwise, he could at the most have seen his shoulder, in the cramped attitude he occupied.
He had some idea of signalling by tugging at the cord, but he found that he could not get at it without loosening one hand, which was not to be thought of; besides, if he had tugged, in all probability Tom Fillot would have believed that it was the signal that the cord was made fast, tighten it, and drag him off. So at last he said to himself, “Now for it,” and prepared to drop.
But he hesitated. Who would not under the circumstances? It was not many feet down, but the water was black, and there was the thought of the sharks.
He tried to make up his mind for the bold plunge, but still he could not. The perspiration stood out on his forehead, his hands grew wet, and his breath came short; but at last, when feeling that his task must be done, for if he did not drop, Tom Fillot would begin to climb up, only to be struck back, he drew a long breath, and pressing his feet hard against the stern, instead of descending he began to draw himself up. Striving gently he glided on to the rail, and from there, as softly as a serpent, lowered himself to the deck, crept along for a few feet and then began to unfasten the line about his chest, and secured it to the stout iron upon which the block ran from side to side, and held down the heavy boom of the fore and aft mainsail.
For all at once, when he was at his worst pitch of agony and despair at his failure, a familiar voice from somewhere forward cried sharply:
“Jeffs.”
“Hello,” said the man close by him, softly.
“Forward!”
The man went away, and Mark felt that his time had come. He might be able to make the rope fast after all, without being heard by the man at the wheel.
He could hardly believe in his good fortune, for just as the fellow Jeffs went forward, the helmsman began to hum over some sea-song, pretty loudly, to amuse himself; while he held his hand below his eyes and gazed over it forward, to see what was going on, and why his companion had been summoned.
He was still occupied in this way when Mark gave the line the signal tugs, and crept sidewise into the shelter of the bulwark, where all was perfectly black.
There he crouched dirk in hand, listening to the beating of his heart, and the peculiar dull sound made by the line as it tightened, and this was supplemented by a crack or two as it gave over the wood across which it was strained.
The man at the wheel was so intent upon his song, and that which was going on forward, that he did not notice the sounds which were terribly loud to the midshipman’s ear, till Tom Fillot had climbed up, was about to throw his legs over, but slipped.
The noise he made in his slip was slight in the extreme, but unfortunately he uttered a sharp ejaculation as he saved himself from going down. The helmsman looked round, uttered a shout of warning, and picked up a heavy cudgel lying by him on the deck.
Tom Fillot leaped forward, then back, and shouted:
“Up with you, lads!” and then made a rush at the helmsman, avoided a blow aimed at him, and retaliated with a thrust which sent the man staggering back against the next corner, checking him for the moment, and giving Dick Bannock time to get over on to the poop.
But before the others could mount, the schooner’s crew came with so fierce a rush that, being in the forefront boldly heading his little party of two, Mark was driven back to the rail, and tossed over, but made a desperate clutch to save himself, and caught at the line he had secured.
It was a terrible scrape for his hands, but he held on, came with a heavy bang against the stern, and feeling as if his arms had been jerked from his shoulders, he hung there for a moment, and was then helped into the cabin by the black and Stepney, who had been stopped from climbing up by the strength of the defence. Then after a sturdy struggle there were a couple of heavy splashes in the dark water below, while from overhead came a jeering series of cheers.
Fortunately, when the man left the wheel, the way of the schooner was to some extent stopped, or Tom Fillot and Bannock would have been hopelessly left behind, the slavers not having the slightest intention of lowering a boat to pick up their enemies; but under the circumstances, as the vessel rolled in the hollow with her sails flapping and the great booms swaying to and fro, the men rose and swam close under the stern, Dick Bannock getting hold of a ring-bolt, and holding on in the darkness, while Tom Fillot swam with all his strength to keep up.
“Can’t lend you a hand, mate,” growled Dick, “or I would. Take a grip of me with your teeth—oh!”
Dick uttered a yell, so firmly had Tom Fillot followed out his instructions, and there the pair hung as the wheel was seized once more, and the schooner began to glide rapidly through the water.
“How long can you hold on?” cried Mark, whose hands were busy the while.
No answer came, but by this time he had reached up as high as he could, and cut the line, at which the men on deck were jerking and tugging. There was enough for his purpose, and rapidly making a loop, he threw it down.
“Get an arm through that, Tom, and we’ll haul you up,” cried Mark. “Got it!”
There was a peculiar sound from Tom Fillot, and then a cheery “All right, sir,” as the line tightened. For his first utterance had been when his teeth were set fast in Dick Bannock’s trousers and leg, the second when he had quitted his hold.
With four in the cabin to haul, and Tom Fillot’s activity to help, it was not long before he was up and in at the window, getting the noose of the line off his arm.
“Hold on, Dick,” cried Mark, leaning out as far as he could.
“Can’t, sir,” came like a groan. “There’s so little to hold on by.”
“Here, quick! the line!” cried Mark, dragging it to him in loops, and, leaning out, he dropped it right on to the man, who made a desperate snatch at it, and twisted it round his wrist as the swift current seemed to snatch him from his hold.
The lad’s heart felt as if it had stopped in those brief moments when he gazed down at the dimly-seen figure in the agitated water.
“Right!” came the next moment; and then the word, “Haul.”
In another minute Dick lay panting on the cabin floor, breathless and trembling, so that for a time he could not speak.
“Better now?” said Mark, sympathetically.
“Yes, sir,” said the man, faintly. “I’m a-coming round, sir, but that there was very near.”
“Near?”
“Yes, sir; I thought I was gone.”
“But you warn’t, mate,” said Tom Fillot; “and you and me’s got to pollergise for making the cabin floor so wet.”
“Never mind the cabin floor,” said Mark.
“You dunno how juicy I am, sir, or you wouldn’t talk like that,” said Tom.
“Are either of you much hurt?” said Mark. “Can’t tell yet, sir; haven’t had time to think. Pretty tidy, though, I should say.”
“Let’s have a light and see.”
“Oh, never mind about that, sir. We shan’t hurt, Dick and me. It was all wrastling, and no knives or pistols. We shall do. Sorry we didn’t get up quicker.”
“It was a failure, Tom, but only the first time. They tried till they took the schooner; we’re going to try the same.”
“That’s the way to take it, sir. Won’t try again to-night, I suppose?”
“Of course not, nor yet that way, Tom. We’ll wait for morning now.”
Chapter Thirty Eight.Tom makes a Suggestion.Morning was a long time coming to the prisoners, but at last the bright light of day shed hope into all their hearts, and, forgetful of the sufferings of the night, Mark’s eyes were strained as far as the cabin window would admit in search of their prize.It was nowhere in sight. Dance’s head had evidently proved sufficiently clear to enable him to sail the craft well enough to keep out of the would-be captor’s reach, unless she were somewhere in sight forward and the American captain was in pursuit.Whenever any tack was made, eyes were strained to try and catch a glimpse of her, but all in vain, and the prisoners sat about avoiding each other’s eyes, for, in spite of all determination to be patient and try and think out some plan, a hopeless state of despondency would creep over them.Their captors, following their own example, flung them some biscuit through the cabin skylight, and lowered a bucket of fresh water, the American skipper shouting down in a fierce snarl that if they made any further attempt to escape he would have them shot like mad dogs.“If you can,” cried Mark, defiantly, and then he shrank and gave an uneasy glance round at his men to see what effect the American’s words had upon them. For with a contemptuous laugh the Yankee uttered the one word “cockerel,” and slammed down and fastened the light.“Never you mind, sir,” whispered Tom Fillot at the first opportunity; “cockerels is young game cocks, and we know as you’re game to the backbone. You’ll give him one p’r’aps ’fore he knows where he is.”It was weary work in that breathlessly hot cabin, but no one murmured, and Mark sat gazing out of the window and wondering why their captors did not set them adrift in a boat, the simple explanation being that they would have done so had they not dreaded being followed and caught when becalmed, and then surprised. For it was evident that, for reasons of his own, the American skipper shrank from leaving the coast, with its many creeks and rivers, where he could hide or run from pursuit.It soon became evident that either the other prize had been taken and sent off, or Dance had managed to effect his escape, for there was no further sign of her.Tom Fillot felt bitterly aggrieved.“He must ha’ been a bit flighty still, sir, or he wouldn’t ha’ done it. He’s gone off with that there craft. I would ha’ stood by my messmates if it had been me.”Night came, with the position unaltered. They were still coasting along south, and they had full testimony of the fact that their captors did not mean to give them the slightest chance to escape.The skylight was tried and the door. There was a discussion as to the possibility of getting through the bulkhead forward, and one or two attempts were made, but each time, at the first crack made by the wood, there was the report of a pistol, and the shattering of the bulkhead above their heads, plain proof that they were strictly watched by one who had had orders to fire at the first attempt.“P’raps we’d best take it coolly, sir,” said Tom Fillot, the second time, “or else put it off till after dark.”Mark nodded, and sat listening to some cries which made their black companion begin to pant and glare at the cabin-hatch; and Mark himself felt as if he could have enjoyed lashing with wires the backs of the scoundrels who treated their black fellows worse than they would have treated dogs.Then night came once more, with the resolve to make another attempt to get on deck; but to their disgust and misery, they found that a lanthorn was placed upon the skylight, where it would cast down its rays and show what they were about, and once more when a movement was made to make an attack upon the door, there came the splintering of glass, a bullet struck down into the floor, and a sharp report told them how well their captors were upon thequi vive.“Look here,” shouted Tom Fillot, “I know who you are, Mr Skipper. You’ll be hitting some one if you don’t mind, and it may be murder.”There was no response, and the little party subsided into a state of despair.Excepting Mark.He was as determined as ever to escape, and felt that there must be a way if he could only hit upon it.His last idea was to raise some of the cabin floor boards and get down below, where they might reach a hatchway; but there was no chance of doing this while a man was watching them, armed with a pistol. Nothing could be done but wait.Mark sat back against the bulkhead, with his hand playing with the hilt of his midshipman’s dirk, which he had managed to retain all through his various struggles, from the habit of thrusting it into its sheath the moment opportunity served; and as he sat he glared up at the skylight feeling as if he would give anything to have a fair chance on deck, his men against the American skipper’s, and the victory to the bravest and most strong. He was ready, boy as he was, to lead them on, being wound up to a pitch of utter recklessness.Almost, for he had sense enough and teaching enough to know that it would be an act of cruel madness to his men to force them to squeeze themselves, one by one, up through that light, ready to be knocked back helpless into the cabin.He glanced at Mr Russell, where he lay in his stupor, and recalled some words that officer had once said to him respecting the management of his followers:— “Always use them as if their lives were of greater value than your own, Vandean,” he said. “Never risk them recklessly.”“And that would be recklessly,” Mark said, half aloud.“You speak to me, sir?” said Tom Fillot.“Eh? No, Tom; I was only thinking.”“Of how to get out of this place, sir, and dropping on to them beggars up above?”Mark shook his head.“Don’t say that, sir. Do think o’ some way. It’s ’orrid, and I feel ’shamed o’ myself. I’d sooner have a fight for it, and be down in hospital six months arter, than be beaten like this here.”“So would I, Tom; but what can be done?”“Why, here’s five on us, sir, and you to lead us, all ready to make a rush for it. We’re a bit knocked about, but full of fight. It’s only for you to say the word.”“I’m ready to say the word, man, but how can I?” cried Mark, eagerly. “Can we get out on deck through that light?”“Well, I’m feared as only ’bout a couple on us would, sir.”“Right, even if we could manage that; and the survivors would be thrown back, worse off than we are now.”“That’s a true word, sir.”“Well, you know what happened trying the cabin window?”“Yes, sir, I just do,” said Tom, dolefully. “I thought Fillot AB’s kit was for sale aboard theNaughtylass.”“Then the door—the hatch; what about that?”“Ah,” said Tom, thoughtfully, “what about that?”“Why, it’s wedged and barricaded up, and exit that way is impossible.”“Hah! Exit that way’s impossible,” said Tom, after a deep breath. “Exit that way’s impossible.”“We could not batter it open, but if we did, the whole gang would be waiting for us, ready to beat us back as we crept through, one at a time. Our only chance is to take them by surprise.”“Only charnsh is to take ’em by surprise,” said Tom, thoughtfully—“surprise—surprise. Look ye here, sir,” he suddenly cried, eagerly, “why not take ’em then by surprise?”“How?”“Powder, sir, out o’ that there locker.”“What! and blow them up?”“O’ course, sir,” whispered Tom, “sky high.”
Morning was a long time coming to the prisoners, but at last the bright light of day shed hope into all their hearts, and, forgetful of the sufferings of the night, Mark’s eyes were strained as far as the cabin window would admit in search of their prize.
It was nowhere in sight. Dance’s head had evidently proved sufficiently clear to enable him to sail the craft well enough to keep out of the would-be captor’s reach, unless she were somewhere in sight forward and the American captain was in pursuit.
Whenever any tack was made, eyes were strained to try and catch a glimpse of her, but all in vain, and the prisoners sat about avoiding each other’s eyes, for, in spite of all determination to be patient and try and think out some plan, a hopeless state of despondency would creep over them.
Their captors, following their own example, flung them some biscuit through the cabin skylight, and lowered a bucket of fresh water, the American skipper shouting down in a fierce snarl that if they made any further attempt to escape he would have them shot like mad dogs.
“If you can,” cried Mark, defiantly, and then he shrank and gave an uneasy glance round at his men to see what effect the American’s words had upon them. For with a contemptuous laugh the Yankee uttered the one word “cockerel,” and slammed down and fastened the light.
“Never you mind, sir,” whispered Tom Fillot at the first opportunity; “cockerels is young game cocks, and we know as you’re game to the backbone. You’ll give him one p’r’aps ’fore he knows where he is.”
It was weary work in that breathlessly hot cabin, but no one murmured, and Mark sat gazing out of the window and wondering why their captors did not set them adrift in a boat, the simple explanation being that they would have done so had they not dreaded being followed and caught when becalmed, and then surprised. For it was evident that, for reasons of his own, the American skipper shrank from leaving the coast, with its many creeks and rivers, where he could hide or run from pursuit.
It soon became evident that either the other prize had been taken and sent off, or Dance had managed to effect his escape, for there was no further sign of her.
Tom Fillot felt bitterly aggrieved.
“He must ha’ been a bit flighty still, sir, or he wouldn’t ha’ done it. He’s gone off with that there craft. I would ha’ stood by my messmates if it had been me.”
Night came, with the position unaltered. They were still coasting along south, and they had full testimony of the fact that their captors did not mean to give them the slightest chance to escape.
The skylight was tried and the door. There was a discussion as to the possibility of getting through the bulkhead forward, and one or two attempts were made, but each time, at the first crack made by the wood, there was the report of a pistol, and the shattering of the bulkhead above their heads, plain proof that they were strictly watched by one who had had orders to fire at the first attempt.
“P’raps we’d best take it coolly, sir,” said Tom Fillot, the second time, “or else put it off till after dark.”
Mark nodded, and sat listening to some cries which made their black companion begin to pant and glare at the cabin-hatch; and Mark himself felt as if he could have enjoyed lashing with wires the backs of the scoundrels who treated their black fellows worse than they would have treated dogs.
Then night came once more, with the resolve to make another attempt to get on deck; but to their disgust and misery, they found that a lanthorn was placed upon the skylight, where it would cast down its rays and show what they were about, and once more when a movement was made to make an attack upon the door, there came the splintering of glass, a bullet struck down into the floor, and a sharp report told them how well their captors were upon thequi vive.
“Look here,” shouted Tom Fillot, “I know who you are, Mr Skipper. You’ll be hitting some one if you don’t mind, and it may be murder.”
There was no response, and the little party subsided into a state of despair.
Excepting Mark.
He was as determined as ever to escape, and felt that there must be a way if he could only hit upon it.
His last idea was to raise some of the cabin floor boards and get down below, where they might reach a hatchway; but there was no chance of doing this while a man was watching them, armed with a pistol. Nothing could be done but wait.
Mark sat back against the bulkhead, with his hand playing with the hilt of his midshipman’s dirk, which he had managed to retain all through his various struggles, from the habit of thrusting it into its sheath the moment opportunity served; and as he sat he glared up at the skylight feeling as if he would give anything to have a fair chance on deck, his men against the American skipper’s, and the victory to the bravest and most strong. He was ready, boy as he was, to lead them on, being wound up to a pitch of utter recklessness.
Almost, for he had sense enough and teaching enough to know that it would be an act of cruel madness to his men to force them to squeeze themselves, one by one, up through that light, ready to be knocked back helpless into the cabin.
He glanced at Mr Russell, where he lay in his stupor, and recalled some words that officer had once said to him respecting the management of his followers:— “Always use them as if their lives were of greater value than your own, Vandean,” he said. “Never risk them recklessly.”
“And that would be recklessly,” Mark said, half aloud.
“You speak to me, sir?” said Tom Fillot.
“Eh? No, Tom; I was only thinking.”
“Of how to get out of this place, sir, and dropping on to them beggars up above?”
Mark shook his head.
“Don’t say that, sir. Do think o’ some way. It’s ’orrid, and I feel ’shamed o’ myself. I’d sooner have a fight for it, and be down in hospital six months arter, than be beaten like this here.”
“So would I, Tom; but what can be done?”
“Why, here’s five on us, sir, and you to lead us, all ready to make a rush for it. We’re a bit knocked about, but full of fight. It’s only for you to say the word.”
“I’m ready to say the word, man, but how can I?” cried Mark, eagerly. “Can we get out on deck through that light?”
“Well, I’m feared as only ’bout a couple on us would, sir.”
“Right, even if we could manage that; and the survivors would be thrown back, worse off than we are now.”
“That’s a true word, sir.”
“Well, you know what happened trying the cabin window?”
“Yes, sir, I just do,” said Tom, dolefully. “I thought Fillot AB’s kit was for sale aboard theNaughtylass.”
“Then the door—the hatch; what about that?”
“Ah,” said Tom, thoughtfully, “what about that?”
“Why, it’s wedged and barricaded up, and exit that way is impossible.”
“Hah! Exit that way’s impossible,” said Tom, after a deep breath. “Exit that way’s impossible.”
“We could not batter it open, but if we did, the whole gang would be waiting for us, ready to beat us back as we crept through, one at a time. Our only chance is to take them by surprise.”
“Only charnsh is to take ’em by surprise,” said Tom, thoughtfully—“surprise—surprise. Look ye here, sir,” he suddenly cried, eagerly, “why not take ’em then by surprise?”
“How?”
“Powder, sir, out o’ that there locker.”
“What! and blow them up?”
“O’ course, sir,” whispered Tom, “sky high.”