The boat had stopped, and Fitz had heard the faintest of faint clicks as
of iron against iron, for the hook in the carpenter's hands had lightly
come in contact with the port anchor, which was hanging in its place,
teaching them that it was the starboard that was down; and as Fitz
looked up sharply, he fully expected to see a row of faces peering over
the bulwark and looking down into the boat as the watchers gave the
alarm, which would result in a shower of missiles being hurled upon
their heads, the precursors of a heavy shot that would go crashing
through the bottom of the boat. But he was only gazing up at a black
edge and the stars beyond, and just above his head something rugged and
curved which he knew were the anchor's flukes.
Fitz knew that to hesitate was to give place to doubts as to his
success, and that the longer he waited the more likely they were to be
discovered. That no watch was being kept was certain, and rising in the
boat he took hold of the anchor as far up as he could reach, its
ponderous nature rendering it immovable; and drawing himself steadily
upward he began to climb.
It was easy enough to an active lad, and once started there was no time
for shrinking. Quickly enough he was standing first upon the flukes,
then upon the stock, while the next minute he was grasping the port-rail
and trying to look down on to the deck, where he fancied he made out the
figures of three or four men. But everything was so indistinct that he
could not be sure, and he prepared to climb over, when he felt a touch
upon his arm and started violently, for he had forgotten their
arrangement that Poole should bear a part in the disabling of the gun.
He dared not speak, but just gave his companion's arm a grip, slipped
silently over the bulwark, and went down at once on all-fours like a
dog. Poole was by his side directly, and as they knelt, both tried to
make out the exact position of the gun, and both failed, till Fitz
lowered himself a little more, and then repeating his investigation
managed to bring the muzzle of the great piece between him and the
stars, towards which it was pointed, slightly raised.
All was so still, and the deck apparently so deserted, that his task now
seemed to be ridiculously easy; and beginning to creep aft towards the
great carriage, which was planted a little forward of 'midships, one
hand suddenly came into contact with something soft and warm, with the
result that there was an angry snarl, a snap, and a hand was brought
down with a heavy slap upon the deck.
In an instant there was a start, and a low growling voice asked what was
apparently a question as to what was the matter. The response came from
the man who had struck the blow; but what he said was unintelligible to
the listeners, who had immediately shrunk flat upon the deck, conscious
as they were that two of the crew had been sleeping within touch, while
for aught they knew others might be all around.
All notion now of the task being ridiculously easy was swept away, and
the two adventurous lads lay hardly daring to breathe for what seemed a
quarter of an hour, before a deep stertorous breathing told that the
danger was for the moment passed and the time for action come.
It was Fitz who this time set the example of beginning, and he did it by
thrusting softly with one foot till he could feel where Poole lay ready
to seize him by the ankle and give it a warm pressure which the lad took
to mean--Go on.
Raising himself a little, he began to creep aft once more, bearing to
his left towards where he believed the carriage and turn-table of the
great gun to be, and reaching them without further interruption, and so
easily that his task seemed to become once more simple in the extreme.
Reaching carefully out, he satisfied himself as to his position, took a
step upward, and found directly after that he was about the middle of
the gun, whose breech lay a little to the right and was reached with
ease.
"Oh, if I could only whisper to Poole," he thought. "Come on, quick,
old fellow, and then together we can get it to the side, drop it
overboard, and follow so quickly that we need only make one splash, for
it would be impossible to go back as we came."
"Yes, that will be the way," thought Fitz; "and our fellows will row
towards the splash at once, and pick us up. Why didn't I think to tell
them? Never mind. That's what they are sure to do."
Directly after he was running his hand along the pleasantly cool surface
of the gun; but he paused for a moment to listen, and begin to wonder in
the darkness why it was that Poole had not made some sign of being near.
He reached back, giving a sweep with his hand; but Poole was not there,
and he took a step forward to repeat the movement--still in vain.
"Oh, I am wasting time," thought Fitz, as he stepped back to his former
position. "He's waiting for me to reconnoitre and fetch him if I want
him."
In this spirit he felt the gun again, guiding himself by his hands to
its huge butt, his fingers coming in contact first with the sight and
then with the two massive ball-ended levers which turned the great
screw.
He could barely see at all, but his finger-tips told him that it was
just such a piece as they had on board the _Tonans_, but not so large.
Forgetting Poole for the moment, he passed right round to the breech,
thrust in his hand, which came in contact with the solid block, and then
withdrawing his hand he seized hold of the great balls, gave them a
wrench, and in perfect silence the heavy mass of forged and polished
steel began to turn, the well-oiled grooves and worm gliding together
without a sound, and, after the first tug, with the greatest ease.
It was all simple enough till he came to the final part of his task, and
attempted to lift out the breech-block, the quoin that when the breech
was screwed up held all fast.
He took hold and tried to lift, but tried in vain, for it seemed beyond
his strength. His teeth gritted together as he set them fast in his
exasperation against Poole for not being at hand to help and make what
now seemed an impossibility an easy task.
Perspiring at every pore, he tried again and again, the more eagerly
now, for a low growling voice was heard from the direction whence he had
crawled.
But the piece of steel was immovable, and in his despair he felt that
all was over and that he had failed.
Then came light--not light to make the gun visible, but mental light,
with the question, Had he turned the levers far enough?
Uttering a low gasp in his despair, for the growling talk grew louder,
he seized the great balls again, gave them another turn or two, and once
more tried to stir the block, when his heart seemed to give a great
jump, for it came right out as he exerted himself, with comparative
ease, and directly after he had it hugged to his chest and was
staggering and nearly falling headlong as he stepped down from the iron
platform, making for the side. But he recovered himself, tottering on,
and then in the darkness kicking against something soft--a sleeper--the
encounter sending him, top-heavy as he was, crash against the bulwark,
but doing all that he wanted, for the breech-block struck against the
rail, glanced off, and went overboard, to fall with a tremendous splash,
followed by another, which the middy made himself, as he half flung
himself over, half rolled from the rail, to go down with the water
thundering in his ears.
The heaviness of his plunge naturally sent him below for some distance,
but it was not long before he was rising again.
It was long enough, though, for thought--and thoughts come quickly at a
time like this. Fitz's first flash was a brilliant one, connected with
his success, for the breech-block was gone beyond recovery; his next was
one of horror, and connected with the sharks that haunted those waters;
his third was full of despair; where was Poole, whom he seemed to have
left to his fate?
Hah! The surface again, and he could breathe; but which way to swim for
the boat? There was none needed, for his shoulders were barely clear of
the water when his arm was seized in a tremendous grip, another hand was
thrust under his arm-pit, and he was literally jumped, dripping, into a
boat, to pant out his first audible utterance for the past hour. It was
only a word, and that was--
"Poole!"
"I'm all right," came from out of the darkness close at hand.
"Then give way, my lads, for your lives!" panted Fitz, and the oars
began to splash.
It was quite time, for there was no sleeping on board the gunboat now.
All was rush and confusion; voices in Spanish were shouting orders, men
hurrying here and there, a few shots were fired in their direction,
evidently from revolvers, and then a steam-whistle was heard to blow,
followed by a hissing, clanking sound, and the man who had hauled Fitz
in over the bows put his face close to him and whispered--
"Steam-capstan. They're getting up their anchor. But there was three
splashes, sir. What was that there first?"
"The breech-block, Chips."
"Hooroar!"
It was some little time before another word was spoken, during which
period the men had been rowing hard, and the boatswain, who had got hold
of the rudder-lines, was steering almost at random for the shore, taking
his bearings as well as he could from the gunboat, out of whose funnel
sparks kept flying, and a lurid glare appeared upon the cloud of smoke
which floated out, pointing to the fact that the stokers were hard at
work.
"Mr Burnett--Mr Poole, sir," said Butters, at last, "I aren't at all
satisfied about the way we are going. I suppose we may speak out now?"
"Oh yes," cried Fitz; "I don't suppose they can hear us, and if they did
they couldn't do us any harm, for it must be impossible for them to make
us out."
"Oh yes, sir," cried the boatswain. "No fear of that."
"But what do you mean about not being satisfied?"
"Well, sir, my eyes is pretty good, and if you give me a fair start I
can take my bearings pretty easy from the stars when I knows what time
it is. But you see, it's quite another thing to hit the mouth of that
little river in the dark. I know the land's right in front, but whether
we are south'ard or north'ard of where the schooner lays is more than I
can tell, and there's some awkward surf upon some of the rocks of this
'ere coast. Will you give your orders, please."
"Well, I don't know that I can," replied Fitz. "I think the best thing
is to lie-to till daylight. What do you say, Poole?" he continued, from
his position to where Poole was, right forward.
"Same as you do," was the reply. "It's impossible to make for the river
now. We may be only getting farther away."
"Just keep her head on to the swell, my lads."
The next minute the gig began riding gently over the long smooth waves,
while her occupants sat watching the gunboat, the only light from which
now was the glow from the funnel.
"Bit wet, aren't you, Mr Burnett, sir?" said Chips. "What do you say
to taking off two or three things and letting me give them a wring?"
"Ah, it would be as well," replied Fitz, beginning at once to slip off
his jacket, and as if instinctively to take off attention from what he
was doing he began to question Poole.
"You had better do the same, hadn't you?" he cried.
"Doing it," was the reply. "I say, are you all right?"
"No; I am so horribly wet. What about you?"
"Just the same, of course."
"But I say," said Fitz, who was calming down after the excitement; "why
didn't you come on and help?"
"How could I? One of those fellows lying on the deck threw a leg and an
arm over me in his sleep. I just brushed against him, and he started as
if I had touched a spring, and held me fast. I tried to get away, but
it was of no use, and if I had shouted it would have only given the
alarm. I didn't get loose till the row began, and then there was
nothing to do but come overboard and be picked up. I was in a way about
you."
"Same here about you," cried fitz. "I didn't know what had happened,
and when I tumbled over the rail--I didn't jump--I felt as if I had left
you in the lurch."
"Well, but that's what I felt," said Poole. "It was queer."
"It made us all feel pretty tidy queer, young gentlemen," said the
boatswain; "but if I may speak, the fust question is, are either of you
hurt?"
"I am not," cried Fitz.
"Nor I," said Poole.
"That's right, then," said the boatswain gruffly. "Now then, what about
that there block of iron? Was it that as come over plosh, only about a
yard from the boat's nose?"
"Yes," cried Fitz excitedly.
"Then all I can say is, that it's a precious good job that Mr Burnett
didn't chuck it a little further, for if he had it would have come right
down on Chips and drove him through the bottom, and we couldn't have
stopped a leak like that."
"But I should have come up again," said the carpenter, "just where I
went down, and as the hole I made would have been just the same size as
me, I should have fitted in quite proper."
"Yah!" growled the boatswain. "What's the use of trying to cut jokes at
a time like this? Look here, gentlemen, have we done our job to
rights?"
"As far as the gun's concerned," replied Fitz, "it's completely
disabled, and of no use again until they get another block."
"Then that's done, sir."
"And about my job," said Poole. "I am afraid the screw's not fouled,
for I fancy the gunboat is slowly steaming out to sea."
"Well, I don't see as how we can tell that, Mr Poole, sir," said the
boatswain. "I can't say as she's moving, for we are both in a sharp
current, and she may be only drifting; but seeing the way as you made
fast the end of that there cable, and then looped over bight after bight
round them there fans, and twistened it all up tight, it seems to me
that the screw must be fouled, and that every turn made it wuss and
wuss. I say that you made a fine job of that there, Mr Poole. What do
you say, Chips, my lad?"
"Splendid!" cried the carpenter.
"Why, it was you two did it," said Fitz.
"Well, that's what I thought, sir," said the carpenter; "but it was so
dark, I couldn't see a bit."
"Zackly," said the boatswain; "and you said it was your job, sir."
"Oh, nonsense!" cried Poole. "I meant yours."
"Well," said Fitz, "all I can say is that I hope your knots were good."
"I'll answer for mine," said the boatswain, "but I won't say nothing for
Chips here. He aren't much account unless it's hammers and spikes, or a
job at caulking or using his adze."
"That's right," said Chips, "but you might tell the young gents that I'm
handiest with a pot o' glue."