IN CLASP OF THE SEA
The sound of voices, of moving bodies and bits of furniture overturned
were plainly discernible, but the darkness was far too dense below to
permit the eye perceiving what was taking place. Yet I could picture
the scene, the leaderless mob surging blindly forward, each man vocal
in his own tongue, swaying with rage, many smarting with wounds,
uncertain where we had disappeared, yet all alike crazed with a desire
to attain the open deck. The rattle of steel, the curses, told me some
among them had reached the arm rack, and seized whatever weapons they
found there. In their struggle the rack was overturned, and suddenly,
amid the din, a shrill, penetrating voice yelled something in Spanish,
which seemed to hush the clamor. There followed a shuffling of feet,
and the crash of wood as though the butt of a gun had splintered a
door panel. Then the same voice again pierced the babel. My mind
gripped the meaning of it all; they had found a leader; they had
released Manuel Estevan. Now the real fight was on!
We stooped low, to escape as much as possible from the dim revealing
light streaming through the glass at our backs, and waited, staring
into the black depths of the cabin, and listening for every sound. The
release of Manuel, the very knowledge of his presence had changed the
mob into dangerous fighters. The roar of voices died away with the
noise of confusion. I could hear the fellow question those about him,
seeking to learn the situation, but the delay was short, and no
inkling of his quickly conceived plan of attack was revealed. Yet he
saw us and understood; his eyes, long trained to darkness, must have
already marked our dim outlines, for his first order evidenced his
purpose.
"Who have cutlasses? So many! a dozen form with me. Now bullies, they
are on the stairs there, and that is the only way to the deck. We'll
show those damned traitors what fighting means. Now then---to hell
with 'em!"
We met them, point to point, our advantage the narrow staircase and
the higher position; theirs the faint glimmer of light at our backs.
The first rush was reckless and deadly, the infuriated devils not yet
realizing what they faced, but counting on force of numbers to crush
our defense. Manuel led them yelling encouragement, and sweeping his
cutlass, gripped with both hands, in desperate effort to break
through. DeLasser caught its point with his blade while my cleaver
missing him with its sharp edge, nevertheless dealt the fellow a blow
which hurled him back into the arms of the man behind. I saw nothing
else in detail, the faint light barely revealing indistinct figures
and gleam of steel. It was a pandemonium of blows and yells, strange
faces appearing and disappearing, as men leaped desperately at us up
the steps, and we beat them remorselessly back. I saw nothing more of
Manuel in the fray, but his shrill voice urged on his followers. It
was strike and parry, cut and thrust. Twice I kicked my legs free
from hands that gripped me, and DeLasser fell, a pike thrust through
him. Who took his place I never knew, but a stout fighter the lad was,
wielding his cutlass viciously, so that we held them, with dead men
littering every step to the cabin deck.
But they were of a breed trained to such fighting, and the lash of
Manuel's tongue drove them into mad recklessness. And there seemed no
end of them, sweeping up out of those black shadows, with bearded or
lean brown savage faces, charging over the dead bodies, hacking and
gouging in vain effort to break through. I struck until my arms ached,
until my head reeled, scarcely conscious of physical action, yet aware
of Manners shouts.
"Now you hell-hounds--now! once more, and you have them. Santa Maria!
you've got to go through, bullies---there is no other way to the deck.
Think of the yellow boys below; they are all yours if you strike hard
enough. Rush 'em! That's the way! Here you--go in outside the rail!
Broth of hell! Now you have him, Pedro!"
For an instant I believed it true; I saw Jim Carter seized and hurled
sideways, his cutlass clashing as it fell, while a dozen hands dragged
him headlong into the ruck beneath. But it was only an instant. Before
the charging devils could pass me, a huge figure filled the vacant
space, and the butt of a gun crashed into the mass. It was the
Dutchman, Schmitt, fighting like a demon, his strength that of an ox.
They gave way in terror before him, and we went down battering our
way, until the stairs were clear to the deck, except for the dead
under foot. When we stopped, not a fighting man was left within the
sweep of our arms. They had scurried back into the darkness like so
many rats, and we could only stare about blindly, cursing them, as we
endeavored to recover breath. Schmitt roared like a wild bull, and
would have rushed on, but for my grip on his shirt.
"Get back, men!" I ordered sharply. "There may be fifty of them
yonder. Our only chance is the stairs. Do as I say, Schmitt, or fight
me. Back now!"
We flung the bodies on one side, and formed again from rail to rail.
Below us there was noise enough, a babel of angry voices, but no
movement of assault. I could see nothing, although the uproar
evidenced a large number of men jammed together in that blackness
beneath. What they would do next was answered by a blaze of light,
revealing the silhouette of a man, engaged in touching flame to a
torch of hemp. It flung forth a dull yellow glare, and revealed a
scene of unimaginable horror. Our assailants were massed half way
back, so blended together I could not judge their number, many between
us and the light with faces darkened by shadow. Between us, even ten
feet from the stairs, the deck was littered with bodies, ghastly faces
staring up, with black stains of blood everywhere. It was Manuel's
hand which had kindled the light, and the first croak of his voice
told his purpose.
"Now you sculking cowards," he yelled pointing forward, "do you see
what you are fighting? There are only five men between you and the
deck. To hell with 'em! Come on! I'll show you the way!"
He leaped forward; but it was his last step. With one swing of my arm
I sent the cleaver hurtling through the air. I know not how it struck
him, but he went down, his last word a shriek, his arms flung out in
vain effort to ward off the blow. Schmitt roared out a Dutch oath, and
before I knew fully what had happened, his gun, sent whirling above
me, had crashed into the uplifted torch. Again it was black, hideous
night, through which the eye could perceive nothing. Even the noise
ceased, but a hand gripped my shoulder.
"Who are you?"
"Nigger Sam, sah. Mistah Watkins sez it's all done fixed."
"Where is he?"
"Here," answered Watkins himself in a hoarse whisper. "The boats are
ready."
"Afloat?"
"Yes, sir. The one forward has pushed off loaded. The after-boat is
alongside. There is such a hell of a fog, sir, yer can't see two
fathoms from the ship."
"All the better for us; is the girl in the boat?"
"Safe, sir; but LeVere ain't."
"What do you mean? That he has got away? I ordered you to have Harwood
watch him."
"Yes, sir; but the mate slipped out o' sight in the fog. He's somewhar
aboard, but we ain't been able ter put hands on him nowhar yet."
"Never mind him; the fellow can do no harm now. Move back slowly lads.
Schmitt and I will be the last ones out. Pick up that cutlass,
Schmitt. We must act before those devils down there wake up again."
We closed the companion door as silently as possible and for the
moment there was no sound from within to show that our cautious
withdrawal had been observed. I stared about, but was able to perceive
little beyond the small group awaiting my orders. The fog clung thick
and heavy on all sides, the lungs breathed it in, and the deck
underfoot was as wet as though from heavy rain. Moisture dripped from
yards and canvas, and it was impossible for the eye to penetrate to
either rail. Fortunately there was no weight of sea running, and the
bark swung gently, still retaining steerage-way, but with not wind
enough aloft to flap the sails. The silence and gloom was most
depressing.
"Is there a hand at the wheel, Watkins?"
"No sir; it's lashed."
"And the quarter-boat?"
"There, sir, below the mizzen-chains."
"Then there is nothing more to keep us aboard lads. Stow yourselves
away and hang on; I'll wait here until you are all over."
They faded away into the mist, dim spectral figures, and I remained
alone, listening anxiously for some hostile sound from below. Had I
chosen the right course? I was not altogether sure, yet we had gone
too far now to decide on any other. Perhaps if I had called on those
men up on deck, who had loaded guns, we might have forced the escaped
prisoners back into their place of confinement, and thus kept control
of the vessel. Yet at that it would only mean a few hours more on
board amid constant danger of revolt. It might have enabled us to
salvage the gold hidden below, but I was not greatly concerned for
this, as my one and only purpose was the preservation of Dorothy. The
men might prove ugly when they awoke to the loss, but I had little
fear of them, once we were at sea in the small boats, and their lives
depended on my seamanship. Unless a storm arose our lives were in no
great peril, although I would have preferred being closer to the coast
before casting adrift. I wondered what could be the meaning of that
silence below. True the fellows were leaderless and defeated, yet they
were desperate spirits, and fully aware that they must attain the open
deck in order to recapture the vessel. They would not remain quiet
long, and once discovering our retirement, would swarm up the stairs
animated with fresh courage. Satisfied that the lads were safely over
the rail and the decks clear, I turned toward the ship's side. As I
did so a yell reached my ears from the blackness below--the hounds had
found voice.
I ran through the fog in the direction the others had disappeared, and
had taken scarcely three steps when I collided against the form of a
man, whose presence was not even noticed until we came together. Yet
he must have been there expectant and ready, for a quick knife thrust
slashed the front of my jacket, bringing a spurt of blood as the blade
was jerked back. It was a well-aimed blow at the heart, missing its
mark only because of my outstretched arms, and the rapidity of my
advance. Even as my fingers gripped the uplifted wrist, 'ere he could
strike the second time, I knew my antagonist. I knew also this was a
fight to the death, a sharp remorseless struggle to be terminated
before that unguarded crew below could attain the deck. It was
LeVere's life or mine, and in the balance the fate of those others in
the waiting boat alongside. The knowledge gave me the strength and
ferocity of a tiger; all the hate and distrust I felt for the man came
uppermost. In that moment of rage I did not so much care what happened
to me, if I was only privileged to kill him. I ripped the knife from
his fingers, and we closed with bare hands; our muscles cracking to
the strain, his voice uttering one croaking cry for help as I bore in
on his windpipe. He was a snake, a cat, slipping out of my grip as by
some magic, turning and twisting like an eel, yet unable to wholly
escape, or overcome, my strength and skill. At last I had him prone
against the rail, the weight of us both so hard upon it, the stout
wood cracked, and we both went over, grappling together until we
splashed into the water below. The shock, the frantic effort to save
myself, must have loosened my hold, for, as I fought a way back to the
surface, I was alone, lost in the veil of mist.
Blinded by fog, the water dripping from my hair, weakened by struggle
and loss of blood, my mad rage against LeVere for the moment obscured
all else in my mind. What had become of the fellow? Had he gone down
like a stone? Or was he somewhere behind this curtain of fog? A splash
to the right led me to take a dozen strokes hastily, but to no
purpose. The sound was not repeated and I no longer retained any sense
of direction to guide me. The sea was a steady swell, lifting my body
on the crest of a wave, to submerge it an instant later in the deep
hollow. I could feel the motion, but scarcely perceived it otherwise,
as the thick gray mist obscured everything three feet away. It
deadened and confused sound also. Again and again I felt I located
the near presence of the _Namur_, the sound of feet on deck, the shout
of a voice, the flapping of canvas against the yards; but as I
desperately turned that way, the noise ceased, or else apparently
changed into another point of compass. Once a cry reached me,
thrilling with despair, although I could not catch the words, and
again came to me plainly enough the clank of an oar in its rowlock. I
struck out madly for the point from whence it came, only to find the
same rolling water, and obscuring fog. My strength began to fail, hope
left me as I sank deeper and deeper into the remorseless grip of the
sea. There was nothing left to fight for, to struggle after; the fog
about me became red and purple before my straining eyes, and then
slowly grew black; my muscles refused to respond to my will; I no
longer swam, but floated so low in water the crest of the waves swept
over my face. I no longer cared, gripped by a strange, almost
delicious languor. I was not afraid; my lips uttered no cry, no
prayer--I drifted out into total unconsciousness and went down.