I came to the surface, fighting for breath, my hands battling
fruitlessly at the slimy side of the ship, which slid past as
relentlessly as the passage of time. I tried to cry out, but the
salt water choked me. Not a sound came from the decks above. The
blackness was absolute, except for the mild gleam of a watch-lanthorn
on the poop.
Danger and the peril of death often have been my lot, but never in
all my life--no, not even when the Keepers of the Trail had bound me
to the torture-stake--have I experienced the abysmal fear which
clutched my heart as I struggled to save myself from the chilling
waters whose numbing embrace was throttling my vitality no less
surely than the long arms which had cast me overboard.
Death was only a brace of minutes away--not death from drowning, but
death from the bitter cold that paralyzed my limbs and smote my
heart. In the mad desperation of my fear I heaved myself waist-high
out of the water, hands clutching and clawing for the support which
reason must have denied me to expect.
I was sinking beneath a smooth-running wave along the counter when my
fingers came in contact with a dripping rope, which slipped through
their grip and lashed me in the face. This time I did contrive to
cry out, a brief, choked yell of exultation. My hands possessed
themselves of it again, and I rove a loose knot in the end.
Had I dared, I would have rested myself in this loop before beginning
to attempt the climbing of the mossy wall of the ship's side; but the
coldness of the water forbade it. Only by the utmost power of will
could I force myself to the necessary effort. A few moments' delay,
and I should be incapable of action.
With teeth clinched I drew myself upward along the rope, thrusting
forward with my feet for purchase against the side. Sometimes I
slipped on the wet planks, and then I was put to it to hold my
position. But after I withdrew my body from the water, what with the
urgency of my effort and the stimulation of the exercise, some degree
of my strength returned; and presently I was able to pull myself up
the rope, hand over hand, until I reached a small projecting
structure at the level of the deck to which was fastened the
starboard rigging of the mainmast. How I blessed the untidy
seamanship of Captain Abbot, which would have aroused the wrath of
any true sailor, no doubt.
On this bit of a platform I rested myself, below the level of the
bulwarks, one arm thrust round a tautened stay. And now for the
first time I gave thought to my experience. I suppose that at the
most not more than five minutes had elapsed since I had been heaved
overboard, and obviously no one had witnessed the incident, for the
deck was as quiet and deserted as it had been when I was attacked.
Who had done it? I accepted as a primary fact the impossibility that
it could have been one of the crew. I had speaking acquaintance with
only two of them, Captain Abbot, himself, and Master Ringham, the
second mate, a taciturn Devon man, whose conversation consisted of
curses, grunts and monosyllables. Neither could have any grudge
against me.
No, I must seek the assailant in the camp of my known enemies, and
those immense, twining arms could belong only to the ape-like negro.
With the realization, hot blood drummed in my ears. I scrambled over
the bulwark in a flash, and crouched down upon the deck to survey the
situation. It was one against three--no, four, I reflected bitterly;
for I made no doubt the girl would array herself against me. I must
have some weapon.
I looked around me, noting that the watch were all ensconced upon the
forecastle or the poop. Then I remembered that ranged around the
bottoms of the masts were long handbars of wood, iron-tipped, which
were used in making fast the sail-ropes. I ran across to the
mainmast and tore one from its slot.
Nobody had yet seen me in the pitch darkness, and I stole across the
deck to the door which gave entrance to the poop, my water-soaked
shoes quite soundless. The door was ajar, and I opened it very
carefully, listening to the murmur of voices in the main cabin.
There was no light in the passage which led to the main cabin from
the foot of the shallow stairs that descended from the deck level;
but the main cabin itself was brilliantly lighted by several
lanthorns.
Murray and de Veulle were sitting on the bench which ran across the
stern, the table in front of them littered with cards. Murray, a
look of placid satisfaction on his face, was pouring rum into two
glasses. De Veulle was laughing as if he had listened to the
merriest tale in the world. So much I saw when the entrance into the
main cabin was darkened by the body of the negro, Tom.
He saw me descending the stairs, and apparently took me to be one of
the officers coming off watch. At any rate, he stepped back into the
main cabin and stood there, waiting to give me room. The passage was
not more than fifteen or sixteen feet long, and as I approached him I
smelled again that rancid, musky odor--the body smell, as I afterward
discovered, of the savage, black or red--which had overwhelmed my
nostrils just before I was pitched over the side.
'Twas that decided me. I took a firm grip on my improvised club,
and, stepping into the pool of light in the main cabin, swung square
around, face to face with Tom. He threw up both hands and staggered
back with a wild scream of terror, eyes popping from his ashen-gray
face.
I gave him no time for recovery, but brought down the iron-tipped end
of the handbar with all my force across his skull. The blow would
have killed any save a black man. I meant it to kill him. As it
was, he dropped like a slaughtered ox, and lay in a crumpled heap of
tawdry finery on the floor.
Doors banged in the passage, and I stepped to one side, setting my
back to the bulkhead, the while I fastened my eyes upon the startled
amazement with which Murray and de Veulle regarded me. 'Twas Murray
recovered first.
"Zooks," he remarked, taking snuff with his usual precision. "It
seems that Tom is growing in the way of making mistakes."
"Aye, and such mistakes are like to react upon others," I replied
fiercely.
"If I were a refugee from justice, I should be careful how I
threatened law-abiding subjects," he answered calmly. "Well, well,
it seems we have more company."
I followed his glance to the passage, where stood the girl of the
green cloak, whilst over her shoulder peered the square, puzzled
features of my silent cabinmate, Master Ringham.
The girl said nothing, her eyes shifting gravely from one to the
other of us. But Master Ringham's official status got the better of
his distaste for words.
"What hath happened?" he asked. "Is the negro dead!"
"I think so," I said. "He--"
"Not he," corrected Murray cheerfully. "You know not Tom, good
Master Ormerod. He hath a skull on him can only be opened with
blasting-powder."
"It matters little," I returned. "The rascal attacked me above,
Master Ringham. I pursued him down here. There is naught more to be
said. I will settle with his master."
The second mate looked questioningly toward Murray. I hated to
compromise so, but I had not missed the veiled threat he had
addressed to me nor his use of the name Ormerod. Remember, I was
still known to the crew as Juggins.
I was uncertain what attitude the captain might take if he was told
that I was a political refugee. There might be a reward at
stake--and sailors were human like other men. What was one man's
life to them--and he a stranger--if so many hundred pounds would
purchase it!
"Why, that is fairly spoken," rejoined Murray, somewhat to my
surprize. "I know naught of the circumstances, Master Ringham, but
perhaps I may settle with our friend here. As for the negro, I will
attend to him."
"And the captain?" questioned the second mate uncertainly.
"Oh, I see no reason why we should bother Master Abbot at this
juncture. There will be time enough if we fail to agree upon the
issue."
"There must be no more violence," warned Ringham, his eyes on me, his
words addressed to all of us.
"Violence!" rejoined Murray jovially. "Let us reject the idea
altogether. Why should we disdain sweet reason's rule? Eh? Master
Orm--er--Juggins?"