"Come _on_!"
Bravery or determination, whichever you please, say both, were displayed
by Mark Vandean as he fought horror and disgust in his effort to do his
duty and master self.
Stepping quickly down, he stood at the bottom of the ladder in utter
darkness once more, listening to the strange whispering, thrilling noise
about him, while first one and then the other black cautiously descended
with the bucket of water he bore.
By the time they were in the hold his sight was beginning to grow
accustomed to the change from the bright glare of sunshine on deck, and
once more there were faint suggestions of glistening eyes watching him
out of the cave-like darkness, as if so many savage beasts were about to
spring.
But he had no time to think of his own feelings, for the two blacks now
stood gazing at him inquiringly, and with some trace of their old
suspicious aspect lingering still.
"Water--to drink," said Mark: and he pointed away into the darkness.
They understood him, and dipping the pannikins full, they took each a
step into the darkness, and held out the precious fluid toward those who
must have been suffering agonies for its want. But no one stirred--not
an advance was made, to Mark's great surprise, for he had anticipated
that the black faces of his ambassadors would have been sufficient to
make the prisoners feel confidence that no harm was intended.
"Go closer," said Mark; and the two blacks looked back at him
inquiringly, but obeyed as soon as he laid his hand upon their shoulders
and pressed them forward.
Then a voice broke the silence, the big black saying a few words in his
own tongue, their effect being magical. A low murmur ran through the
hold, and a harsh voice croaked out what was evidently a question, for
the big black answered in a hesitating way, saying a few words, and then
sharply one in a questioning tone, as if he had not understood.
The harsh, croaking voice was heard again, speaking angrily, and there
were several interchanges of question and answer, as if between two men
who did not quite understand each other's dialect.
And now Mark's eyes had become so accustomed to the darkness that he
could dimly see that the place was full of a steamy mist, through which
horrible-looking, ill-defined figures were moving, wild-eyed and
strange. Some were tossing their arms about, others were stretching out
their hands supplicatingly toward the water pannikins, which the two
blacks kept dipping full and handing to those who pressed toward them;
but there was no scuffling or fighting for the water, as might have been
expected under the circumstances. The wretched prisoners seemed gentle
and tolerant to each other, drinking and making way for companion
sufferers.
As this went on, and Mark was able to search the horrible gloom more and
more, he shuddered; and, suffering as he was from the effects of the
deadly mephitic air, the whole scene preyed upon his mind until he could
hardly believe that he was gazing at reality, the whole tragedy before
him resembling the dream accompanying some fever, and it was only by an
effort that he could master the intense desire to struggle up the ladder
and escape into the light and the free fresh air.
The buckets were nearly empty, and he felt that it would be better for
what was left in one to be poured into the other, so that the supplying
might still go on while more was fetched, when it suddenly struck him
that there was something wrong. In the darkness he could dimly make out
two or three tall blacks pressing forward toward where the white-clothed
sailors were dispensing the precious fluid, and it struck him that their
aspect was threatening. The next moment he set the idea down as being
imaginative, and the result of the unreal-looking, dreamy scene before
him. For it was impossible, he argued, for the slaves to be about to
resent the treatment they were receiving.
"It's my head all in a whirl," he said to himself; "and it's just like I
used to feel when I was ill and half dead in the boat."
But the next minute he felt that the first idea was correct; something
was wrong, and it struck him that the prisoners were going to make an
attack. But he could not be sure; the darkness was too thick, and the
excitement and horror of the whole scene made his imagination play
strange pranks. At one moment he could see right back into the fore
part of the hold where it was crowded with writhing, struggling beings;
the next the mist closed over it apparently, and he could only make out
gleaming eyes and shadows sweeping toward him and fading away, to appear
at the side or hovering over his head.
"Yes; it's all from a disordered imagination," he said to himself; and
he had hardly come to this conclusion, when he knew that he was gazing
at the real, for dimly-seen, there before him was a crowd of figures
surrounding the two black sailors. A harsh sound arose--a mingling of
muttered cries and savage growlings as of wild beasts; there was the
noise of the buckets being knocked over, of a fierce struggle and heavy
blows, and a hot, sickening wave of mephitic air was driven outward.
Thoroughly alarmed now, Mark shouted for help, and was then thrust aside
as one of the blacks whom he had brought down made for the hatchway, and
in the brief glance he obtained in the light which shone down from
above, he saw that the man was covered with blood.
For a moment or two, weak still from his late illness, Mark felt
completely prostrate and unable to act; but he recovered himself as
quickly, and started forward to grasp the black's arm.
"Hurt?" he cried.
The man dropped back from the ladder to gaze at him, and then uttered a
few words excitedly as he pointed back into the forward part of the dark
hold.
"Here, stand aside!" cried the lieutenant, as he stepped down into the
noisome hold, followed by Tom Fillot and a couple of the crew, each man
with sword or cutlass in hand. "Now, Mr Vandean, quick; an attack?"
"Yes, sir; the slaves attacked our two men. One of them's badly
wounded."
At that moment a dead silence fell, and the big black's white shirt and
trousers were visible, and he, too, now stepped forward into the light,
while before he could speak a low groan came out from the darkness.
"I thought he was killed," cried Mark, and the man began to speak
volubly and gesticulate, pointing back.
"Bah!" exclaimed Mr Russell. "We ought not to be here without an
interpreter. He is not hurt; it is the other black. Stand fast, my
lads, in case the poor wretches attack. Now, then, where are you hurt?"
This was to the second black sailor, whose white duck shirt was horrible
with stains of blood, as he began to talk fast now and point forward.
"Wounds must be slight," cried the lieutenant. "Can you make out a word
of what he says, Vandean?"
"No, sir; but let me try."
Mark pointed forward, and without a moment's hesitation the two black
sailors plunged into the darkness and returned, half dragging, half
carrying a ghastly-looking object into the square of light shed from
above.
"Oh, here's the wounded man, then," cried the lieutenant. "Let's get
him up into the daylight."
Mark pointed down at the slave, who was bleeding freely, and the big
sailor now spoke out a few words fiercely, with the result that half a
dozen nude slaves came shrinkingly forward, and in obedience to a
gesture, lifted the wounded man and carried him up to the deck.
The officers and men followed, and the two black sailors came last, to
pay no heed to the wounded man, but proceed at once to refill the
buckets, and carry them down into the hold past the guard set over the
hatchway. Then after bidding Bob Howlett to hoist a signal for the
surgeon to come aboard, Mr Russell roughly bandaged the terrible wound
the slave had upon his head, the others who had carried up the sufferer
looking stupidly on, blinking and troubled by the sunlight, to which
they had evidently been strangers for some time.
"Now," said Mr Russell, as he rose, "we are in the dark as much as
ever. Can't you explain what was wrong, Mr Vandean?"
"No, sir; I saw a struggle, and one man seemed wounded."
"And it was someone else. Tut--tut--tut! and we can't understand a
word. What a useful thing speech is, after all."
Just then the two blacks came up for more water, and Mark tried to
communicate with them, but only with the result that they looked puzzled
till the midshipman pointed to the wounded man.
"How did it happen?" he said; and the big black looked at him heavily.
Then he seemed to grasp the meaning of the question, and laughed
excitedly.
Pointing to the wounded man lying on the deck, he ran to the group of
slaves standing staring at him, with their foreheads wrinkled up and
their eyes full of despair; he seized one, whose countenance assumed a
stern look of anger as the black sailor pointed to him, and made the
sign of striking a blow, pointing again at the wounded man.
"He evidently means that the man was wounded by his fellow-slave," said
Mr Russell.
The black sailor watched the officer, and then thrust his hand behind
the slave to take a short, flat piece of wood from the poor wretch's
waistband--a piece of heavy wood, shaped something like a willow leaf.
"The weapon evidently," said Mr Russell; "but I don't see why he should
wound his fellow-sufferer."
But the black sailor had not done with his explanation. He looked to
see that the officers were watching him, and then placed the weapon in
its owner's hand, which he raised, and said a few words to his fellow
black with the blood-stained garb.
This man waited a moment to assist in the pantomimic explanation, and
then, as his companion brought down the weapon towards his own head, he
rushed up between them and received the blow, staggered away as if very
much hurt, and, still acting, reeled and fell down beside the wounded
man, pointing to him as he half rose, and then at the stains upon his
own shirt.
"Well, what do you make of it?" said Mr Russell.
"I know, sir," cried Bob Howlett; "he wants you to understand that if we
take them and make sailors of them, they'll kill all the slavers."
"Thank you, Mr Howlett. Now, then, Mr Vandean, what do you say?"
"I see now," cried Mark, eagerly. "What happened below helps me. That
big fellow thought our man Taters was an enemy, and he tried to cut him
down, but this poor fellow knew better, rushed between and received the
blow."
"I'm inclined to think you are right," said Mr Russell. "Ah, here
comes the doctor. Now, then, about getting these poor wretches up.
Perhaps they'll come now."
He was right, for the task was easy. The blacks on deck, apathetic as
they were, gradually comprehended that they had fallen into hands where
they would be well treated, and after a few gestures and orders given by
Mark, the two black sailors turned to the slaves and spoke. The result
was that the big, fierce-looking black who was answerable for the injury
done to his fellow-prisoner went down on his knees before Soup, and
touched the deck with his forehead before rising with some show of
animation, and then going to the hatch, descended in a half-crippled
way, and they heard his voice directly after.
By this time the doctor was on board, sniffing about with an air of the
most intense disgust.
"Faugh!" he ejaculated; "how horrible! And no disinfectants. Hallo!
wounded man, eh? Humph!"
He forgot everything else in the interest he took in his fresh case,
while now, slowly and shrinkingly, the slaves began to come up from
below, foul, weak from injuries, and suffering from the dreadful air
that they had been forced to breathe. They were a terrible crowd to
gaze upon. Men, women, and children, all herded together like cattle,
and flinching away whenever a sailor went near, as if expecting a blow.
There were nearly a hundred when all were on deck, and the first thing
done was to distribute food and water. The next, to arrange about their
being rowed on board the _Nautilus_, while the schooner was burned.
"And the best thing too," said the doctor. "Faugh! the vessel's
loathsome. Nothing like fire for purifying."
"But we have to try first if we can get her off," said the lieutenant.
"Then all I can say is I hope you will not," said the doctor.
"But if we get her off," said Mark, smiling, "it means that the slaves
will stay on board here."
"Eh? Does it? Oh, well then, I hope you will," cried the doctor.
"Now, Russell, have me rowed back. That fellow's badly wounded, but
he'll soon get well."