"We shall wait till everything is quite still on board, and then let the
boat drift alongside. Dance will hold on with the hook; we shall board
her and take them by surprise as they did us, unless their watch is
sharper than ours."
"You trust us, sir. We'll have her," whispered Tom Fillot. "We must."
"Then, now--silence. We must wait for a time, the later the better.
When I give the word, Tom Fillot will let the boat drift, two men will
give a few dips with oars, and I shall steer her alongside; then Dance
will hook on. You will all follow me--"
"And the schooner's ours once more."
"If it is the schooner," said Mark, dubiously.
"If she ain't, she's a slaver, sir," replied Tom Fillot, "and that's
enough for we."
They waited in the silence and darkness, listening intently for every
sound, but very little was heard from the vessel. Once there were
footsteps, and later on they made out a glow of light upon the water,
which they judged rightly to be the reflection from the cabin windows,
which of course was farthest from them, the vessel being moored from the
stem.
Then they sat listening to the rippling of the swiftly-running water,
and the peculiarly weird cries and other sounds which came from the
shore, terribly suggestive of prowling beasts seeking their nightly
food.
It must have been getting toward two bells when Mark, who had been
bending over Mr Russell, to try and make out by touch how he was,
started up in horror, for, from the direction of the moored vessel,
there came a burst of cries, as if someone was being tortured in a
terrible way.
"What's that?" cried Mark, in an excited whisper.
"What I wanted to hear, sir," replied Tom Fillot in the same tone. "It
might ha' been as that warn't a slaver, after all; but that there noise
settles it."
"Then you think it was the poor wretches crying out?"
"Sure on it, sir; as sure as I am that there's somebody going to shout
at 'em to be quiet, or he'll come and chuck some of 'em overboard."
Even as the man spoke, footsteps were heard, and then there was a sharp
sound like the banging of the top of the hatch with a capstan bar,
followed by a fierce shout delivered in a threatening way.
Then came a low, piteous moaning and sobbing, mingled with the crying of
children, and once more the top of the hatch was banged.
"Guess I'm coming down to give it to some of you. Stop that! Do yer
hear?"
These words came clearly enough over the water in the silence of the
tropic night, and once more all was still again, and there was a low
whistling, as if someone were walking back to the cabin-hatch, where he
stood for a few minutes, and then went below.
"Tom," said Mark, "that's the slaver skipper."
"Yes, sir, so I s'pose. Nobody else wouldn't bully like that."
"I mean the skipper of the schooner we took."
"Think so, sir?" cried the man, excitedly.
"I'm sure of it. I know his voice again. That's the man who had me
thrown into the boat."
"That's right, then, sir. I couldn't tell, because my head was all dumb
with the crack I got; but you weren't hit, and of course you'd know."
Just then there came a low, piteous, half-stifled wail from the vessel,
which went so home to Mark's feelings, that his voice sounded changed
and suffocated, as he whispered,--
"I've often said that I was sorry I came to sea, Tom Fillot, so as to be
sent on this horrible slavery business, but I'm glad now."
"That's right, sir."
"And we'll have that schooner back, and set those poor creatures free if
I die for it."
"That you shall, sir," cried Tom Fillot. "No, no, that you shan't, I
mean."
"Not take her?" said Mark, half aloud in his surprise.
"Hist! No, no, sir. I didn't mean that; I mean not die for it."
"Oh, I see."
"You shall take her, sir, as soon as you give the word; but, begging
your pardon, sir, if I might ask a favour for me and the men--"
"Yes; what is it?"
"Don't be too hard on us, sir, in the way of orders."
"What do you mean? I won't ask you to do anything I shall not try to do
myself."
"Oh, it ain't that, Mr Vandean, sir. We know you for a fine, plucky
young gent, as we'd follow anywhere. What I meant was, don't be too
stiff with the men in the way o' stopping 'em. We don't want to kill
any of the beggars, but we should like to give it 'em as hard as we
can."
"Do, Tom," whispered Mark, excitedly. "The beasts! the wretches! the
unmanly brutes! Oh, how can those poor blacks be such pitiful,
miserable cowards, and not rise up and kill the villains who seize them
and treat them in such a way!"
"I'll tell you, sir. It's because they've been beaten. I don't mean
larruped with a stick, but beaten in some fight, and made prisoners up
the country. Since then they've been chained and driven and starved and
knocked about till all the man's gone out of 'em, and made 'em so that
they haven't got a spark o' pluck left. You take 'em and treat 'em
well, and it all comes back, like it did to poor old Soup and poor old
Taters. They was fast growing into good, stiff, manly sort o'
messmates, with nothing wrong in 'em but their black skins, and I don't
see as that's anything agin a man. All a matter o' taste, sir. Dessay
the black ladies thinks they're reg'lar han'some, and us and our white
skins ugly as sin."
"We must have that schooner, Tom Fillot," said Mark, after a short
pause.
"You've got it, sir, and we'll sail her up to the port with flying
colours. You'll see."
"I hope you'll turn out a true prophet, Tom."
"So do I, sir, and I'm just going to whisper to the boys what you say,
and then I'm thinking it'll soon be time to go on board and kick those
chaps over the side."
"No killing, Tom."
"No, sir. You trust us. We won't go quite so far as that," said the
sailor grimly; and he crept away to begin whispering to his messmates,
while Mark sat straining his eyes in the direction of the schooner, hot,
excited, but without the slightest sensation of shrinking. This had
given place to an intense longing for action, which made his heart beat
with a heavy throb, while, from time to time, there was a strange
swelling in his throat, as he thought of the agony of the poor creatures
pent-up in the stifling heat of the schooner's hold, some of them,
perhaps, dying, others dead, and waiting to join their fellows in the
silent waters, happily released from their pain.
He was so deeply plunged in thought that he did not notice Tom Fillot's
return, and he gave quite a start as the man laid a hand upon his knee.
"Look there, sir," he whispered.
"Eh? where?"
"Over the trees, behind me."
"Fire?" whispered Mark, excitedly, as he gazed at a warm glow away
beyond the forest.
"No, sir; the moon. She'll soon be up, and we must have that schooner
in the dark."
"Then we'll begin at once," said Mark, decisively.
"Right, sir. The lads have some of 'em got their cutlashes, and them as
ain't have each got two good hard fists; and it strikes me as they'll
use 'em too. So when you're ready, sir, give the word."
Mark felt for his dirk, which was safe in his belt, and then thought of
the quiet little parsonage at home, and of the horror that would assail
his mother if she could know of the perilous enterprise upon which he
was bound. Then came the recollection of his grave, stern-looking
father, and of what would be his feelings.
"Would he say don't go?" thought Mark.
The answer seemed to come at once.
"No; he'd say, `It's your duty, boy. In God's name go and do your
best.'"
"I'm ready, Tom Fillot," he said half aloud, as he felt for and seized
the rudder-lines. "Now, my lads."
There was a low buzz of excitement, and then, in obedience to an order,
a couple of oars were softly thrust into the water. Dance stood ready,
but there was no boathook, and he fretfully asked what he was to do.
"Hold on by the chains, mate," whispered Tom Fillot, "and I'll help you.
Dessay we can make the painter fast afore we get aboard."
As he spoke, he was busily loosening the rope which held them to the
tree, and then stood holding the end just round the bough.
"Ready, sir, when you like to say `Let go!'"
Mark paused a moment or two, breathing hard, and tried to think of
anything that had been left undone, knowing as he did that the slightest
hitch in the proceedings might mean failure; but he could think of
nothing, and leaning forward, he whispered,--
"You understand, my lads? Drop down, make fast, all in silence. Then
follow me aboard, make for the cabin, and knock down every man who tries
to get on deck."
"Ay, ay, sir," came in a whisper that was terribly impressive in its
earnestness.
Nothing then remained but for him to say "Let go!" But he hesitated
yet, and looked about him, to see that in a very few minutes the moon's
edge would be rising above the forest, flooding the river with its
silvery light. If a watch was kept, which seemed to be certain, they
would be seen, the captain and crew alarmed before they could get
aboard, and, with so weak an attacking party, they would be at a
terrible disadvantage. So hesitating no longer than to give himself
time to loosen his dirk in its sheath, he leaned forward once more, and
in a low, earnest whisper gave the order,--
"Go!"
There was a faint rustle as the rope passed over the bough, a little
splash as it struck the water, the two oars dipped without a sound, as
the boat swung round, and they glided rapidly up the river with the
tide.
The distance, at the rate of speed at which they were going, was
extremely short, and Mark had to whisper to the men to pull harder, so
as to make the boat answer to the rudder: while the moon rose higher,
and though still invisible above the horizon, sent upward so warm a glow
that the topmasts of the schooner became visible, and Mark was able to
steer right for her bows.
"Now!" he whispered, "in with your oars."
He was obeyed, and the men laid them in, but made a slight noise--a mere
trifle of sound, but it was sufficient to alarm the man forward, who was
keeping watch; and to Mark's horror, he heard a quick movement, followed
by a shout of alarm.
But it was just as the boat grazed up against the schooner's side,
glided along, and Tom Fillot gripped the chains, stopped her course, and
made fast the painter.
"What's the matter? Are they getting out?" cried the skipper, hurrying
on deck, and of course upsetting the plan of keeping him and his men
below.
But before he had quite finished his question, Mark's voice rang
out,--"Forward!" and he sprang up in the chains, followed by his men,
leaped on deck, and directly after there was aflash and the report of a
pistol, but the man who fired it was driven headlong down upon the deck,
to roll over and over until stopped by the bulwark.
It was the skipper who fired, and then went down with a fierce cry of
rage, for Tom Fillot had rushed at him, striking him in violent
collision, the weight of the running sailor being sufficient to send him
flying. But he struggled up in a moment, and using his pistol as a
club, struck with it fiercely in all directions as he cheered on his
men, and bravely resisted the attempt to drive him and his followers
below.
It was still very dark; the schooner's crew had rushed up at the first
alarm, and as fast as they cleared the combings of the hatch, they
dashed at their assailants, with the consequence that in a very few
seconds the deck was a confusion of struggling, yelling, and cursing
men, the two parties fighting hard for their different aims, to beat the
defenders below--to drive the attacking party overboard into their boat
or into the river--anywhere to clear the deck.
It was a wild and savage affair, the energy of desperation being fully
developed on either side. Weapons were little used, for the two parties
closed in a fierce struggle, or else struck out with their fists; and as
the two parties were pretty well balanced for numbers, the fight was
obstinate to a degree.
Cheering on his men, Mark had been one of the first to leap on deck,
and, once there, he had dashed, dirk in hand, at the first sailor he
encountered, and immediately found out that even if armed with a dirk, a
middy of seventeen is no match for a sturdy, well-built fellow of
thirty; and though he caught his adversary by the throat with one hand,
and pointed his dirk with the other, as he bade the man surrender,
matters went badly for him.
For the man, who knew that the capture of the vessel meant endless
trouble and loss to him, had not the slightest intention of surrendering
to a mere boy, and in two vigorous efforts he sent Mark's dirk flying in
one direction, and hurled him in another so violently that the lad fell
heavily on his head and shoulder, and for the space of two minutes there
was no one to hold the command.
But Mark's semi-insensibility only lasted those two minutes; then he was
fully awake to the shouting and struggling going on around and over him.
Naturally objecting to be trampled, jumped upon, and used as a
stumbling-block for friends and enemies to fall over, he exerted himself
to get out of the way, rolled over and found his dirk beneath him, rose
to his feet, aching, half-stunned, and, in pain intense enough to enrage
him, he once more rushed at the nearest man, roaring to his followers to
come on.
The orders were unnecessary, for the men had come on, and were locked in
the embrace of their enemies, but the cry stimulated the brave fellows
to fresh exertion, and to the rage and mortification of the Yankee
skipper, the schooner's crew were driven back step by step aft, till the
next thing seemed to be that they would be forced below, the hatch
clapped on, and the Englishmen be masters of the slaver.
But it was not so. Load a gun with powder, fire it, and the force of
the preparation will drive the bullet a certain distance. But then the
powder has exploded, and its force is at an end. So it was with Mark's
followers; the force in them was expended and sent the slavers right
aft, but there was no more power left. They were all weak and
suffering, and in obeying Mark's last cry they were completely spent,
while their enemies were vigorous and strong.
Finding out the weakness of the attacking party, the slavers ceased
giving way, rebounded, and the tables were rapidly turned, Mark's men
being driven back step by step, forward and to the side over which they
had come to the attack. It was in vain that they shouted to one another
to stand by and come on, and that Tom Fillot bounded about, making his
fists fly like windmill sails, while Mark's voice was heard above the
din: they were thoroughly beaten. It was weak and injured men fighting
against the well-fed, strong and hearty, and in spite of true British
pluck and determination, the former gave way more and more, till the
fight resolved itself into assault against stubborn resistance, the men
seeming to say by their acts, "Well, if you are to pitch us overboard,
you shall have as much trouble as we can give you."
"Ah, would yer!" roared Tom Fillot, making one of his rushes in time to
upset a couple of the schooner's men, who had seized Mark in spite of
his struggles, and were about to throw him over the side.
As the men went down Mark had another fall, but he gathered himself up,
looking extremely vicious now, and while Tom Fillot was still struggling
with the slavers, one of whom had got hold of his leg, another man made
at the midshipman, and drove at him with a capstan bar, not striking,
but thrusting fiercely at his face with the end.
Mark ducked, avoided the blow, and naturally sought to make reprisal
with the ineffective little weapon he held, lunging out so sharply that
it went home in the man's shoulder, and he yelled out, dropped the bar,
and fled.
"Why didn't you do that before, ten times over, sir?" cried Tom Fillot,
kicking himself free. "It's too late now, sir. I'm afraid we're beat
this time."
"No, no, no," cried Mark, angrily. "Come on, my lads!" and he made a
rush, which must have resulted in his being struck down, for he advanced
quite alone, Tom Fillot, who would have followed, being beaten back
along with the rest, till they stood against the bulwarks--that is,
those who could stand, three being down on their knees.
"Mr Vandean, sir--help! help!" roared Tom Fillot just in the nick of
time; and, striking out fiercely with his dirk, Mark returned to his men
and released poor Dance, who was one of the weakest, by giving his
assailant a sharp dig with the steel.
"Now, my lads, never mind the boy," cried the Yankee skipper; "over with
them."
The men, who had drawn back for the moment, made a rush at Tom Fillot,
seized him, there was a short struggle, a loud splash, and the schooners
men had got rid of the most vigorous of their assailants.
A shout and another heave, and Dance had gone. Then Dick Bannock, who
kicked and cursed like a madman, was swung up and tossed over. The rest
followed, and, with his back to the bulwarks and his dirk advanced, Mark
stood alone upon the deck, last of the gallant little crew, knowing that
his turn had come, but ready to make whoever seized him smart for the
indignity about to be put upon a British officer, even if he were a boy.
"Bah! rush him," roared the captain, and Mark had time for two blows at
his assailants, whom he could now see clearly from where he had run
right to the bows, for a flood of moonlight softly swept over the scene.
Then as he struggled hard with the men cursing and buffeting him with
their fists, there came a loud, wildly appealing cry, as it seemed to
him, from the hold where the poor blacks were confined; and it was with
a bitter feeling of despair at his being unable to help them, that Mark
made his last effort to free himself. The next moment he was jerked out
from the side of the schooner, fell with a tremendous splash in the
swiftly-running tide; there was a flashing as of silver in the
moonbeams, then black darkness, and the thunder of the rushing waters in
his ears.