THE ATTACK ON THE "FROLIC"
FRANK BRANDON was surprised at his own coolness. Beyond a peculiar
sensation somewhere in the region of his belt he felt calm and
collected. Essentially of a peaceable nature, it was the dastardly
action of the Belgian fishermen that had roused his ire.
He realised that if it came to blows it would be an unequal contest
in point of numbers. As far as the _Frolic's_ crew were concerned
there could be no retreat should things go badly with them.
Quickly Old Negus laid out the weapons for defence--a boathook, a
small axe, a hammer and a few stones hurriedly removed from the
ballast. Then he dived into the fo'c'sle.
"Cocoa's hot," he announced. "We'll see 'ow them Belgians like it.
An' I've just a-put the poker in the fire."
Then they waited in silence for the approach of the foe.
The drifter's boat was lowered. The crew of the _Frolic_ heard the
thud of the disengaged lower blocks against the vessel's iron sides.
A gutteral order and the oars dropped.
Brandon grasped the boathook.
"Anglais!" shouted a voice from the _Marie-Celeste's_ boat. "Take in
ze anchor an' go' vay, den ve gif you five poun'."
No answer.
"Ve gif seven poun'," persisted the man in a wheedling voice. "An' a
leetle cask of ze rum."
Still no answer.
"A ver' big, goot cask of ze rum, zen," continued the Belgian. "Ve
hafe eet in ze boat, see. Ver' goot rum an' seven poun'."
The dogged silence on the part of the _Frolic's_ crew rather puzzled
the Belgians. They took advantage of the delay to paddle a few
strokes until their boat was within ten yards of the fishing smack's
quarter.
Then Old Negus broke the silence.
"Sheer off!" he shouted. "Or we'll stave in your boat."
"Vat you mean--stave in, eh?" demanded the spokesman.
"You three chaps keep below till I give the word," said Old Negus,
addressing a purely imaginary crew.
"Ve is nine," announced the spokesman of the boat's crew with the
air of one holding the winning ace.
"Keep off!" was Old Negus's only rejoinder. "Drat they coastguard
chaps," he added in a lower tone. "Them's all asleep. Keep on
signallin', boy."
"Can't much longer," replied Brandon, "The battery of my torch is
running down. Look out!"
The warning was just in time, for the boat of the _Marie-Celeste_
had edged nearer, sufficiently to enable the bowman to deliver a
blow with a fifteen feet ash oar.
It missed the old fisherman by a few inches. Negus's reply was to
hurl a stone, that landed with a dull thud. A yell of pain was ample
evidence that the missile had struck one of the boat's crew.
The next instant the boat was alongside. Four or five men, some
armed with knives, others with cudgels, leapt upon the foredeck of
the _Frolic_.
A well-directed thrust with the boathook enabled Brandon to reduce
the number by one. The fellow, wildly pawing the air, tumbled
backwards, falling between the fishing smack and the boat.
Before Brandon could make another lunge a powerful hand grasped the
boathook. Instantly the Patrol-leader dropped the stave, seized a
hatchet, and with the back of the steel head dealt a sweeping blow
at the legs of the fellow who had gained possession of the boathook.
{Illustration: "A WELL-DIRECTED THRUST ENABLED BRANDON TO REDUCE THE
NUMBER BY ONE."
[_P_. 108}
Down went the Belgian, dragging another with him, the two falling
upon the man who had previously been "ditched." Their combined
weight and bulk sent the boat a good five yards from the smack;
while the two men left on the _Frolic's_ fore-deck, finding their
retreat cut off, promptly leapt overboard.
"That's settled 'em!" exclaimed Old Negus triumphantly. "Eh? What be
the matter wi' your head, boy?"
"Only a scratch," replied Brandon, hardly aware of the fact that
blood was trickling from a cut in the centre of his forehead.
But the old fisherman was wrong in his surmise. The assailants,
having pulled the swimmers into their boat, were returning to the
attack.
Undeterred by half a dozen stones hurled by the crew of the
_Frolic_, the poachers again rowed towards the smack, the bowman
protecting himself by holding up a large triangular grating. By this
time it was evident that they were aware of the actual number of the
_Frolic's_ crew, and confident in a four-to-one superiority they
sought to end the encounter by a determined rush.
In a trice Old Negus dashed into the fo'c'sle, emerging with a huge
iron saucepan filled with boiling water.
"Stand clear, boy!" he exclaimed warningly; then with a sweep of his
sinewy arm he hurled the saucepan and its scalding contents into the
midst of the attackers in the bow of the boat.
Yells and screams of agony burst from the tortured men. Oars trailed
aimlessly alongside, as they relinquished them to hold their hands
to their blistering faces.
The boat, still carrying way, glided under the _Frolic's_ stern, a
thrust with one of the smack's sweeps sending her clear.
This time the would-be boarders had had more than enough. Groaning
and yelling, they managed to row back to the _Marie-Celeste_.
Ten minutes passed without any further communication between the
_Frolic_ and the _Marie-Celeste_. Then a voice, plaintively
apologetic, came from the poop of the Belgian drifter:--
"Anglais! Ve gif twenty-five pours' if you pull in ze anchor."
"Make it fifty while you'm about it," replied Old Negus. "'Twon't
make no difference. Here we bide."
Nevertheless, the skipper of the _Frolic_ began to feel a bit
anxious, for during the encounter the _Marie-Celeste's_ head had
fallen off and now lay with the land broad on her port beam. It was
quite possible that if she went ahead again she might be able to
steam beyond the all-important "three-mile limit."
"Ver' well," continued the Belgian, who had now observed the altered
state of affairs. "Ve back to Ostende go. On ze voyage we cut an'
buoy ze trawl; zen we sink you."
Which was exactly what Old Negus feared. In the darkness the
helpless _Frolic_ could be sunk without a trace, since even if she
slipped her cable, she would be at the mercy of the powerful steam
drifter.
"It's no use your tryin' that," he shouted brazenly. "We've telled
the coastguards, an' there's a gunboat on her way already. Wish she
wur," he added under his breath.
The next instant the drifter and the _Frolic_ were bathed in a
dazzling white light.
Brandon gave a cheer. At the opportune moment, help was at hand.