Such were the contents of the letter of which the U.S. marine was bearer
and it was answered as follows:
“Dear Mr. Maxon.—Express my gratitude to Admiral Snave for
the suggestion, but be good enough to add that the health
of my niece demands absolute quiet and that I shall remain
here instead of going to the crowded Consulate; that I deem
any disturbance as exceedingly improbable from my intimate
acquaintance with the character of the natives of this island.
Very respectfully,
J. Dunlap.
P.S.—Will notify Jack to bring a man or two from his ship to
guard premises for a night or so.”
In the evening, as the shadows of night fell upon the house of Mr. John
Dunlap and the owls began to flutter from their roosts and hoot, Mr.
Brice, first officer, and McLeod, the big, bony carpenter of the “Adams”
were seated on the steps of the piazza in quiet contentment, puffing
the good cigars furnished by Mr. Dunlap after, what seemed to them, a
sumptuous banquet.
“I declare, Jack, were it not that the consequences might be serious, I
should rather enjoy seeing long-limbed Brice and that wild, red-haired
Scotchman of yours, led by you, charging an angry mob of blacks, armed
with those antiquated cutlasses that your fellows brought from the ship.
The blacks would surely run in pure fright at the supposed resurrection
of the ancient buccaneers. No scene in a comic opera could compare with
what you and your men would present,” said Mr. Dunlap in an amused tone,
as he rocked back and forth in an easy chair on the veranda, and chatted
with his namesake, Jack.
“It might be amusing to you, sir,” replied Jack laughing, “but it
would be death to any black who came within the swing of either of the
cutlasses carried by Brice and McLeod. I picked up a half dozen of those
old swords at a sale in Manila, and decorated my cabin with them. When I
told the men that there might be a fight they could find no other weapons
on board ship so denuded my cabin of its decorations and brought them
along. Of course I have a revolver but in a rush those old cutlasses
could do fearful execution. They are heavy and as sharp as razors.”
“While I am unwilling to take even a remote risk with Lucy and your
mother in the house, still in my opinion there is not one chance in a
million that anything but bluff and bluster will come of this muttering.
Admiral Snave is always anxious for a fight, and the wish is father of
the thought in this alarm,” said the old gentleman.
“Why isn’t Burton here?” asked Jack almost angrily.
“He is up stairs. He has been feeling ill all day and asked not to be
disturbed unless he be needed. I shall let him rest. However, he has a
revolver and is an excellent shot and will prove a valuable aid to us
should the fools attempt to molest the premises.”
For an hour or two Brice and McLeod exchanged an occasional word
or two but gradually these brief speeches became less frequent and
finally ceased altogether. Mr. Dunlap and Jack carried on a desultory
conversation for some time, but had sat in silent communion with their
own thoughts for possibly an hour when, under the somnific influence
of the night songsters, the Scotch ship-carpenter yawned, rose to his
feet and stretched his long, hairy arms. He paused in the act and thrust
forward his head to catch some indistinct sound, then growled,
“I hear murmuring like surf on a lee-shore.”
Brice arose and listened for a minute then called out,
“Captain, I hear the sound of bare feet pattering on the highway.”
Jack was on his feet in an instant and ran down the walk to the gate in
the high brick wall that surrounded the premises. He came running back
almost immediately and said in low voice as he reached the piazza.
“There is a mob coming toward the house, along the road leading from the
mountains. They carry torches and may mean mischief. Cousin John, will
you have Burton called and will you please remain here to look after the
women. Brice you and McLeod get cutlasses and bring me one also. We will
meet the mob at the gate.”
“Oh! It is nothing Jack, maybe a negro frolic. No use arousing Burton,”
said the elder Dunlap.
“If you please, sir, do as I ask. I will be prepared in any event,” said
Jack Dunlap tersely.
“All right, Commander, the laugh will be at your expense,” cried the
amused old gentleman as he ordered a servant to call Burton.
Jack and his two stalwart supporters had barely reached the gate when the
advance guard of the savage horde of black mountaineers appeared before
it. Instantly it flashed upon the mind of the skipper that if he barred
the gate, that then part of the mob might go around and break over the
wall in the rear of the house and attack the defenceless women.
“Throw open the gate, McLeod, we will meet them here,” commanded Captain
Dunlap, and turning as some one touched his shoulder, he found Burton at
his side, very pale and but half clad, with a revolver in his hand.
“Glad you are here, Burton.”
“I did not have time to put on my shoes.” said Burton.
The main body of the mob now came up and gathered about the open gate.
The men were armed with clubs and knives and some few, who were evidently
woodsmen, carried axes. Many torches shed their light over the black
and brutal faces, making them appear more ebony by the white and angry
eyes that glared at the men who stood ready to do battle just within the
gateway.
“I wish you people to understand that if you attempt to enter this gate
many of you will be killed.”
Young Dunlap spoke in a quiet voice, as he stood between the pillars of
the gate, but there was such an unmistakable menace in the steady tone
that even the ignorant barbarians understood what he meant.
For the space of a minute of time the mob hesitated. Suddenly a tall
woodsman struck a sweeping, chopping blow with his ax. The skipper sprang
aside just in time, and as quick as a flash of lightning a stream of
flame poured out of the pistol he held in his hand, and that woodsman
would never chop wood again.
Brice and McLeod had cast aside their coats, and with their long, sinewy
arms bared to the elbows, cutlasses grasped in their strong hands, they
were by Jack’s side in a second.
As the pistol shot rang out it seemed to give the signal for an assault.
With a howl, like wild and enraged animals, the mob rushed upon the men
at the gate. The rush was met by the rapid discharge of the revolvers
held by Dunlap and Burton; for a moment it was checked, then a shrill
voice was heard screaming high above the howling of the savages,
“Kill the white cow! She has stolen our son from us! Kill the Yankee
robbers! Spare my black goat!”
Sybella could be heard though concealed by the tall black men of the
mountains who again hurled themselves on the white men who guarded the
gateway.
The revolvers were empty. Jack sent his flying into a black face as he
gripped the hilt of his cutlass and joined old Brice and the carpenter in
the deadly reaping they were doing. Burton having no other weapon than
the revolver, threw it aside and seized a club that had dropped from the
hands of one of the slain blacks.
The sweep of those old cutlasses in the powerful hands that held them was
awful, magnificent; no matter what may have been the history of those
old blades they had never been wielded as now. But numbers began to tell
and the infuriated negroes fought like fiends, urged on by the old siren
Sybella who shrieked out a kind of battle song of the blacks.
How long the four held back the hundreds none can tell, but it seemed an
age to the fast wearying men who held the gate. A blow from an ax split
McLeod’s head and he fell dead without even a groan. Brice turned as he
heard his shipmate fall and received a stunning smash on the temple from
a club that felled him like an ox in the shambles.
[Illustration: “He recklessly rushed in front of Burton.”