THE CARGO BREAKS LOOSE
The pouring torrent of black men flowed and swept between the mutineers
and ourselves, and we were borne along before them like a chip on the
crest of a wave. Their wild cries sounded above the curses and yells of
the fighting men, blending into a wild, hoarse roar from three hundred
deep chests. By sticking close together, we managed to make a retreat to
the after-companionway, but it was desperate work.
The Africans hurled their naked bodies upon our weapons, regardless of
cuts and thrusts that went home every time, and they struck at us
savagely with the bars and staves they had collected.
Mr. Gull received a blow that stretched him senseless, and it was only
after a desperate stand that we managed to haul him out from under the
struggling men who pitched upon him. Curtis, being badly wounded, could
not keep with us, and he was pulled back into the crowd and never seen
again. Ernest, who bore himself so bravely, fell at the companion, and
it was Hawkson who tore his way into a mass of mad blacks and hauled him
over the ladder.
There were only a few of us left. Hawkson, Hicks, Henry, Howard, and
myself could do duty, but we were all badly wounded.
The light from the cabin below shone in our faces, and we set our backs
to the opening. I saw Howard’s eyes shining from his mask-like face like
two bright, black beads. Blood poured down Hawkson’s cheeks from a cut
on the forehead, and made him a grisly sight. Hicks was white as a
sheet, but cool and steady. He had received a thrust in the breast that
made him wheeze at each breath.
We made one desperate rally at the companion, and I looked below over my
shoulder. As I did so, I saw a form staggering in from forward, and
heard the clank of the heavy door in the bulkhead. I looked again, and
saw Big Jones coming, with a pair of broken irons on each wrist, and a
pistol in his left hand, while in his right he carried a shining
cutlass.
“Stand clear, I’m a-comin’,” he said, and we made way for him as he
mounted the steps.
The light on the top of the companion, where Gull had placed it, still
burned. The slaves swarmed everywhere, except on the glass skylight.
By the dim flare, I could see what was taking place. Shannon had been
carried along the port rail to the after end of the poop, and Martin had
thrust with all his remaining strength, hobbling along, aided by
Anderson. Over the heads of the black crowd, I could make out Shannon’s
tall form, as he cut and slashed right and left, making a lane through
the men, and leaving a pile of bodies to mark his course and ease the
pressure upon him.
“Coom on, ye black divils!” cried Martin, faintly. “Coom on, an’ take
the sailormen.”
A huge black towered above him, wielding a hand-spike, and several more
pressed Anderson back.
The Scotchman rose to his full height, and, seizing his cutlass in both
hands, smote the African a blow that sank the blade down to his nose.
Before he could wrench it clear, the fellow went headlong to the deck,
carrying the blade with him, snapping it free from the hilt, and leaving
Martin helpless. The mob surged upon him and he disappeared. We saw him
no more.
Anderson had a similar fate. A dozen giants in ebony grasped his cutlass
in their hands, regardless of the blade. It was wrenched from him, and
he went down, followed by a dago named Guinea and a couple of the blacks
from the slave-pen. Gus, Gilbert, and the rest of the mutineers had
disappeared already, leaving only one black and Shannon of the entire
crowd.
The African, fighting against his fellows, lasted but a few moments. He
was crowded to the rail. Throwing his cutlass into the mob, he sprang
clear of the side and was gone in the darkness, and Shannon was left
alone at the taffrail, where he made his last stand.
A great black fellow made his way aft, calling out in a clear, deep bass
voice. He was apparently entirely naked, and his skin shone and
glistened in the lantern’s light. He carried a cutlass in his hand, and
thrust his followers aside, as he made his way to the long skipper, who
fought gamely on.
“Ho! Benga Sam, I wanter know,” cried the sailor. And the black giant
called out something in his clear tones.
It was evident that there was a score to settle, for the black man
hurled his kind right and left to get in. Some of the nearest drew back
at the sound of his deep voice, and pressed back the heavy weight of the
mob behind, clearing a small space in front of Shannon. Into this the
black giant forced his way.
All this happened in an incredibly short time, but the solid bank of
human flesh before us was pressing closer, in spite of Hawkson’s
desperate efforts.
Big Jones reached us, and, placing his pistol at the breast of the
nearest African, fired. Then he whirled his blade into the thick of
them, and all together we forced a space clear about the companion.
Howard was nearly spent. I was desperately wounded, and leaned against
the companion, panting for breath, while Hicks grasped the coaming to
keep from falling.
In the breathing spell, while Jones held the way, I saw what was taking
place a few feet distant.
In the open space cleared around the long skipper, the big black fellow
stood and called upon the white man to pay the penalty of some past
crime. Shannon had been on the coast before, and he certainly recognized
the black. He had doubtless done him some wrong. He met him with a
spirit worthy of a white man, and, in spite of his sins, he made a
gallant stand to the end.
The black set upon him with terrific force, his blade rising and falling
so fast that the eye could hardly follow it. Shannon, drawing himself to
his full height, parried and returned stroke for stroke, his amazing
vigour unimpaired by the action of the past half-hour. There was no
retreating for either. The black wall of human bodies held them on all
sides to the taffrail, and the nearest living men strained their utmost
to keep clear of the whirling blades, while those behind pressed in and
forced them closer.
Both men were desperately wounded in a few moments. Then Shannon,
seeming to feel that his life was ebbing, rose to one mighty effort.
He slashed with great vigour for some moments, and then, without
warning, sprang furiously forward, and, taking the black’s blade through
the body, he drove his own into his black chest until I saw the glint of
the metal in the rear. They swayed for a few seconds, and then went
down, while the mob surged over them and flowed around to where we were
holding the stairs.
“Get below and shut the doors,” said Jones. “I ken hold them fer a few
minutes, that’s all.”
Hawkson looked at him, and I saw a ghost of an old smile flitting over
his hard-lined face.
“You’ll do for a big one, Jones,” said he, and his teeth gleamed in the
night.
“You stand on either side,” said Howard. “I’ll take the front.”
Hawkson was about to remonstrate, but the old pirate shut him off
harshly.
“Who’s the captain here, me or you?” he cried.
“You, but you won’t be within five minutes,” said Hawkson.
“Get below, Hicks and Heywood; maybe you can bring Gull and Ernest back
for short stand. There’s liquor in the pantry.”
We were too badly hurt to stand much longer, and were worthless in a
rush, so we went down the companion and tried to tie up our hurts.
Miss Allen had already brought Gull around, and had partly revived
Ernest. She smiled faintly at me, as I came down the companionway,
limping and clutching the rail at the side. Hicks was behind me, and
looked sadly at the girl as the noise of the rush sounded behind us.
She came to us and tied us up the best she could, stopping the bleeding,
and, as she handed me a glass of spirits, spoke.
“Hicks,” said I, “you better take Miss Allen below into the lazarette
and bar the door. They may overlook you there. It will only be a matter
of a few minutes’ more fighting. The barque is doomed. Go while you can,
for there is no other to take her. Gull and I must make our last stand
on deck.”
“And a precious short one at that,” said the second mate, who was barely
able to keep his feet.
The liquor was burning within me now like oil poured upon a dying flame,
and under its influence I grasped my cutlass and placed my foot on the
stair, to mount again and join the panting, struggling men, whose backs
showed against the opening now and then, as they cut and lunged at the
press before them. They could not last long, and I could already hear
the high, rasping breathing of the old captain, who was making his last
fight.
“You will come also,” said Miss Allen to me. “You must know of some way
to hide in a ship.”
Her eyes held a mute appeal that was hard to resist. She was filled with
horror, and the terror in her look made me hesitate. Yet, when I
thought, I knew Hicks could find a place easier than I, and one would be
less apt to be missed than two. Besides, the men on deck were fighting,
and my place was there as long as I could stand. Sir John Hicks looked
at me, but said nothing.
“I’ll come later,” I answered. “Some one must hold the stair. Hurry
while there’s time.”
Then I mounted the companion, followed by Gull, and came out into the
last fight on the quarter-deck.