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The Black Bar, a fiction by George Manville Fenn |
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Chapter 26. Trading With The American |
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_ CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. TRADING WITH THE AMERICAN For a few brief moments Mark was ready to turn back and make sure of his prize, but every stroke was carrying him nearer to the stranger, and in less time than it takes to describe it, he found out that he had alarmed himself with his own bugbear. For the Yankee skipper, apparently taken quite aback at the sight of the armed boat's crew, began by ordering his men to stop, and then turned and had himself rowed back as swiftly as possible, with the result that the boats reached the two sides of the second schooner nearly together. And as Mark scrambled up and over the stern, in spite of the menacing looks of three men at the side, who, however, fell back before Tom Fillot and those who followed, the Yankee master stepped over the bulwarks too, and advanced to meet Mark. "How are yew?" he said, coolly. "Didn't know yew was coming aboard. Can yew trade me a barrel or two o' good whites flour? I'm running rayther short." "Perhaps I can," said Mark, sharply, as he cast an eye over the deck. "What ship's this?" "Ef yew'd looked at her starnboard yew'd hev seen, mister. She's the _Mariar B Peasgood_, o' Charleston, South Carlinar, trading in notions. What's yourn?" "Prize to her Britannic Majesty's ship _Nautilus_." "Prize schooner, eh?" said the American, coolly, gazing over Mark's shoulder at the graceful little vessel. "Wal, I am surprised. I said as she looked a clipper as could sail a few." "Your papers, please." "Eh? Oh, suttunly. Air yew an officer?" "Yes," replied Mark, shortly. "Your papers, please." "Wall, I thowt _we_ was pretty smart, and made skippers of our boys in mighty good time, but you beat us. I give in. Ephrim, fetch up them thar papers outer my cabin." A sour-looking fellow with a villainous grin slouched to the little cabin-hatch; and by this time the whole of the boat's crew, including the two blacks, and saving the coxswain, who held on to the chains, were aboard, Tom Fillot scanning the deck eagerly for some sign of the nefarious traffic, but none was visible. "Guessed yew was pirates for a moment, mister," said the skipper. "Yew quite scarred me, and I kim back in a hurry, thinking yew meant robbery on the high seas. Hev a cigar?" He held out a handful, which he had taken from his pocket, and all in the coolest, most matter-of-fact way. "Thanks, no," said Mark. "I don't smoke." "He--he!" laughed the American; "yew needn't be shamed on it. Yewr cap'en don't like it, p'r'aps; but I see yew pulling away at a cigar threw my glass." Mark turned crimson. "Needn't tell a cracker about it, squaire. Here we are," he continued, taking the papers from Ephraim--evidently his mate. "Hev a look at 'em, squaire; but I reckon if one of our officers was to board one of your traders, and ask for 'em, yewr folk'd make no end of a fizzle about it." Mark felt uncomfortable as he took and glanced through the papers, which were all in the most correct style. There was not a point upon which he could seize; and without some grounds he had no right to search the vessel, whose hold looked to be closely battened down, while there was not a sound to suggest that there were slaves on board. "We've made a mistake," he thought, as the writing on the papers seemed to dance before his eyes; "and yet I could have sworn she was a slaver." "Find 'em all right and squaire?" said the American, with his little grey eyes twinkling; and he held out his hand for the papers. "Yes," said Mark, returning them reluctantly, and then glancing at Tom Elliot, whose countenance was a puzzle. "That's right, squaire; that's right. Theer, I shan't cut up rusty, though I might, of course. It was yewr dewty, I s'pose." "Yes, of course," said Mark. "That's right, squaire. Allus dew yewr dewty. I ain't riled. But yew'll trade that barl or tew o' whites flour with me, I reckon, and anything I've got you shall hev. What dew yew say to some Chicago pork? Rale good." "I--a--thank--you, no," said Mark, looking wildly round in the hope of finding some excuse for ordering his men to search the vessel; "but you shall have the flour if I can find it." "That's what I call real civil, mister," said the American, advancing, and backing Mark toward the side, for the lad gave way, feeling that he had no excuse for staying. "Smart schooner that o' yewrn. Guess yew could sail round my old tub. Won't take a cigar?" "No, no: thanks," cried Mark, turning to Tom Fillot. "We can do nothing more," he whispered. "No, sir," said Tom, saluting. "He's too many for us. And yet I could swear to it." Disappointed, confused, and angry at his position, Mark felt that he must give up, and that a far more experienced officer would have done the same. Turning to his men, he gave orders for them to go down into the boat, and then, telling the skipper to come on board the schooner, he gave another glance forward at the hatches, straining his ears to catch the slightest sound, meaning, if he heard either groan or cry, to seize the vessel at once and search. Without such a sign or sound he dared not. It would have been overstepping his authority. "Ready, mister? Guess I'll come in my own boat," said the American; and he backed Mark farther to the side. "Look at old Soup, sir," whispered Tom, excitedly. "Yes; and Taters has got it too." "Here, hi!" shouted the American. "Whare air yew going?" For Soup had taken a step or two forward, after looking wildly and in a puzzled way at Mark, as if wondering that he did not act, and then throwing back his head, he stood with his eyes rolling and his broad nostrils inflated, snuffling like a horse over some doubtful hay. The next moment his fellow was following his example, and uttering something in a low, deep whisper in his own tongue. "Guess them two niggers o' yewrn hev got the megrims, squaire. Get 'em both aboard, lay 'em down, and hev 'em dowsed with buckets o' water." "Stop!" cried Mark, excitedly, as he thrust back the American. "Here, my lads, what is it?" The two blacks did not understand his words, but they did his gesture, and Soup made a bound forward to the main hatchway, uttered a low, deep roar, and stooped, pointing down. "It ain't megrims; it's hyderyphoby," cried the American, quickly. "He's dangerous. Get him aboard;" and as he spoke he drew a pistol from his breast, cocked it, and took aim at the black. But with one motion Tom Fillot whipped out his cutlass, giving it so broad a sweep that the flat of the weapon struck the American's wrist, and the pistol flew out of his hand. At that moment, in answer to a loud cry from Soup, there came a wild, excited, smothered clamour from below the hatch; and with a cry of rage, the American stooped to pick up his pistol, while his men rushed to seize hatchet and capstan bar. Mark's dirk was out now, and he presented it at the American skipper. "Surrender, sir!" he cried; "the game's up. Draw, my lads, and cut them down if they resist. Fillot, have off that hatch." At a sign, the two blacks tore it open: and with the horrible vapour that arose came a wild, piteous clamour from the imprisoned slaves below. "Guess yew're right, curse you!" said the American, in an angry snarl. "Drop it, boys; they're too many for us this time. We're done, and it's of no use to be ugly." "Hurray!" shouted Mark's little party, as they drove the crew below in the forecastle; and after a guard was set, Tom Fillot came back to his officer, who stood talking to the American, while that worthy lit himself a cigar. "This is some dollars out o' my pocket, mister," he said. "Guess I wish that thar nigger had been drowned afore you brought him here. What air yew going to dew now?" That was a question Mark was not prepared to answer, with two prizes on his hands. _ |
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