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The Black Bar, a fiction by George Manville Fenn |
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Chapter 27. "A Last Resource" |
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_ CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. "A LAST RESOURCE" But Mark Vandean soon began to show the American slaving skipper what he meant to "dew now," and that in times of emergency he did not mean to talk much. For turning to Tom Fillot, he gave his orders respecting the slaver's crew. "Keep them below in the forecastle," he said; "and place the second black over them as guard." "Ay, ay, sir!" cried Tom, and he proceeded to plant Taters on guard over the hatch, armed with a drawn cutlass, to the black's intense satisfaction. "Here, I say, mister," cried the skipper, "yew ain't going to put a nigger as sentry over a crew o' white men, air yew?" "I have done it," said Mark, sharply. "What! going to keep them free American citizens prisoners below like a pack o' niggers?" "Why not?" said Mark. "Do you think I'm going to let you and your men hatch up a scheme to retake this schooner?" The man laughed. "Guess yew're a sharp one, squaire. Wall, what are you going to do with me?" "Take you aboard my ship, sir." "And hang me at the yardarm, squaire?" said the skipper, with a grin. "Not if you behave yourself," said Mark; "but I warn you not to try any tricks, sir, or matters may turn out unpleasantly. Here, Soup!" He made a sign, and the great broad-shouldered black ran up to him eagerly. "Here, my lad," said Mark, signing to the man what to do; "draw your cutlass and take this gentleman on board the other schooner. You'll keep guard over him till I come." Soup whipped out his cutlass, caught the American skipper by the arm, and there was a tremendous yell. "Say, mister, yew didn't tell him to kill me." "No, no, Soup, you don't understand," cried Mark, arresting the man, for he had evidently taken it that he was to play the part of executioner upon the white skipper; while to judge from his aspect, he was prepared to perform his part with great gusto. Then making the men understand, he was about to despatch them over the side in one of the boats, when the American turned obstinate. "Look here, squaire," he said, "I give in, but yew're an officer and I'm an officer. Play fair with a man. That nigger'll kill me sure as a gun if I go along with him. Seems to me I shan't be safe 'less I'm along o' you, so I guess I'll stop here." Mark was about to insist, but a glance at Soup was sufficient to alter his mind. "Very well, stop for the present, sir, till I go back aboard." "Yew're going back, then?" said the American, with a flash of the eye. "I am, sir," said Mark, sharply, "but I'm going to leave a strong prize crew here on board, and I wouldn't advise you or your men to make any attempt at recapture. Matters might turn out, as you call it, 'ugly.'" "All right, squaire, but I don't see where your strong prize crew is coming from," said the man, drily. "Indeed!" said Mark. "I shall be able to show you. I can pick out half-a-dozen blacks from the other schooner who will help the man forward to keep pretty good watch over your crew, and who will not be over particular if there are any tricks." "Oh! slaves!" said the man, with a sneer. "There are no slaves here, sir, now. Under the British flag all men are free." "Oh, if yew're going to talk Buncombe, squaire, I've done." "And so have I, sir," said Mark, "for there is plenty of work wanting me." Leaving the American in charge of the big black, Mark set to at once to make his arrangements, after the poor creatures had been let out of the hold, where they had been nearly suffocated, and now huddled together on deck, trembling and wondering what was to be their fate. "I don't like parting with you, Tom Fillot," said Mark, "but I must. You will take charge here with Billings, Dance, Potatoes, and three of the blacks Soup drilled as his guard. It's a poor crew for you." "Best we can do, sir," said Tom Fillot, cheerily. "I'll have half the Americans on board with me." "Beg pardon, sir, don't." "But they are too many for you to have with your weak force." "Well, sir, quite enough, but you keep the skipper on one schooner, and the men on the other. They're best apart, sir." "But you cannot manage." "Lookye here, sir, I'm going to have a talk to old Taters, and I shall give him a capstan bar to use, instead of the cutlash. I don't understand his lingo, but him and me can get on, and I can make him see what I want; and after that it won't be safe for any man o' the Yankee crew to put his head above the combings of that hatch. You trust me, sir, to manage. Dick Bannock'll be quite as good as me if you appynt him mate. Get back aboard, and make sail, and we'll follow steady like in your wake." "But the blacks we have set free?" "Taters and me'll manage them, sir, and 'fore many hours are up, we'll have two or three on 'em good at pulling a rope. You won't make much sail, sir, of course, now?" "As little as I can, Tom; just as much as we can manage. Then now I'll get back, and the sooner we can set eyes on the _Nautilus_ the better." "So say I, sir. But you keep a good heart, sir, and above all things don't you trust Mr Yankee Skipper, sir." Mark gave the sailor a meaning look. "That's right, sir, and above all things mind he don't get hold o' no pistols." Mark laughed, and after a few instructions he ordered the American into the boat; his men followed, and he was about to step down too, when there was a yell forward, and the sound of a heavy blow or chop. Mark faced round in time to see that Taters had struck at one of the American sailors, but missed him, his cutlass coming in contact with the edge of the hatch, and the next moment there was a desperate struggle going on. The second schooner's crew were forcing their way up on deck, and as Mark called up the men from the boat to help quell the attempt, the American skipper took advantage of his being for the moment unwatched, and climbed on deck once more to make a rush to help his men. But quick as he was, Tom Fillot was quicker; and turning sharply round, he struck out with his double fist, catching the American right in the centre of his forehead, with the result mathematical that two moving bodies meeting fly off at a tangent. The American skipper's head flew off at a tangent, and then he rolled heavily on the deck, while in less than five minutes, with the help of Soup and Taters, who fought fiercely, the American crew were beaten back, and driven or tumbled down into the forecastle one after the other. "Hi! yew, don't shut down that there hatch," cried one of the men; "yew'll smother us." "And a good job too," panted Tom Fillot, as he banged down the square covering. "Here, you Taters, sit down on this, will you?" The black understood his sign, and squatted upon it, sitting upon his heels with a grin of satisfaction. While this struggle was going on, the freed slaves huddled together helplessly, seeming more bent on getting out of the way of the combatants than on joining in, though some of the men, warriors perhaps in their own country before they had been crushed down by conquest, imprisonment, and starvation, did once or twice evince a disposition to seek some weapon and strike a blow. But they soon subsided into an apathetic state, and watched. "Hurt much, Tom Fillot?" said Mark, as soon as excitement would let him speak. "Well, sir, tidy--tidy. I was just thinking about some of our chaps aboard the _Naughtylass_, growling and grumbling at her for being an unlucky ship, and no fighting to be had. They wouldn't find fault if they was out here, sir, eh?" "No, Tom; we're getting our share of it. I wouldn't mind if Mr Howlett was here to have his taste." "My! how you can crow over him, sir, when we get back, eh?" "Let's get back first, Tom." "Oh, we'll do that, sir, never you fear. That ain't what I'm scared about." "Then what is?" "Well, sir, I want to get back without killing anybody if I can, but when they come these games with us and hit hard as they do, it's 'most more than flesh and blood can bear to have a cutlash and not use it. I know I shall make someone bleed with a cut finger 'fore I've done." There was so much meaning in the sailor's words, and at the same time so droll a look in his eyes, that Mark could not forbear a smile. "If it's only a cut finger, Tom, I shan't mind," he said. "That's right, sir. Well, I think you might start back now, and we'll get sail on. Sooner we've got these two into port the better I shall like it. I think I can manage, sir." "But I've altered my plans," said Mark, thoughtfully. "Yes, sir? What do you mean to do now?" "I'll tell you. It seems to me madness, after this lesson in the American's intentions, to divide my little crew. I want them altogether, and we're weak enough then." "Don't say you mean to give up the prize, sir," cried Tom Fillot, appealingly. "Not while I can lift a hand, Tom. We'll try another plan. I'll get the skipper on board the other schooner. Then we'll have the crew down in our forecastle." "And leave me to navigate this one, sir? No, that won't do, sir. What isn't safe for me, isn't safe for you." "No, I felt that. My plan's a different one. We'll have a hawser from our schooner to this one, after you've made all snug aloft, and tow her while the weather keeps fair." "Well, sir, I don't see why not," said Tom, thoughtfully. "We can leave the blacks on board; and then we shall have plenty of force to meet the Yankees if they try to master us again." "That's right, sir; and as long as the weather holds good, we may do, though I think we shall have our hands full. But look here, sir; why not--" "Why not what?" "There's lots o' irons below, such as they used for the poor niggers. Why shouldn't we couple a lot of the prisoners together, and make 'em safe?" "Put them in irons, Tom? No, I don't like to do that--only as a last resource." "Very well, sir," said Tom, rubbing his head where he had received a heavy blow, "only if you wouldn't mind telling on me, sir, I should like to know what you calls a last resource." "I will, Tom, when I know," said Mark, smiling. "Hail our schooner, and tell them to come aboard in the other boat." Tom turned away and obeyed the order, passing the American skipper, who was leaning on the bulwark looking sick, and as the sailor came up he turned to him with an ugly leer. "Guess I'm going to pay yew for that, young man," he said. "I don't let a chap hit me twice for nothing." "Like to do it now?" said Tom, sharply. "No; I'm not quite ready, mister. Yew'll know when I am." "Thankye," said Tom Fillot. "Then now look here; just you let me give you a hint, too. I'm acting as mate to my young officer here, and he takes a good deal o' notice o' what I say. If you don't keep a civil tongue in your head, I'll tell him as you're real dangerous, and that the best thing he can do is to have some o' them irons clapped on your arms and legs, and then shove you below along with your men." "What!" cried the skipper, fiercely; "put me in irons! Me, an Amurrican citizen. I should like to see him do it!" "You soon shall," said Tom, "if you don't mind. Now then, get down into that boat." "Who are yew ordering about, sir?" "You," cried Tom. "Now then, once more, get down into that boat." The skipper turned to walk away, but Tom's temper was getting hot, and without a moment's hesitation he seized the man by the collar and waistband, thrust him to the side, and jerked him out of the gangway. "Ketch hold!" he shouted, and the man in charge of the boat caught hold and dragged the skipper down into the boat just as the other was rowed alongside. The skipper started up to revenge himself, and then sat down again to brood over the affront, while, as rapidly as they could be transferred, two more men were thrust into the same boat with him, and the rest into the other boat, the fellows looking fierce, and ready for a fresh attempt to recapture their schooner. But the arms of the English sailors, and the fierce readiness of the blacks, Soup and Taters, awed them, especially as their skipper made no sign, and a quarter of an hour later captain and men were safely fastened in the forecastle, with Soup now as sentry--Taters having been sent on board the second schooner to see to the freed slaves, with another man to help him. Then a hawser was made fast and sail set, the first schooner towing the second fairly well, and some knots were sailed toward the north before the position of the sun suggested to Mark that an anxious time was coming. For if an attempt were made to turn the tables upon them, it would for certain be that night. However, Mark went on with his preparations. The blacks on both ships were fed, every precaution taken, and, giving up all idea of sleep for that night, a well-armed watch was set, and he paced the deck, feeling quite an old man with his responsibility. He asked himself whether there was anything he had left undone, whether the tow-line would hold, and a score of other questions, while all above was calmness, and the great stars glittered and shone down from the purply black sky. "Are we to have a peaceful night?" he thought, as he looked over the schooner's counter at the dark silent vessel towed behind. Tom Fillot gave him the answer, by running aft to him, his bare feet making a soft _pad_ _pad_ upon the deck. "Got your shooter, sir?" he whispered. "Yes." "Loaded?" "Of course; but why do you ask?" cried Mark, excitedly. "The game has begun, sir. It will have to be the irons, after all." Almost as he spoke there was a flash and the report of a pistol, fired from the forecastle hatch. _ |
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