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The Black Bar, a fiction by George Manville Fenn |
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Chapter 28. Tom Fillot Advises |
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_ CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT. TOM FILLOT ADVISES There was a fierce howl of rage and a heavy crash from forward as Mark drew and cocked his pistol, running toward the hatch with Tom Fillot into the foul smelling smoke that hung around, in the midst of which stood the great black, whirling the capstan bar with which he was armed about his head, after delivering a crushing blow at someone who had tried to climb out, and then dropped back groaning, but not much injured, fortunately for him, the principal force of the blow having fallen upon the woodwork of the hatchway. As the black saw them he uttered a low, savage roar, and pointed to his shoulder, which had been grazed by a pistol ball, the smarting making the great fellow grin with rage and roll his eyes. "Hi, below there!" cried Mark, the excitement making him forget all danger. "Hand up that pistol and any other weapons you have, or we'll fire down among you." The answer was a flash, a sharp report, and a puff of smoke, Mark being conscious of a whizzing sound close by one ear. "You scoundrels!" he cried, passionately. "Surrender; do you hear?" "Not we," came in a familiar voice. "S'render yourselves. You're not Queen's officers, only pirates, and I'm going to retake my ship." "If that pistol is not thrown out on the deck, sir, I give the orders to fire," cried Mark. "That's jist what you darn't do, mister," said the American skipper. "Let 'em have it, sir," whispered Tom Fillot, excitedly. But Mark felt as if the skipper's words were correct, and that he dare not fire down into that cabin to the destruction of some poor wretch's life, so he did not--to use Tom Fillot's expression--"Let 'em have it," but gave orders sharply in the way of defence, and not attack. "Clap on the hatch, Tom," he shouted; and the covering, which had been forced off in some way, was thrust back and held down for a moment or two, before Tom leaped away as a shot crashed through, and the hatch was driven off once more. By this time the rest of the men were gathered round, and it was just as well, for a daring attempt was made to climb on deck, but only for each man who attempted the feat to be sent down again by a blow on head or shoulder. "If you'd give orders, sir," said Tom, "we'd soon have that hatch over again, and fifty fathom o' chain cable piled atop." "I don't like risking you men's lives," said Mark; "but there's no going back now; it must be done." "Come on, Dick Bannock," cried Tom Fillot, rolling up his sleeves. "You chaps stand by with the end of that cable." Another shot was fired from the forecastle, and directly after the muzzle of a pistol appeared over the side with a hand directing it, when _bang_, _crash_--down came Soup's capstan bar, striking pistol and hand with such good effect that they were snatched back, and a burst of fierce oaths came up. "Well done, my lad!" cried Mark; and the black looked at him and showed his white teeth as he stood watchful, and ready, with the bar raised for another blow. By this time the men had laid hold of the end of the cable and drawn some two or three fathoms up from the little forward compartment, while Tom Fillot and Bannock seized the loose hatch ready to clap on. "No, no," cried Mark, hastily; "don't expose yourselves needlessly, my lads. Lie down and crawl toward the hatchway, pushing the cable before you." "Thought you'd fancy we were cowardly, sir," said Tom, obeying his orders. "Then don't think so again, sir," cried Mark, who wondered at his own sharpness and authoritative way. "Now then, stand by all. Ready?" "Ay, ay, sir." "Hah! look-out!" _Crash_. "Well done, my lad." This was as a pistol was once more thrust out, and the hand which held it appeared ready for Soup to hit at, which he did, and missed. But, all the same, the hand and pistol disappeared, and the next minute Tom and Dick, one on each side, thrust the cover over the hatch as they crawled forward, Tom flinging himself across it, while the rest of the men hauled away, and began to pile on the chain cable. _Bang_ again--a pistol-shot fired up through the hatchway lid, and Tom gave a sharp start. "Ah! Hurt?" cried Mark, excitedly, as the sailor rolled over, while as quickly as possible more of the cable was piled up where he had lain. "Dunno yet, sir," said Tom, rising up and feeling his side. "Something give me an awful whack on the ribs. Don't look like a dead 'un, do I?" "Don't say you're wounded, Tom," said Mark, in a hoarse whisper. "Wasn't going to, sir," replied the man, whose hands were still busy feeling his side. "No, I don't think I'm wounded; don't feel like it-- only savage, and as if I should like to drop on to the chap as fired that shot. I know: I have it. The bullet must have hit the chain, and drove it against my ribs. I'm all right, sir. Deal o' fight in me yet." "Thank Heaven!" said Mark to himself, as he thought of how helpless he would have been without the frank young sailor who was completely his strong right hand. By this time the hatch was loaded with coil upon coil of the strong chain, and, though a couple more shots were fired, the bullets were only flattened against the iron links. "Hah, that gives us breathing time, my lads," cried Mark. "Now then, what next?" "Daylight'd be the best thing, sir," said Dance; "and then I should be able to see about--" He stopped short, put his hand to his head, and looked around vacantly. "What was it I wanted to see about?" "It's all right, messmate; don't you worry about that," cried Tom, clapping him on the shoulder. "Eh? No, I won't, Tom," said Dance, thoughtfully. "It's my head goes all foggy sometimes, and then I can't think; but I'm all right again, ain't I, mate? Not going to be like the lufftenant, eh?" "Not you," said Tom Fillot. The coxswain laughed. "Yes, I'm coming round," he said. "Head's a bit soft, that's all; but I'm coming round." While this was going on, Mark had turned to the black, whose shirt was wet with the blood which oozed from the score made in his shoulder by the bullet fired at him when first the attempt was made to escape, and then by the light of a lantern, while the man knelt down, the wound was bound up, the black smiling and making very light of it the while. As Mark busied himself, he could not help thinking of how much demand there was made upon an officer in command, with the result that his respect for those over him was wonderfully increased. All further thought of rest for the men was given up, and the remainder of the night was devoted to keeping a careful watch, Mark pacing the deck and stopping to have a quiet consultation now and then with his mate. "I can't think where they obtained their arms, Tom," he said on one occasion. "Oh, you needn't wonder at that, sir," replied the man, with a laugh. "'Mericans ain't like Englishmen, and pretty well every man jack of 'em's got a pistol hid somewhere about him. It ain't to be wondered at, sir," continued the man, stretching out and clenching his big hand. "I never see a 'Merican yet with a good fist like that, and a man must have something to fight with when he goes knocking about in the world. Well, sir, as you say I'm to be mate while we're on this expedition, p'r'aps you won't mind me asking what you're going to do next 'bout the prisoners. Is it to be irons?" "No," said Mark, firmly. "I can't do that." "Then if I were you, sir, I'd risk them trying to take the schooner again, and send 'em adrift first thing in one of the boats." "On an uninhabited shore? Why, it would be like murdering them, man." "Well, hardly, sir, because you give 'em all a chansh for their lives, though it ain't lively for a look-out to be cast ashore where there's only palm trees and nothing else 'cept the niggers, who might want to serve you out for captering their brothers and sisters for slaves." "No, Tom, it will not do. We must keep the men prisoners, and make the best of our way north, to where we can hand them over to the officers of the law." "Very good, sir," said Tom Fillot, "only either o' my ways would be easier." "Do you think Mr Russell would act as you propose?" said Mark, sharply. Tom Fillot screwed up his face, and shook his head. "No, sir. He'd do as you're going to. But we must keep a sharp eye on 'em, or they'll be too many for us, I'm afraid. They're the sort as it don't do to be easy with, sir, because if you are, they only think you're feared on 'em." "There shan't be much easiness with them, Tom," said Mark, firmly. "They're prisoners, and prisoners they shall stay." "If they don't circumwent us, sir, and get out," said Tom; and the discussion closed. _ |
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