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The Black Bar, a fiction by George Manville Fenn |
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Chapter 32. "Hatching Mischief" |
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_ CHAPTER THIRTY TWO. "HATCHING MISCHIEF" A long, busy day similar to the last, as they slowly crept along by the coast. The weather glorious, the blacks docile to a degree, and the Americans perfectly silent in their prison. Provisions and bottles of water were lowered down to them by means of a line through the ventilator; but the prisoners made no sign. "My!" said Tom, with a laugh, as he fastened a string round the neck of a well-corked bottle to lower it down, "won't the Yankee skipper be mad when he puts that to his lips. Being a bottle, he'll think it's rum. Some folks can't think as a bottle would hold anything else." But no sound came even then, and Mark began to feel anxious. "We haven't suffocated them, have we?" he said in a low voice. "They are so very quiet." "Not we, sir. They aren't the chaps to lie down and die without making a pretty good flurry over it fust. No sir; they're a-settin'." "Sitting, Tom," said Mark, wonderingly. "No, sir; setting. Hatching mischief. They'll give us another of their chickens after dark, and you and I must have a sleep apiece, so as to be ready for 'em to-night." "Yes. We must," said Mark; and after leaving the deck in charge of Stepney and Grote, of the latter especially, as Mark felt sure that he could be trusted now, he and Tom Fillot lay down under an awning they had rigged up, and in less than a moment they were both sleeping heavily. It was nearly sundown when Mark awoke with a start from an uneasy dream, in which he fancied that he had been neglecting his duty. Tom Fillot was standing over him, and the lad's first words were,-- "What's the matter?" Tom Fillot hastened to reply. "Nothing, sir, I've been all round. Prisoners safe, rations been issued, blacks all quiet, shore three miles off, and nice wind from the sou'-west." "Ah!" sighed Mark, with a feeling of relief stealing over him. "I thought something was wrong, and that I had slept too much. How is Mr Russell?" "Just as he was, sir; lying as quiet as a babby." Mark crossed to where a bucket of water stood on the deck, signed to one of the men to empty it and draw another, and into this he plunged his face, bathing it for a few minutes to get rid of the remains of his drowsiness, while Tom Fillot fetched him a towel from the cabin. "You haven't had half enough snooze, sir, but I thought I had better rouse you up," he said. "Sleep? We mustn't think of any more for a couple of nights, Fillot. Now what is the next thing to be done?" "Nothing, sir, but wait." "Nothing?" "I dunno of anything, sir. Sails all right, and unless you set us to scrape the chain cable, I can't think of a job." "Job? There is only one, and that is to get these two schooners safe alongside of the _Nautilus_. We must not lose them now." "Course not, sir. We won't." "How are the men?" "Well, sir, you've been asleep about five hours, so they aren't had time to change much, but they've mended as much as they could in that little time." "Of course. It was a stupid question, Tom. But about the prisoners?" "Oh, they're quiet enough, sir. That cask o' water settled 'em." "But are they not too quiet, Tom? I mean there is no danger of their suffering from the hatch being closed?" "Now look here, Mr Vandean, sir; 'scuse me, but you're too easy and soft over 'em. I don't say they're comfortable, for I wouldn't like to sleep down there without having the hatch opened, but the air they've got's quite good enough for such as them." "But you said they were very quiet, and it is startling." "As I told you afore, sir, they won't die without hollering; so make your mind easy, and go below, and have something to eat. I've had some coffee made, and it's all ready. Sort o' breakfast upside down. Go and eat and drink well, and then you'll feel ready for anything, sir." "Yes. I'll go forward, though, first." Mark smiled and felt brightened directly as a low murmured chorus of sound arose from the blacks, the men showing their teeth and the women smiling at him. He stopped by the forecastle hatch, and listened, but there was not a sound to be heard, and feeling startled, in spite of Tom Fillot's words, he cautiously approached the ventilator, and listened there. The silence was ominous, and a chill of horror came over him as he turned his eyes upon his companion, while his active brain pictured before him the bottom of the forecastle, with a party of suffocated men lying one over the other, just as they had fallen in their last struggle for air. Tom smiled encouragement, but an angry frown made the lad's brow look rugged, and he was about to give orders for the hatch to be removed, when there was a yawn, and a smothered voice said,-- "Guess it's hot enough down here." Mark gave vent to a sigh of relief as he turned away, went aft, and below into the cabin to bend over Mr Russell, who, still perfectly insensible, was sleeping, as Tom Fillot said, "as quiet as a babby." Mark sighed, and the sight of his brother officer took away his appetite; but feeling the necessity of eating and drinking to keep up his strength, he sat down and began, and after the first few mouthfuls felt better, and made a hearty meal. There's something wonderfully cheering in a good meal, and though only a boy, still the midshipman felt like a new man as he went on deck, ready for anything now, and determined to make a brave fight against any odds of enemy or weather to get his prizes under the wing of the _Nautilus_, or into port. Everything on deck looked cheery and encouraging. The men were in excellent spirits, and ready to salute him. Their hurts were better, and though the bruises visible did not improve their personal appearance, they looked in working or fighting trim, and ready for anything if he gave the word. Mark's heart swelled with elation, and he was ready to give the big black, whose absurd name of Soup had already ceased to sound nonsensical, a friendly nod, to which the great fellow responded with a regular man-o'-war's man's bow and scrape. "How's the wound, Soup?" cried Mark, touching the bandage. "All righ'!" was the reply, with a laugh, for nearly everything was all right with the freed slave now. "And how are the people?" "All righ'!" he cried again, as Mark waved his hand towards the negroes. Then, as the young officer moved forward, the black drew the cutlass he wore, shouldered arms, and began to march behind his leader, as if ready to use the blade when ordered. The men laughed, and Soup looked round sharply and wonderingly. "No, no," cried Mark, "I don't want you yet. Go back to the others." He pointed, and the man obeyed on the instant, while Mark used his glass to have a good long look-out for help, but only closed it again with a shake of the head; for there was the far-stretching sea and the long line of coast without sign of human habitation. Nothing more, save that the sun was sinking, with its lower edge close to the horizon, while the sea and sky were glorified by the wonderful colours that spread far and wide. Mark walked right aft now, and hailed Dance on board the other schooner to find that there were cheery answers, and all appeared to be right there, the blacks crowding into the bows to shout and wave their hands to him whom they looked upon as their preserver. "I'm glad, after all, that Bob isn't here," thought Mark; "he'd be as jealous as could be, and say I was as cocky as a lieutenant who had just received his promotion. Am I? One can't help feeling a bit proud, but it was as much Tom Fillot and the boys as it was I, and they got all the hard knocks." "Any orders about the watch, sir, or making or taking in sail?" said Tom Fillot, meeting him as he turned, and touching his hat respectfully. "N-no," said Mark, giving a quick look round aloft and slow. "Everything seems to be right." "Did what I thought was best, sir." "You say the men below have had their rations?" "Yes, sir; and I lowered 'em down some meat as well, but they never said thankye, sir." "I suppose not," muttered Mark. "But now about the watch over the prisoners." "Can't do better than let Soup and one of the blacks do that, sir. They've had a good long snooze in the sun. And if they watch, and you or me give an eye to 'em now and then, we can't do better." "No, I suppose not, Tom. That will do, and we'll be on deck all night. I don't see that we can do anything more to make the hatch safe." "No, sir, nothing. That cask's a puzzle for 'em. We've got 'em safe now." "Yes, Tom, and they're having a taste of what it means to coop up fellow-creatures below hatches like cattle." Then came the tropic darkness, as if a heavy veil were drawn slowly over the sky. Lanterns were lit, the blacks went below without being told, and the business of the schooner already began to work as orderly as if it had been turned into a man-o'-war. The men examined their arms, Mark and Tom Fillot looked to their pistols, and the darkness was met with every precaution for the safety of the ships and crew. Then came a long interval of solemn silence, with the light on the schooner they were towing rising and falling slowly on the long heaving swell, and both vessels gliding gently along toward the north. The night was once more grand, with the great soft stars illuminating sea and sky; but, in his anxiety, Mark could not study their beauty, nor that of the myriads of phosphorescent creatures softly emitting flash and spark, fathoms below in the clear water. These were not the stars or sparks that had any interest for the midshipman now. He watched with interest the lantern in the bows of the schooner they were towing astern, and then from time to time walked forward in the solemn silence, only broken by a sigh from the hold uttered by some black sleeper, dreaming, perhaps, of the village far-away in his own land; then laying the glass on the bulwark, Mark carefully swept the horizon--astronomer like--in search of the star that would send hope and delight into his breast--the lamp shown by the _Nautilus_ coming down to their aid. All this was done again and again, but there was no sign of that help, and he felt angry with Captain Maitland and the lieutenant for forgetting them, or leaving them to their fate. "But of course they could not know what a pickle we are in," he said to himself the next moment, as he resumed his patient watch, going to and fro, noting that steersman and blacks were all intent upon their duty, while Tom Fillot was forward keeping a bright look-out. And so hours passed, and then an intense feeling of drowsiness came for him to combat. It made Mark angry with nature, for it seemed to be so absurd that after taking a good mid-day rest he could not go through a night without feeling so wretchedly sleepy. But after a good sluice in a fresh bucket of water he felt better, and getting a biscuit, began to nibble that and walked forward again. Then back to the cabin, and grew melancholy to see his brother officer lying there so utterly helpless, just when he wanted his aid so badly. Once more in the bows he stood using his glass in vain, and then telling himself that it was not to be expected, he turned to Tom Fillot. "I suppose we shall not sight the _Nautilus_," he said. "No, sir, I don't expect it. Two or three days more like this, though, and we shall be in port without her help." "I hope we shall," said Mark, rather despondently; and, tucking his glass under his arm, he went aft again toward where he could see the faint glow from the binnacle light shining up in the steersman's face. He spoke to the man at the wheel. "Quite an easy job," he said. "Ay, ay, sir: easy enough. Wish it was a little rougher, for everything's so quiet that it's sleepy work." "For all of us, my lad," said Mark, quickly, and he walked forward again, half amused at his own importance, and thinking of how only the other day he was at school, and captain of the second cricket eleven, instead of commodore of two schooners. As he reached the forecastle hatch he stopped short, for a heavier breathing than usual caught his ear, and, peering forward, it was to see that Soup and the naked black who shared his watch were both fast asleep. Flushing up with anger, the midshipman took his heavy glass from under his arm to tap both blacks on the head: but second thoughts stayed his hand, and he glanced forward to see Tom Fillot's figure dimly as he leaned over the bulwark staring away ahead. "They ought to be punished," he thought; "but, poor fellows, they're tired out. I will not be hard on them." Stepping to the back of the cask, he reached over to scoop up some of the water with his right hand to splash over them, and wake them up unseen, and then he felt quite a shock, for his hand did not touch water. He thought the cask was filled right up. Then he was sure of it. Yes, filled quite full. Softly reaching over a little more, he tried again, but still could not reach. "It's more than half empty," he said to himself; and, listening intently, he could hear a trickling sound, and then a faint splash somewhere below. The lad's heart began to throb heavily, and stepping away from the hatch, he walked on tiptoe to where Tom Fillot stood close to the bowsprit, and laid his hand upon the man's shoulder. Tom Fillot started round fiercely. "Oh! you, sir," he said in a tone of relief. "I thought--" "Hist! Fetch up the other fellows quietly-armed." "What's up, sir?" "The Yanks have bored a hole through into the bottom of the cask, and the water's nearly out." Tom ran aft, barefooted, and without a sound, while Mark stepped back to the hatch, and reached over to feel for the water once more. As he did so, and was straining over, with the edge of the cask against his armpit, he distinctly felt it heave up, as if men were busy raising it from below. _ |
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