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The Black Bar, a fiction by George Manville Fenn |
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Chapter 34. In Desperation |
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_ CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR. IN DESPERATION "In the name of common sense, Tom Fillot, what are you talking about?" cried Mark, angrily. "The Yanks, sir." "But what have they to do with it? Oh, my arm! It's nearly dragged out of the socket. Here, speak out. What do you mean?" "Only this, sir: they were too cunning for us. They cheated us with that row they made." "Look here," cried Mark, pettishly, for he was in great pain, "I'm in no humour for listening to your rigmaroles. Help me to get this hatch undone, and then we must make a rush at them and drive them below. Nice state of affairs to beat the Americans, and all the time leave the way open for those wretched blacks to take us in the rear." "You don't see the rights of it, sir," said Tom Fillot, dismally. "Yes, I do. The blacks thought they had a good chance of getting their own way, and they took it." "Ah, you think it was the niggers, then?" "Why, of course. Bah! how stupid of me. They made that noise below in the forecastle--the Yankees, I mean." "Yes, sir, you've got the right pig by the ear now," said Tom Fillot. "They kicked up that row to cover the noise they made breaking through the bulk-heading, so as to get into the hold where the blacks are." "Yes," cried Mark, excitedly, "and the slaves fought and tried to keep them back. Of course; and we thought it was those poor fellows. Well, it was a cunning trick. A ship makes a bad prison for one's enemies." "Yes, sir; they've been one too many for us this time," said Tom Fillot. "The Yankees are sharp, and no mistake." "Do you mean to say, mate," growled Dick Bannock, "that the Yanks got out through the hold where the niggers was?" "Yes; that's it." "Oh, very well; that's it, then. Stow all that talking, mate, and let's have a go at 'em again. Strikes me we'd better drive 'em overboard this time." "Ay, but then they'd come up through the keel or in at the hawse-holes," growled Tom Fillot. "Silence!" said Mark, sharply. "Who else is down here?" "There's me," said Stepney. "Fillot, Stepney, Bannock, and the black, isn't it?" "Ay, ay, sir. You're here, Soup?" "Ay, ay, sir," came in the negro's familiar voice. "Anybody wounded?" asked Mark, anxiously. "Too dark to see, sir," growled Stepney. "I feel as if I'd got only one leg." "Ah! your leg not broken?" "No, sir, I don't think so. I'm a-feeling for it. It's all right, sir; it's here, only got it doubled under me when I fell. Aren't we going to make someone's head ache, sir, for this?" "We're going to make a dash for them directly," said Mark, in a voice full of suppressed excitement. "Ah! the light at last. Now we shall be able to see what we are going to do. Hush! what's that?" For there was a loud rattling of chain forward, and Mark looked inquiringly at the face of Tom Fillot, which was gradually growing plainer in the coming light. "They're a-hauling the chain cable out o' the cask, sir, and running it back into the tier. Hadn't we better make a try, sir, now they're busy?" "Yes. Now then, Fillot--Bannock, open that hatch, and then follow me." "Better let me go first, sir," growled Tom. "I'm harder than you, and had better take the first hits." "Don't talk," cried Mark, snappishly. "Now then, can you get it open?" "No, sir," grumbled Tom, after a good deal of trying, thrusting and dragging at it. "Tight as a hoyster." As he spoke, he and Bannock heaved and thrust at the door, and a heavy blow was struck upon it outside. "Keep below there, dew yew hear?" came in an unmistakable voice. "You might as well mind your own business," growled Tom Fillot. "D'yer hear? Keep below." The door cracked again with Tom Fillot's efforts, and the next moment there was a sharp report, and a bullet crashed through. "Guess yew'd best keep from ahind that theer hatchway, strangers, for I'm out o' practyse, and I'm going to make a target o' that theer door." "Stand down, Tom," said Mark. "Oh, I ain't feared, sir, if you like to say keep on," cried Tom Fillot. "I know that, my lad; but I'm not going to run foolish risks." The man came down, and the little party stood gazing at each other in the low ceiled cabin, as the first rays of the rising sun flooded the place, and they could see the schooner astern, with Joe Dance, and Taters the black, looking over the bows eagerly, as if wondering what had taken place. Mark turned to where Mr Russell lay, in the same calm state of stupor, and the sun lit up his face. "Don't look like dying, sir," said Tom Fillot. "Strikes me, sir, as he's getting all the best of it." Mark turned upon him angrily, and Tom Fillot gave him a deprecating look. "Beg pardon, sir. It's my tongue, not me. It will talk." "I suppose the others are imprisoned in the forecastle," said Mark, ignoring his remark. "Dessay, sir. That's why they were getting the chain out of the cask." "I hope they are not much hurt." "Oh, I don't suppose they are, sir. We Naughtylasses are all about as hard a lot as the captain could pick out." "Ay, ay," said Dick Bannock, "they're knocked about, same as we." Just then there reached them a savage yell; the report of a pistol, and then another; and it was evident from the sounds that a fierce conflict was going on, exciting the men so that they made another desperate effort to get out; but the cabin entrance was too strong, and Mark ran to the window. "Can we reach the deck from here?" he cried in his excitement, feeling as he did that the cause of the sounds was that the blacks were making an effort on their behalf against their old enslavers, and that at any cost they must get on deck and help. Dragging open the cabin light, Mark began to climb out, but had just time to avoid a blow from a heavy bar, struck at him by someone looking over the poop, and evidently on guard there to keep them from reaching the deck in that direction. "Let me try, sir," said Tom. "I can dodge him, perhaps, and get up." "Let's try together," said Mark; and looking up again, he could see that there was only one man, a sour, sinister-looking fellow, who seemed to take intense delight in his task. "Wall," he shouted to them, "come on. Sharks is getting hungry, I dessay." His words sent a chill through Mark, and he hesitated as he thought of the consequences of receiving a blow, losing his hold, and falling under the schooner's stern, where, in all probability, one or two of the savage fish were waiting for the unfortunate slaves who died and were thrown out of such vessels from time to time. This idea did not strike Tom Fillot, who got well out and was about to climb up, when a blow came with a _whish_ within an inch of his head. "Miss is as good as a mile," he said, coolly. "Here you, sir; it's rank mutiny to resist the Queen's men. Put down that capstan bar and surrender." "Come up and take it away from me, mister," said the American, with a laugh. "Wall, why don't you come on?" "I'm a-coming," said Tom Fillot, "only that bar's a bit in my way. Better lay it down, mate, for I get a bit nasty if I'm hurt, and if you let me run my head again it, I might be in a passion, and chuck you overboard." "Oh, I shouldn't mind," said the American, laughing. "Come on." Tom made a feint of climbing up, but there was another fierce blow at him, and all the while quite a battle was raging somewhere on deck, the sounds of blows and firing, with yells, oaths, and shrieks of agony reaching their ears in a confused murmur. "Come on, Tom," cried Mark, who was completely carried away by the excitement, and half maddened by the knowledge that if they could make a diversion, the schooner and its cargo might yet be saved. "Right, sir," cried Tom. "Forward, then!" Mark reached up, caught at the ornamental work of the stern, and in another moment would have drawn himself on deck, but the man struck a savage blow at him, and, as Mark threw himself sidewise to avoid the bar, one hand gave way, and in his efforts to save himself, the other followed, his feet seemed to be dragged from the ledge of the window upon which he stood, and he fell headlong. But he was checked, and the next moment found himself hanging head downwards, with his face pretty close to the murky water, in which he fancied he could see the broad shovel nose of a shark. He fell no farther, for, quick as light, Tom had made a dash at him as he slipped, and managed to grasp one leg, which glided through his great, strong hand till he gripped it fast by the ankle. "Hold on tight to me," cried Tom, excitedly; and two men grasped him firmly as he hung over the window-ledge, supporting Mark suspended there, face downward, and just above the level of the sea. _ |
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