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The Black Bar, a fiction by George Manville Fenn |
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Chapter 35. History Repeating Itself |
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_ CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE. HISTORY REPEATING ITSELF "How do you like that?" cried the man, leaning over the poop. "I'll tell you bime by," said Tom Fillot beneath his breath. Then aloud, "All right, my lad. I've got you, you know that." Mark did know it as he hung there with his teeth set fast, for Tom Fillot's fingers pressed into his flesh, and seemed to be crushing it against the bones of his ankle. "Hi, some on you, get more grip o' me," shouted Tom. "Get well hold, Dick. You, too, Bob. Now, then, haul away, and have us both in together." This was as he hung out of the window from the waist, holding Mark Vandean; and exerting their great strength, the two sailors--for Tom was helpless--drew him right back and inward till Bannock could seize Mark's other leg. As they drew him in the man overhead made a savage blow at the boy with the bar he held, but it fell short. "All right, sir, we'll pay all that back," said Tom, as Mark stood on the cabin floor once more, looking rather white, and listening to the smothered cries and yells still coming from the deck, while the big black's face was a study to see in his wild excitement. He had hardly noted Mark's adventure, being all the time close up by the cabin door, listening to the brave fight made by his compatriots; and now, as a fresh pistol-shot was heard, he came from the door. "All righ'!" he cried. "No, no. Come. Fight." There was an ominous silence on deck succeeding his words, then a murmur of voices and the banging down of a hatch. Next came a loud splash, and Mark dashed to the cabin window to look-out for that which he felt sure he would see. And there it was--the body of a man floating slowly by, and then on backward in the schooner's wake, the body of one of the blacks, with wild upturned eyes set in death, and, as it seemed to Mark, a look of horror and appeal in the stern, staring face, gazing heavenward, as if asking why such things should be. A low, deep sigh made the young officer start and look round from the dead figure which fascinated him, to see the big black, whose face was working, and he looked hard now at the young officer, and pointed back at the cabin door, as if asking to be led on deck to avenge his fellow-countryman who had passed before them, another victim to the hated slaving--a black bar across a grand nation's fair fame. "Yes," said Mark, slowly, as he looked at the negro, and met his appealing eyes, and spoke as if the man could comprehend every word, "we will punish them for this. The wretches deserve no mercy at our hands." The great black could hardly grasp a word, but he smiled, as if a great satisfaction had filled his breast. For the tones in which the boy officer spoke and his manner were sufficient to make him stand back against the bulkhead with his arms folded, as if waiting for his superior's orders, and patiently watching as Mark called what may be dubbed a council of war. The difficulty was to propose a plan of action, but Tom Fillot said cheerily: "Don't know that there's much difficulty about it, sir. Them Yankees have shown us the way. All we've got to do is to follow their lead. Why not?" "'Cause they'll take jolly good care we don't, messmate," said Dick Bannock, wagging his head. "We've guv 'em a lesson in taking care of prisoners, and take my word on it, Tom Fillot, they've larnt it by heart." "Hark!" cried Tom Fillot; "they're a-lowering down the boat." For the chirruping of the little wheels of the falls sounded familiarly on their ears. "It's to go to the other schooner," cried Mark, excitedly. "They'll take Dance and Grote prisoners too. Do you think you could reach the tow-rope, Tom?" The sailor looked out from the little window and upward. "No, sir," he said, despondently. "Too high up, and that chap's waiting to give me one on the head." "Yes; that will not do," cried Mark, as the splash of the schooner's boat in the water was heard, and the voice of the skipper shouting some directions. Mark stood hesitating for a few moments, and then, acting upon a sudden thought, he placed his hands to his mouth, reached out of the cabin window, and shouted with all his might: "Schooner ahoy! Coxswain!" "Ay, ay, sir," cried Dance from the bows of the towed vessel, just as the boat with five men in glided into sight close to her right. "Danger! Prisoners!" "Hi! yew stop that!" cried a voice from the boat, and a man stood up and pointed a pistol at the midshipman. "Ay, ay, sir," cried Dance. "Keep the schooner off, and follow at a distance," roared Mark. _Bang_! There was a puff of smoke, the dull thud of a bullet striking the side of the cabin window, and, directly following, the sharp report. "Loose the schooner," yelled Mark, between his hands. "Go in, yew," roared the man in the boat, presenting his pistol again; but at that moment Tom Fillot took aim with an empty bottle he had kicked from out of a locker, and hurled it over Mark's head with all his might. So true was Tom's aim, and so swiftly was the bottle sent, that the American had not time to avoid it, and received a heavy blow in the chest, sufficient to disorder his aim as he fired again. "Ay, ay, sir," cried Dance, who seemed quite clear again in his head. "Quick, then," cried Mark, excitedly. "Cut the tow-rope and stand off." "Yah!" came in a roar from the boat, as the man suddenly sat down, "give way--pull, boys--pull like steam!" The men began to send the boat through the water, making it foam, and they had but a cable's length to go, but the moments were lengthened out by excitement, and it seemed to Mark as if Joe Dance would never get the cable cut in time. For while the oars splashed and the men pulled, the coxswain tried to get out his knife, and as Mark and the others watched him, he was evidently nervous, and fumbled. Then he tried to open it with his teeth, but the spring was strong, and he had to alter his tactics and begin to open it with his forefinger and thumb nail, and still it seemed as if he could not get it open; and all the time the boat was rapidly setting nearer. In another few seconds it would be alongside, and the Americans would be on board, five against two, unless Taters made a brave defence. There were a couple of dozen blacks on deck, but they were only staring stupidly at the approaching boat, and Joe Dance was still fumbling with his knife, while Grote had disappeared. "Oh, if I was only there!" cried Tom Fillot. "They might have saved that schooner," groaned Mark. "Oh, Tom, Tom, is there nothing we can do?" "No, sir; only look on. Hah! at last." "Yes, he's sawing at the cable with his knife." "And it's blunt as hoop iron," groaned Tom. "They're alongside. It's all over. Was there ever such luck?" "Cut, you beggar, cut!" yelled Tom Fillot. "Too late--too late!" said Mark bitterly, as he saw Dance still hacking at the cable, and the boat pulled alongside, while the bow man threw in his oar, and seized a boathook as he rose in his place. In another minute the Americans would have been on deck, and the schooner taken; but, just as Mark Vandean's heart sank heavy as lead, Grote suddenly appeared with an axe in his hand, while his words of warning came clearly to where they stood looking on. "Stand aside!" Then--_Chop_! One dull, heavy blow, and the hawser, cut closely through where it passed over the bows, dropped with a splash into the water and disappeared. The little party at the cabin window sent out a cheer and then a groan, for the bow man had hooked on, and the Americans began to climb up, their leader having his hands on the bulwarks, and sprang aboard, when something black, which proved to be Taters' fist, struck him in the face, and he fell back. Another's head appeared above the side, and there was another blow and a splash. Almost simultaneously Grote struck at another man with a capstan bar, and to avoid the blow, the man ducked his head, lost his hold, and, less fortunate than Mark had been, was hurled with a tremendous splash into the water, in company with the second man, while another got his head up in time to receive a crack which sent him also backward into the sea. The man holding on loosed his hold to save his companions, who were swimming; and as the Nautiluses at the cabin window breathlessly watched and saw them picked up, they became as much interested in the fate of one of the party as if he had been a friend. "Get an oar over," cried Mark. "Scull your boat to that man; he's going down." "The muddle-head!" cried Tom Fillot. "Can't he scull?" No doubt they were hard upon the man, who was doing his best. He had helped two men into the boat--no easy task when they are half-stunned, and by consequence comparatively helpless--and he had been doing his best to get to the others, who had paddled feebly and then thrown up their hands to grasp wildly at vacancy, so that the case began to look hopeless indeed. For, failing in his efforts to scull the boat along with one oar, and evidently getting confused in his excitement, the uninjured man now sat down on a thwart and got two oars over the side to begin to row to where a drowning man lay, fully a dozen yards from him. "Gone!" cried Tom Fillot, excitedly, as the boat was pulled to the place where the man had made a last feeble struggle and then sunk. Mark drew a deep breath, and uttered a faint groan, as the sailor stood up in the boat, hitcher in hand, looking wildly about. A volley of cries now came from the poop, just over where the prisoners were watching. Words of advice, orders, abuse, were hurled at the man's head, and Mark, as he watched, thought of his efforts in the cutter to save the blacks' lives, and it seemed to him like a natural form of retaliation coming upon the slavers' heads, as history almost repeated itself, with a difference. He was, he felt, spectator of a tragedy, and a cold sensation of horror almost paralysed him, but passed away instantly as he saw the man standing in the boat suddenly make a dash with the hook and draw something toward him. There was a cheer from the cabin window, as the boat careened over, and the nearly drowned man was dragged in. "Say, messmates," said Tom Fillot, rubbing one ear, "that can't be right." "What, Tom?" cried Mark, excitedly. "Why, sir, our cheering at an enemy being saved. We ought to be glad to see him drown, oughtn't we?" "It was the man, not the enemy, Tom," said Mark. "Course, sir. I see now; I couldn't make out why we cheered." And now the little party noted for the first time that the vessel they were in had been gliding steadily on, trailing the divided tow-rope, and being lightened of her burden, was now far-away from the boat, while the second schooner, having one sail set, had also glided away. Then a second sail was hoisted a little, and the helm being seized, her course was altered so as to send her to the west. "Hurrah!" cried Mark, forgetting the officer in the elation of the boy. "Joe Dance will not let the Yankees overhaul him now. Look, he's getting the blacks to help haul up the mainsail. Then that prize is all right," he added, with a sigh of satisfaction. "Hope so, sir," said Tom. "I should feel better satisfied, though, if we were aboard too. My, how we could stick to the ribs of this boat here, and lay her aboard some day, and take her again. Ah, here comes the boat." In effect the boat was slowly pulled alongside, and amidst a great deal of shouting and noise, the prisoners could hear the men helped on board, and the boat hoisted into its place. _ |
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