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The Black Bar, a fiction by George Manville Fenn |
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Chapter 41. Fun! |
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_ "This" was, of course, Bob Howlett's little midshipman's dirk, a weapon worn more for ornament than use. But the boy looked as if he meant to use it, for, according to his own way of expressing himself, his monkey was up, he was bubbling over with excitement, and ready for anything. As it happened, he was exceeding his duty, for the officer in command would never have given a mere lad charge of men to make a desperate attack upon enemies who had apparently taken refuge below. But without a moment's hesitation he bore Mark back against the bulkhead, gripping him with one hand and with the other holding the point of his dirk against the lad's throat. "Here, do as I do, my lads," he shouted; and then to Mark: "Yield, you miserable Yankee hound, or I'll run you through." Excitement, the emotion and relief at finding himself among friends once more, and the prize safe, robbed Mark for a few moments of all power of speech or action; and then the absurdity of the position tickled him into the determination to hold his peace for a few minutes, and keep up the joke. "Here," he cried, imitating the Yankee captain's drawl, and speaking in a husky, disguised voice, "just mind what yew're about with that there toothpick, or yew'll be hurting somebody if yew don't cut yewrself." "Silence, you dog!" cried Bob, fiercely. "Do you surrender?" "Eh? Dew yew mean give myself up as a prisoner?" "Yes, of course, sir." "Then why didn't yew say so, mister, and not talk in that windy-bag way?" "Disarm the others, my lads," cried Bob. "Now you sir," he continued to Mark, "give up your sword." "Shan't." "What?" "I'm not going to give it up to yew. Tell 'em to send an orfycer, not one of the ship's boys." "You insolent hound!" "If yew call me a hound again, squaire, I'll kinder punch your head," said Mark, quietly. "What!" cried Bob, trying to give his prisoner a shake, but shaking himself instead. "If you dare to say that again, sir, I'll have you clapped in irons. Here, my lads, bring 'em all out, and let's have a look at the hang-dog scoundrels." "Cock-a-doodle-do!" Mark gave a fair imitation of the crowing of a cock, and Bob was furious. "How dare you, sir!" he cried. "Recollect you are prisoner to Her Majesty's ship _Nautilus_." "Commanded by Bob Howlett, Esquire," said Mark, in his natural tones, "Oh, I say, Bob, how you can bully and bounce!" Bob's hands dropped to his side, and just then a familiar voice shouted,-- "Where's Mr Howlett?" "Here, sir," said Bob, dismally. "Ah, that's right. Nobody there, I suppose?" The voice was quite close to the door now, and a shadow was cast down into the darkened cabin. "Oh yes, sir, there's some one down here," said Bob. "We haven't taken the schooner after all." "What!" "It's all right, sir," said Mark, stepping out on to the deck to face Mr Staples. "We took the schooner." "Mr Vandean! Bless me, my dear boy, I am glad to see you again. We thought you were gone. But in the name of all that's horrible, how did you come in this state?" "State, sir?" said Mark, who had for the moment forgotten his injuries. "My dear boy, yes; why, you haven't a bit of hair on face or head, and you're black as a negro." "I'd forgotten, sir. It was the powder." "Powder! an explosion?" "Yes, sir; no, sir." "Mr Vandean," cried the lieutenant, "do you want to aggravate me?" "No, sir," cried Mark; and he told him hastily what had taken place. "Lucky for you that you did stop the train," cried the lieutenant; "why, my good sir, it was too desperate; not one of you would have been left alive. But where is Mr Russell?" "In the cabin, sir, wounded." "Tut--tut--tut! Signal for the surgeon, Mr Howlett," he cried; and Bob went off, while the lieutenant looked sharply around. "Where are the rest of your men?" "Dance and Grote are in the other schooner we took, sir." "Another? Well, this is a curious state of affairs. You are left in charge of a prize--" "Yes, sir, and we lost her and took her again, and then captured a second prize. Dance and Grote have charge of her. Haven't you seen her, sir?" "No--yes. Of course, that is the vessel we sighted just before we attacked here to-day. But the other three men?" "Don't know, sir, unless they are prisoners in the forecastle." "Go and see, my lads," cried the lieutenant; and, to the delight of their messmates, the others were set free from where they had been imprisoned. "Then we are all accounted for," said Mark, holding his hand to his burning face, "But where are the Yankees, sir?" "Oh, they performed their old manoeuvre," said the lieutenant, bitterly; "as soon as we set off from the _Nautilus_ to board, they took to the boat they had ready trailing alongside, and made for the shore, where I hope the niggers'll catch 'em and turn 'em into slaves. Hah, here comes Mr Whitney! Poor Russell! has he been long like this?" "Yes, sir; all the time since the Yankees came off in their boat and surprised us." "Then you--you--Why, Mr Vandean, you don't mean to say you've been in command all the time?" "Yes, sir," said Mark, modestly. "Fillot has been my first lieutenant." "Humph! the forecastle joker, eh?" said Mr Staples, grimly. "No, sir, there has been no joking," said Mark. "It has been too serious for that." "So I should suppose, my lad. Hah, Whitney, here's work for you. Poor Russell again. Been insensible for days." "And this lad--burned?" said the doctor, sharply. "Why, Mr Vandean! why, my dear boy, what a state you're in! Get him under an awning at once. I'll dress your face soon." Mark was quite ready to walk, but he was carried and laid down under the shelter of a sail, and in a few minutes Mr Russell was laid beside him, and the doctor went down on one knee to make a careful examination. "Very bad?" Mark heard the first lieutenant whisper. "Bad enough," replied the doctor. "Fracture, with a piece of bone resting upon the brain. We must get him on board the _Nautilus_ at once." "Dangerous?" "Pretty well." "Fatal?" "In some hands," said the doctor, importantly, "but we shall see." Mark could hardly believe it true an hour later when he was lying in a comfortable cot on board the _Nautilus_, with cool applications to his face and head, and a man told off to attend upon him--that man being Tom Fillot. The captain had been to see him, and shaken hands, thanking him for what he had done toward capturing the two schooners, the second, with Dance and Grote on board, being now only a few cables' lengths away. "We found you did not put in an appearance, Mr Vandean, so we sailed south in search of you, and a pretty dance you have led us. But you have behaved uncommonly well, my dear boy--very well, indeed." As soon as he could get a chance, Bob Howlett paid the patient a visit, and reported that the doctor had performed an operation upon Mr Russell's head, and said that he had borne it very well. "What an unlucky fellow he is," Mark cried, as he lay there in perfect peace now that he was relieved of his responsibility, and could rest. "Not half such an unlucky beggar as some one I know," grumbled Bob. "Oh, you mean me," said Mark, quietly. "That I don't," cried Bob. "I call you lucky." "Me?" "Yes; look at the fun you've had all to yourself. A regular cruise." "Fun?" "Yes, fun. Captain of the schooner; capturing another; complimented by the skipper; praised by old hooks and staples; and of course, just when I thought I was going to distinguish myself, and charged down into that dark cabin and made sure I'd captured the skipper at the point of my sword--" "Dirk," said Mark. "Well, dirk, if you like--of course it must turn out to be you. Bah! it's disgusting." "Nonsense!" "It is, I say," cried Bob, angrily. "You get all the fat and gravy of life. And now you're as good as wounded, and you'll be named in the skipper's despatch, and--but oh, what a lark!" cried Bob, bursting into a roar of laughter. "What a jolly old fifth of November guy you do look!" _ |
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