While the trader, Mr. Gull, and Hicks were ashore, there was no chance whatever of communicating any of my suspicions concerning Martin and Shannon. Just what these rascals intended to do was certainly a matter of doubt, and, after all, the talk had been so characteristic of the Scot that I feared I was taking it too seriously to give it a thought.
We tramped over the loose sand to the factory, a couple of miles inland, and the heat of the marsh was awful. Hicks, who had hardly recovered from the accident of the morning, had difficulty in keeping up, for his head was still giddy from the effects of the blow he had received upon it. The black fellows, who had sighted our barque before daylight, had thought nothing of a run to the beach, and they went ahead at a great rate along the jungle path, caring neither for briars, spines, or any of the various prickling things that make even a well-shod man hesitate before treading on them. They 265were a tall and powerful set of men, all armed with old flint-lock muskets of ancient pattern; doubtless some of them had been used in the first war between the States and England. We finally arrived and were ready for business. The compound, or slave corral, was an immense enclosure completely out of sight from the beach, and away from the prying eyes of any cruiser that might be prowling along the coast. Felado Cortelli, the half-breed Italian slaver, whose presence had cursed the West African coast for years, was in charge, and he came forth to meet us. Our lack of arms seemed to give him amusement, but when he heard how we had been rolled over in the surf, he laughed loudly.
Within two hours from the time we left the surf, our arrangements had been made, and we were leading between two and three hundred blacks to the beach, where payment was to be made, and they were to be shipped aboard, Cortelli’s own guard of coast pirates making the escort for the unfortunates.
Our boat came alongside with its first load of human freight. Hicks and Curtis stood at the quarter-rail watching the creatures, and for the first time in many days seemed on speaking terms. They appeared to comment upon a girl who was crying and sobbing bitterly, and who was shackled to a huge buck, who sat stolidly gazing out to sea.
266The oily swell rocked the boat but little; the barque, however, rolled lazily like a huge log, swinging her long spars slowly from side to side, and the momentum of each swing hove her down until her channels brought up with a smacking jar upon the surface.
This made it necessary for the boatman to use some caution, for, if the small boat’s gunwale caught anywhere upon the vessel’s side while she was on her downward swing, it would instantly be forced under and the craft upset.
Cortelli stood at the break of the poop, talking to the trader, and, as the girl was told to make ready for a spring aboard, he looked over the side and grinned. The poor creature was frightened and shrank back, delaying the unloading.
“Stir her up,” said the Guinea to one of his bullies.
A black pirate laid the lash, and she screamed.
“Hold on there!” cried Hicks, leaning over the side. “If you do that again, I’ll pistol you.”
His face was flushed, and his hand sought his broad leather belt, where hung his cutlass and long-barrelled pistol belonging to the barque’s supply.
“Sho, man, what’s the matter?” asked Yankee Dan, and the Guinea scowled savagely.
“Dis gal free,” said the big buck, standing up, as he heard the conversation. “He no right to take 267her--nor me. I Begna Sam, no slave. Lib right ashore till you come. Den he cotch us both, an’ say we slave ’cause long sailor, Shannon, he say he buy us.”
Cortelli grinned. It was not the first time he had practised this trick, and, if the blacks had no friends strong enough to protest, they invariably went with the rest of the cargo.
“Where are the girl’s people?” asked Hicks.
“What difference does it make?” asked Yankee Dan. “I see no difference whether they’re ashore here or back in the timber, do you?”
Mr. Curtis nodded encouragingly. It was evident he had no scruples how or where the girl had been kidnapped.
The Guinea, Cortelli, shrugged his fat shoulders, and shot a venomous look at the Englishman.
“Shall I find out where each black resides when at home?” he asked, sarcastically. Then he turned away.
Hicks, instead of following him, leaned over the rail. A strange look of sadness came into his eyes. He was a hard men among hard men, and he had revolted at the squeal of a black woman. I watched him a moment, and looked to see something more happen.
He evidently saw that to send the girl ashore meant to doom her to Cortelli’s will. There was 268only one way, and, as she stepped on deck with the big buck, Sam, he went to him and asked about the girl’s people. She was being separated from her old mother and crippled sister, neither of whom were of any value as slaves. Begna Sam was hustled below with the rest, and Hicks went back on the poop.
“Bring her mother and sister aboard,” said he to Cortelli. “I’ll give you full price for both.”
The little fat scoundrel glanced at him quickly to see if he were in earnest. Hicks looked him squarely in the eyes and repeated his request. Then the Guinea went to the rail and said something to the black bullies in the small boat that made them grin, and the next boat brought off the desired pair. Hicks had a separate place made for the three near the open hatchway, and afterward paid for them from his own pocket. Then he went aft, followed by the smiles and winks of half the starboard watch, and even Hawkson, who came to the edge of the poop, could scarce suppress amusement. An exhibition of human feeling appeared very strange to the men of The Gentle Hand.
All that day we made landings in the heavy surf, taking a few shackled blacks aboard at a time, being aided a little by the filthy and indolent denizens of the ruinous village, who came to the shore and squatted around under the trees to give comment 269upon the affair. They were good surfmen, and sometimes helped to run out the boats when promised a drink of rum. They were all half-breed Guineas and scum from the slaving-ships, but some had skins as black as the negro slaves they were watching. Cortelli appeared to be the chief among them, and it was said he sometimes seized upon some of the blackest and sold them. They gave him a wide berth as he strode among them, and jumped at each word he uttered, no despot creating greater awe among his subjects than this filthy little fat rascal, whose black eyes had pointed the way to death or worse to so many unfortunates of that inhospitable region.
It was dark before the last boat-load had been stowed below hatches, for several boats had capsized in the surf, and the delay of rescuing the shackled prisoners from drowning had taken much time. Only three were lost, the pirate guard, which had contracted to do most of the rowing, proving the best kind of boatmen, and the way they swam about in the breakers was a thing to wonder at. Sharks were swarming about the barque, and must have been also in the surf, but the black men gave them little thought.
The final payment was made in good yellow gold to Cortelli, and he passed over the side into his own boat, followed by the farewells of the trader, who 270appeared to feel that he had not been badly cheated in his purchase. The black bullies rowed the Italian rapidly shoreward, while that worthy squatted over his bag of money, which he made fast to a buoy, in case of accident, and, drawing a long pistol, cocked back the flint. It was evident that he would take no chances in that country, where a piece of yellow metal may be worth several human lives. The last I saw of him, he was explaining to his steersman that an accident meant certain death to him, the steersman, at least, and therefore the utmost caution should be exercised in going through the surf. The money could not sink, but he never had had accidents, and was not going to begin at this time.
Then the order came from our quarter-deck to heave short, and we were ready to make the desperate run for the other side. Hawkson had kept a boat going all day between the ship and shore, taking in fresh water, and our stores were in good condition. We had taken in enough for an army at Funchal.
“Lay forrads, all ye starbowlins,” bawled Henry, “an’ wake her up.” Then the feeling that we were indeed homeward bound over the middle passage took a strong hold of us, and we hove heavy on the windlass brakes.
271“‘Ole Stormy, ’e was a good ole man,’” piped a sailor.
“‘Yo, ho! Oh, we storm along,’” bellowed the watch in chorus, and, with the wild, crazy song, we walked the anchor in, while the rest sheeted home the topsails and romped up with the t’gallant-halyards.
In a few minutes the land-breeze bore us off, and we braced in the yards for a run off the land to the southward. We would try to go clear of everything, and then haul up and go across with every rag we could crack on her.
Bill, Ernest, and myself raced up the main-ratlines to loose the royal and the topmast stun’sails. In the dim light of the early evening, I saw the low shore of the African continent for the last time. When I finished with the gaskets, I waited a few moments, watching it fade into the gloom of the tropic night, and thinking of the hell of sorrow and suffering the poor creatures bore who were cursed by birth upon its hot lowlands and stinking marshes. Even while I looked, the plaintive murmur from the wretches below hatches told plainly they knew their voyage to death and slavery had begun, and I thought I could make out the wild and sad refrain of some savage song. Over three hundred black creatures packed below! I thanked Heaven there had been no more to take, for I knew 272they would have packed another three hundred into her if they had been ready for sale. They would make the run with these without further risk, and trust to landing them in better condition, thus securing a much higher price.
I started down the ratlines, but, before going over the futtock-shrouds, I looked at the last bit of light on the western sky-line.
It seemed to me I saw a bit of a speck showing on the darkening horizon. Bill was opposite me, and I called to him to look. He gazed steady for a few seconds.
“Youst like a brig’s royals, them little dots,” said he, and went on down the ratlines to the deck.
I followed, and forgot to report the object in the hurry and hustle to get the anchor in on deck and everything shipshape for sea.
My! How those blacks did smell! We had worked well into the night, only stopping to eat supper, and, when we did go below to turn in, all tired out, the odour was something to remember. The wind being aft, the cabin was clear, but the forecastle was pretty bad, and we had only just started.
“It makes a fellow feel like goin’ out an’ getting rid o’ some o’ his crimes,” said Big Jones, sniffing and spitting upon the deck.
“Hif dirt’s a crime, you’d been hung long ago,” observed Jim. “Better turn in with hit.”
“Too hot,” said Bill. “It’s youst a little too hot fer me. I’ve sweated all the water out of me working, an’ I don’t want to sweat sleepin’. I’ll take the deck an’ let her go.”
“A man’s ’bout one-third water, anyways, according to some o’ them doctors’ sayings,” drawled Shannon, who lounged in his bunk.
“What’s the rest,--likker?” asked Jim, wofully.
274And then the men split up, each seeking a spot for resting during his watch below, some on deck and some in the forecastle.
I followed Bill to the windlass, and we stretched out in my old favourite spot, with our heads upon a coil of the forestaysail-downhaul. Here we had the draught from under the foot of the sail blowing downward in our faces, and we instantly gave way to its soothing influence and fell asleep. Since Watkins had gone over the side, with a shot to each foot, sewed tightly in canvas, I had been a bit more free to sleep out on deck at night in the warm weather, and I now rested as only a tired and healthy sailor could. The barque held along steadily and the motion was slight, and there was silence on board save for the murmur coming from below. The first thing I knew of trouble was being suddenly aroused by a piercing scream. It was shrill and sharp and full of terror and pain.
Bill started up at the same time, and both of us asked each other what was the matter. I tried to put out my hand to steady myself from the roll of the barque and get to my feet, but something held it firmly to the other in front of me. The night was intensely black, as the moon had not yet risen, and for an instant I was blundering about, striving to free myself, until Bill blurted out that he was ironed. Then I realized that my hands were 275shackled fast in iron bracelets, and that there was little use to try to free them. Some one had slipped them upon our wrists while we slept, and we were as helpless as though paralyzed.
I tried to see the watch on deck, and strained my eyes through the gloom to catch sight of their forms in the waist, where they usually grouped to keep awake and tell yarns. There was not a soul in sight. Even the poop seemed vacant, but, while I looked, shadows appeared creeping up the gangways over the break, and in a moment a flash lit the darkness. Following the report, a perfect roar of voices burst forth, yelling and bawling, interspersed now and again with shouts and cries of wounded men. Then Martin’s hoarse yell arose above the uproar aft, and I began to realize what was happening.
“Break loose, Bill, for God’s sake,” I cried, tugging away at my irons. “Break loose, for that devil, Martin, is going amuck, and Shannon is in his wake.” Our legs were free, and I ran to the windlass-bitts, which were covered with metal. Raising my hands high above my head, I brought the bracelets down with all my force upon the iron tops.
The pain was awful. For some moments I could do nothing but gasp, for it seemed to me that I 276had broken both my wrists. They were numb and paralyzed with the shock.
“Let me try,” said Bill, and he brought his hands down with full force. The lock on his iron sprang open, and he gave a groan.
“Lay your wrists here,” he said, and I stretched the connecting link over the bitt-head. Bill seized a heavy chain-hook and smote again and again upon the chain link until it bent, buckled, and finally opened. I was free.
With my irons hanging to my wrists, we started aft, where the fracas was now in full sway. Forms were surging upon the break of the poop, and among them I recognized some of our men mixed with the naked black bodies of the Africans. We dived into the forward cabin door to get at the cutlass rack in the passage, where all the arms were hung. As we did so, Mr. Curtis thrust a pistol into my face and pulled the trigger. The damp, hot climate had evidently affected the priming of the weapon, for I heard the flint fall distinctly. Then I struck up the muzzle as it exploded, the charge going upward into the deck.
“Don’t shoot!” I bawled, as the report rang out. “Don’t shoot! can’t you see us? Give us the cutlasses, quick.”
Bill reached for the rack where they hung, and was about to take one, when a form swung out of 277the darkness, heaving some heavy weapon overhead. There was no time to explain matters, so I sprang upon the fellow and grasped him firmly before the blow fell upon Bill’s head, and together we went to the deck.
Instantly I recognized Jorg, the carpenter, as his axe fell clattering across the cabin, and the rascal gripped my throat with both hands. Before I could disengage his hands, two more bodies fell over me, scrambling, cursing, and struggling. A foot--I think it was Bill’s--gave Jorg a kick under the ear, and he slackened his hold on my throat.
“What the mischief are you doing?” I gasped. “Can’t you see we ain’t niggers? What’s the matter with you?”
Just then a lantern flashed, as the cabin door was thrown open, and Mr. Gull stood before us, pike in hand, ready for business. He seemed to hesitate a moment, and looked inquiringly at me and then at Bill, who had Curtis under him on the cabin deck, calling upon him to let him get away, and trying to disengage the Englishman’s hands, that had fastened themselves firmly around his neck. The noise overhead continued, and the rapid trampling of men and shuffling of feet told of a fierce encounter. Hawkson’s hoarse cry could be distinguished cheering the men on about him, and Martin’s wild yells and curses upon the ship, the crew, and everything 278about her. It was evident something worse than a rising of the blacks was taking place, and I hurriedly asked the second mate what had happened. He saw the manacles upon my wrists, where they still hung, and this showed him I had been a captive very recently. Then we knew the after-guard had taken no prisoners and would never give quarter.
“Put on in my sleep,” I said, quickly. “Bill and I both were ironed. Give us the weapons and let us help.”
“I believe you, Heywood. Take a cutlass and come along. The devil is loose to-night aboard here,” he said, and he grabbed Curtis’s hands at the same instant.
“Let him go,” he said to Curtis. “Let him go and get up. They’re all right.”
It was several moments before the Englishman realized what was wanted, and kept calling for Gull to run Bill through with his pike.
I grabbed a cutlass from the arm-rack just as Jorg sat up, dazed and dizzy. He evidently expected me to cut him down, and was much astonished when I helped raise him and handed him his axe.
“You’re youst a little bit too much in a hurry,” said Bill to Curtis, as they got up, the sailor red and angry at the choking he had received. But 279Gull pressed a cutlass into his hand, and called for us to follow, opening the door into the after-cabin. There was no time to lose. The incident had already cost us several minutes, and we might be too late.
“It’s Martin and the fellow Shannon,” said Gull, as we piled through. “They’ve got half the port watch an’ a dozen niggers with them. They’re the fighting devils of Cortelli’s guard shipped in, all ready to take a hand. Shannon and the Guinea stood in together to do the job. Come along, for God’s sake, come along!”
Gull led the way through the cabin, and, as we neared the companionway, a stateroom door was thrust open, and Miss Allen stood before us. She held a pistol in her hand, and her eyes were bright and sparkling. She seemed most beautiful to me, as she stood there confronting five armed men.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, “I’m glad it’s you. I thought--” But she left her sentence unfinished. We knew what she meant, and the pistol was not a weapon for offence. It was her last defence, and the thought of the girl waiting with it in her hand gave me a turn. We hurried up the ladder while she called after us, asking if her father was all right.
The blackness on the poop was lit up by Gull’s lantern, and we saw a sight that made us grip our weapons. A confused mass of men were closed in desperate combat, cutting, thrusting, hacking, and clutching at each other in the darkness. Guided by Hawkson’s voice, we soon made out the mate, surrounded by a crowd of the black devils from 281the beach and several of our own men. By his side was Hicks and the sailor, Ernest, all hewing away at the press about them. Several bodies lay beneath Hawkson’s feet, telling of the old fighter’s desperate sword-play.
A little farther on, with his back against the mizzen, stood Howard, his bare poll shining in the light of Gull’s lantern, showing the perspiration pouring down over his face, his eyes steady and shining like glass beads, his cutlass dripping in his right hand, and an empty pistol in his left. He was hard at it with Martin and Shannon, both of whom pressed him sorely, in spite of Yankee Dan’s help.
Henry was engaging Anderson and Gus at his side, and the forms of two men lying between the old captain and Martin told of the Scot’s and Shannon’s deadly work. Shannon had cut down one and Martin had put a man out of the way as we rushed up.
The fight now waxed hotter. The barque, being without any one at the wheel, luffed slowly into the breeze until her foreyards were aback and she gathered sternway. The cracking of the slatting canvas added to the noise of the yelling men, and for a time there was chaos on the poop.
Instinctively Gull and myself rushed to Howard’s side. The old fellow was wary and quick, warding 282off the furious onslaughts of the long skipper with a skill and strength that was amazing. He had his old cutlass ahead of him, sword fashion, and he hopped about that deck like some horrible old monkey, laughing now and again in his high, cackling voice, as he lunged and stabbed with a catlike quickness. Even the long skipper’s giant strength was powerless to force his guard for a few moments, but, as we fell upon the long rascal, we were met by Martin, who came in furiously, yelling like a demon.
“Hoot, ye dogs! Stand out an’ die! Stand out an’ die like true Christian men!” he bawled, and as he did so he struck fiercely with a cutlass.
Jennings, Pat, and Holmberg had gone against us, and I caught a glimpse of them in the crush about Hawkson, as I circled about Shannon, trying to get within his guard, while he made long, full-arm sweeps as he advanced that kept us busy getting out of his way. Only Howard seemed to be able to stand and yet clear them.
Curtis, Jorg, and Bill had fallen upon the crowd pressing about the mate, and now some of the black pirates left the press there and came to Shannon’s aid. One of these sprang within the guard of the trader and smote him heavily. Then he dodged back again as Gull pressed him, cutting him again and again with lightning-like strokes, his cutlass-blade 283glinting like a flash of flame in the light of the lantern set upon the companion slide.
Shannon came steadily on. Yankee Dan reeled and struck out wildly. A pistol flashed somewhere in the night, and he pitched forward under the long man’s feet.
Everything now was mixed. A grinning black face showed before me, and I cut at it with all my power. A hoarse scream from the Doctor told me that the blow had hit hard, although there seemed little resistance to the blade. The rascally cook had evidently joined the mutiny, and had gotten his deserts. At the same time I did not stop to argue the question of right or wrong. I had been gulled into joining the ship, and had no reason to love her or her officers, yet, when it came to standing by her, there was no thought of shirking.
Had Martin been a different kind of a rascal, he might have approached me, but he had judged rightly that I had no use for him as a leader, and he had ironed me for future consideration, not wishing to part with any more men than necessary on the short-handed ship. He might have knifed me and tossed me over the side just as easily.
The death of Yankee Dan appeared to madden Martin. He roared and cursed and swung a vicious stroke at Gull. Then seeing me, his rage broke forth in a torrent of oaths. He made a cut at me 284and missed. I stabbed him savagely in the ribs, my point hitting him hard, for I had to jerk it clear. He roared and rushed in upon me, followed by Shannon, and I was beaten backward to the poop-rail. In vain did Howard and Gull cut and lunge at the long villain. Shannon beat their weapons down, and came upon me, with the wounded Scot at his side, now silent with pain and with the weakness of his hurt. I fought with despairing energy, but received a blow on my shoulder that almost made me drop my cutlass. The long villain took a stride nearer to me, and Martin stabbed me in the leg, as I frantically drove his point downward from my breast. I was hard pressed, and for an instant it seemed that I could not escape. The rail struck me in the small of the back, and I brought up against it. I had reached the limit. Then Bill did a thing that makes me believe in the honesty and nobility of men. It was not what might have been expected from a member of that crew, but it was more than even the duty of a friend, and we had once fought against each other.
Gull smote Jennings so sorely that he fell back and opened the way to Martin. Like a flash the second mate sprang in just as the wounded, but still wary, Scot stabbed me, and he struck him so savagely that he went staggering to one side. Pat and a black fellow pressed Howard, and Shannon 285whirled up his blade to make a finish of me when Bill sprang between and closed.
Howard thrust the Irishman through the body, and, as his cackling laugh broke out, the fellow fell heavily, striking Shannon’s legs behind at the knee joints. The impact of Bill in front brought all three to the deck, where they rolled into a struggling, kicking mass in the darkness.
As quickly as possible, Gull and myself sprang in to finish the long skipper before Bill was done for, but it was too late. The tall scoundrel arose almost instantly to his feet and sprang clear of our thrusts, leaving Bill lying stark dead upon the deck. He had died to save me, poor sailorman though he was, and, as I stepped over his bleeding body, I could hardly repress a sob that rose in my throat. John, Gilbert, Anderson, and Heligoland, with six of Cortelli’s black scoundrels, had by this time pressed Hawkson, Ernest, and Hicks so hard that even the aid of Curtis and Jorg availed them but little. In the general mix-up, the carpenter had received a blow over the head with a dull cutlass, which had rendered him insane for a time. I saw him rushing forward, screaming, but gave him no other thought, while I went for Shannon, determined to avenge poor Bill.
Nearly every one had received several wounds by this time, as the fighting had been close and 286furious, but Shannon appeared to brighten up and go in for a finish. He had fought silently up to the present moment, but now he began to drawl out his oaths viciously at each stroke of his cutlass.
“I’ll have ye in a minute, ye long caterman,” cried Howard, pressing upon him.
“I wanter know, I wanter know, you bald-headed thief!” he roared in reply, and he mixed things up so fast that his blade shone like a thousand gems in the dim light of the lantern. Anderson came to Martin’s aid and supported him, while the badly wounded, though still undaunted, Scot bawled feebly for his enemies to come on. He seized the rail with his left hand, and still showed the point of his cutlass ready for business.
During this last rally, I had noticed the uproar below sounding like the surf on the shore. I thought it was caused by the slaves in their fear, hearing the sounds of the desperate fight on the deck above.
Suddenly the uproar swelled louder, and distinct cries came from the main-deck. Forms flitted here and there and came bounding upon the poop.
I saw Hawkson make a desperate rally and cut down John and a black giant, and, as they fell, Henry rushed in and finished them. Curtis fell, badly wounded, but Hicks and Ernest drove the crowd back. Again and again did Gull, Howard, 287and myself press Shannon, but the long fellow, while not able to make any way against us, placed his back to the poop-rail, and kept us a sword-length away with ease.
Martin, Shannon, Anderson, and their followers now crowded aft along the rail, and we were unable to stop them. Hawkson swung clear of the press about him, and Hicks followed.
At that instant a surging crowd of black forms came pouring up the poop-ladders. They were naked and unarmed, save for whatever bars and belaying-pins they had found in the darkness.
“Good God, the cargo’s loose!” cried Henry. “Get aft, it’s the only chance.”
The pouring torrent of black men flowed and swept between the mutineers and ourselves, and we were borne along before them like a chip on the crest of a wave. Their wild cries sounded above the curses and yells of the fighting men, blending into a wild, hoarse roar from three hundred deep chests. By sticking close together, we managed to make a retreat to the after-companionway, but it was desperate work.
The Africans hurled their naked bodies upon our weapons, regardless of cuts and thrusts that went home every time, and they struck at us savagely with the bars and staves they had collected.
Mr. Gull received a blow that stretched him senseless, and it was only after a desperate stand that we managed to haul him out from under the struggling men who pitched upon him. Curtis, being badly wounded, could not keep with us, and he was pulled back into the crowd and never seen again. Ernest, who bore himself so bravely, fell at the 289companion, and it was Hawkson who tore his way into a mass of mad blacks and hauled him over the ladder.
There were only a few of us left. Hawkson, Hicks, Henry, Howard, and myself could do duty, but we were all badly wounded.
The light from the cabin below shone in our faces, and we set our backs to the opening. I saw Howard’s eyes shining from his mask-like face like two bright, black beads. Blood poured down Hawkson’s cheeks from a cut on the forehead, and made him a grisly sight. Hicks was white as a sheet, but cool and steady. He had received a thrust in the breast that made him wheeze at each breath.
We made one desperate rally at the companion, and I looked below over my shoulder. As I did so, I saw a form staggering in from forward, and heard the clank of the heavy door in the bulkhead. I looked again, and saw Big Jones coming, with a pair of broken irons on each wrist, and a pistol in his left hand, while in his right he carried a shining cutlass.
“Stand clear, I’m a-comin’,” he said, and we made way for him as he mounted the steps.
The light on the top of the companion, where Gull had placed it, still burned. The slaves swarmed everywhere, except on the glass skylight.
By the dim flare, I could see what was taking 290place. Shannon had been carried along the port rail to the after end of the poop, and Martin had thrust with all his remaining strength, hobbling along, aided by Anderson. Over the heads of the black crowd, I could make out Shannon’s tall form, as he cut and slashed right and left, making a lane through the men, and leaving a pile of bodies to mark his course and ease the pressure upon him.
“Coom on, ye black divils!” cried Martin, faintly. “Coom on, an’ take the sailormen.”
A huge black towered above him, wielding a hand-spike, and several more pressed Anderson back.
The Scotchman rose to his full height, and, seizing his cutlass in both hands, smote the African a blow that sank the blade down to his nose. Before he could wrench it clear, the fellow went headlong to the deck, carrying the blade with him, snapping it free from the hilt, and leaving Martin helpless. The mob surged upon him and he disappeared. We saw him no more.
Anderson had a similar fate. A dozen giants in ebony grasped his cutlass in their hands, regardless of the blade. It was wrenched from him, and he went down, followed by a dago named Guinea and a couple of the blacks from the slave-pen. Gus, Gilbert, and the rest of the mutineers had disappeared already, leaving only one black and Shannon of the entire crowd.
291The African, fighting against his fellows, lasted but a few moments. He was crowded to the rail. Throwing his cutlass into the mob, he sprang clear of the side and was gone in the darkness, and Shannon was left alone at the taffrail, where he made his last stand.
A great black fellow made his way aft, calling out in a clear, deep bass voice. He was apparently entirely naked, and his skin shone and glistened in the lantern’s light. He carried a cutlass in his hand, and thrust his followers aside, as he made his way to the long skipper, who fought gamely on.
“Ho! Benga Sam, I wanter know,” cried the sailor. And the black giant called out something in his clear tones.
It was evident that there was a score to settle, for the black man hurled his kind right and left to get in. Some of the nearest drew back at the sound of his deep voice, and pressed back the heavy weight of the mob behind, clearing a small space in front of Shannon. Into this the black giant forced his way.
All this happened in an incredibly short time, but the solid bank of human flesh before us was pressing closer, in spite of Hawkson’s desperate efforts.
Big Jones reached us, and, placing his pistol at the breast of the nearest African, fired. Then he 292whirled his blade into the thick of them, and all together we forced a space clear about the companion. Howard was nearly spent. I was desperately wounded, and leaned against the companion, panting for breath, while Hicks grasped the coaming to keep from falling.
In the breathing spell, while Jones held the way, I saw what was taking place a few feet distant.
In the open space cleared around the long skipper, the big black fellow stood and called upon the white man to pay the penalty of some past crime. Shannon had been on the coast before, and he certainly recognized the black. He had doubtless done him some wrong. He met him with a spirit worthy of a white man, and, in spite of his sins, he made a gallant stand to the end.
The black set upon him with terrific force, his blade rising and falling so fast that the eye could hardly follow it. Shannon, drawing himself to his full height, parried and returned stroke for stroke, his amazing vigour unimpaired by the action of the past half-hour. There was no retreating for either. The black wall of human bodies held them on all sides to the taffrail, and the nearest living men strained their utmost to keep clear of the whirling blades, while those behind pressed in and forced them closer.
Both men were desperately wounded in a few 293moments. Then Shannon, seeming to feel that his life was ebbing, rose to one mighty effort.
He slashed with great vigour for some moments, and then, without warning, sprang furiously forward, and, taking the black’s blade through the body, he drove his own into his black chest until I saw the glint of the metal in the rear. They swayed for a few seconds, and then went down, while the mob surged over them and flowed around to where we were holding the stairs.
“Get below and shut the doors,” said Jones. “I ken hold them fer a few minutes, that’s all.”
Hawkson looked at him, and I saw a ghost of an old smile flitting over his hard-lined face.
“You’ll do for a big one, Jones,” said he, and his teeth gleamed in the night.
“You stand on either side,” said Howard. “I’ll take the front.”
Hawkson was about to remonstrate, but the old pirate shut him off harshly.
“Who’s the captain here, me or you?” he cried.
“You, but you won’t be within five minutes,” said Hawkson.
“Get below, Hicks and Heywood; maybe you can bring Gull and Ernest back for short stand. There’s liquor in the pantry.”
We were too badly hurt to stand much longer, 294and were worthless in a rush, so we went down the companion and tried to tie up our hurts.
Miss Allen had already brought Gull around, and had partly revived Ernest. She smiled faintly at me, as I came down the companionway, limping and clutching the rail at the side. Hicks was behind me, and looked sadly at the girl as the noise of the rush sounded behind us.
She came to us and tied us up the best she could, stopping the bleeding, and, as she handed me a glass of spirits, spoke.
“Hicks,” said I, “you better take Miss Allen below into the lazarette and bar the door. They may overlook you there. It will only be a matter of a few minutes’ more fighting. The barque is doomed. Go while you can, for there is no other to take her. Gull and I must make our last stand on deck.”
“And a precious short one at that,” said the second mate, who was barely able to keep his feet.
The liquor was burning within me now like oil poured upon a dying flame, and under its influence I grasped my cutlass and placed my foot on the stair, to mount again and join the panting, struggling men, whose backs showed against the opening now and then, as they cut and lunged at the press before them. They could not last long, and I could already 295hear the high, rasping breathing of the old captain, who was making his last fight.
“You will come also,” said Miss Allen to me. “You must know of some way to hide in a ship.”
Her eyes held a mute appeal that was hard to resist. She was filled with horror, and the terror in her look made me hesitate. Yet, when I thought, I knew Hicks could find a place easier than I, and one would be less apt to be missed than two. Besides, the men on deck were fighting, and my place was there as long as I could stand. Sir John Hicks looked at me, but said nothing.
“I’ll come later,” I answered. “Some one must hold the stair. Hurry while there’s time.”
Then I mounted the companion, followed by Gull, and came out into the last fight on the quarter-deck.
The big Welshman, Jones, had just swung into the press about him as we came up, and Hawkson had a breathing spell for a few moments. The old privateersman saw me behind him in the doorway, and the ghost of his old smile wrinkled the corners of his ugly mouth. He was covered with blood, and growing weak from exertion, but he held out a long, sinewy hand, and I grasped it. He said nothing, but looked at the surging crowd that was pressing closer and closer against the struggling Welshman and Howard. Henry clung to the companion coaming with one hand, and closed the gap between them. The black mass swung back toward us, and instantly we were fighting desperately to hold them in check.
A pile of black bodies in front impeded their movement, but they pressed us so close that we were jammed shoulder to shoulder, with Jones slightly in advance to the right, and the old captain 297in front. Gull ducked below my arm, and stabbed viciously upward at the Africans who came on.
There had been a short pause, caused by Jones’s fierce fight, but, as he gradually slackened his efforts, and the men behind pressed forward, the gap began closing up. It would soon be over.
A huge black fellow reached out and grasped Captain Howard. The old pirate ran him through the body with marvellous quickness, but, before he could disengage his weapon, several more seized him and jerked him away from us. He disappeared in the blackness, and we saw him no more. He had gone to his account without a word, fighting desperately to the last, and with him went the last hope we had left.
Hawkson was tiring. A couple of men seized me and started to drag me out, but the old privateersman made a last desperate rally, and I tore myself free from dying clutches. But the fight could not last for ever. A black giant, who wore a gee-string, smote Hawkson’s blade a terrific blow with a windlass-brake, knocking it out of his hand. Instantly several seized him, and, though I cut and stabbed frantically, they managed to pull him away, to be served as had been the others who had fallen into their hands.
Suddenly, while I cut wildly at the forms in front, some one pulled me backwards. I expected to find 298myself in the hands of the black tigers, thirsting for blood and revenge, and was about to make one last sweep, but my arm was seized, and I was pulled down the companionway, while Jones slammed the doors together and bolted them. The big sailor and myself were all the men left on deck of our after-guard, and he had pulled me back just in time. The door would stand a few minutes against the assault. Gull and Henry had both gone, the little ferret-faced fellow fastening his great fingers firmly in the throat of a man who drew him to his death. There was now no hope but to delay the inevitable for as many minutes as possible.
Jones and I had a short breathing spell, while bars and handspikes crashed through the heavy door panels. We took down several of the muskets from the racks, and, placing their muzzles against the rents in the wood, fired them one after the other, with the result of abating the zeal of the fellows who stood close against the other side. The room filled with the dense powder smoke, and the light from the swinging cabin lamps barely lit up the gloom enough to distinguish objects. Ernest, who had been left half-dead upon the cabin floor, now aroused himself enough to stagger to his feet.
“The lazarette,” he gasped; “it’s our only chance. Bring some muskets and ammunition. We can make a stand there.”
299Grasping an armful of the discharged weapons, I led the way through a small door in the after-bulkhead, as heavy blows crashed upon the door of the forward cabin. Jones followed with an armful of cartridges and a priming-flask, Ernest leaning heavily upon him. Then I hesitated.
“Put out the light. Let ’em think we’re waitin’ in the dark,” said the big sailor.
I turned back and took the lamp out of the bracket. It would serve to light the black hole we were entering, for Hicks had taken no lantern with him, being hardly able to walk, with weakness from wounds and exertion.
Jones went ahead with Ernest, and I looked quickly about the cabin for some means of preventing entrance through the small, low door into the stern of the boat. Nothing appeared handy, and I turned to follow.
At that same instant the attack upon the companion was resumed and the doors crashed in, letting several black forms come plunging down the steps.
There was no time to lose, so, quickly entering the hole, I closed it and set the lamp close by on the deck, where its dim rays would light the entrance when the door would be burst in. The bulkhead was not very thick, and it would take very few minutes to smash the small door, but, as the passage 300was only about three feet wide, two able men with muskets and cutlasses could make it good from the inside, for no matter what the press beyond, the Africans would have to come in twos and threes through the opening. They would not think to cut a new way through, and, as long as they came in front, we could pile them up as fast as they could pull the dead and disabled away.
Jones had disappeared into the blackness farther aft under the cockpit as I entered, but the sound of the yelling blacks entering the cabin brought him back to my side, and I motioned him to stand to starboard, while I took the port side, our cutlass blades a little more than overlapping as we held them ready for the rush.
On all sides the ship’s stores were piled and stored close up under the low deck. Spare canvas rolled and stopped in long bundles lined the passageway, placed near at hand that in case of emergency they could be brought out quickly and bent to stripped spars. We stood perfectly quiet, while the din below increased, but, as the savages had no light, they could not, at first, find the small door in the after-bulkhead.
While we waited, Hicks appeared, stooping and coming along under the low beams. He had a musket in each hand which he had loaded, and when he saw us he stopped. Laying down the guns, he 301began pulling at an old topsail, and Jones, seeing what he wanted, hastened to help. Together they rolled and dragged the canvas to the door, piling it up to close the opening as much as possible, and at the same time serve as a breastwork. Suddenly a savage voice howled close against the bulkhead, and instantly a rain of tremendous blows fell upon the door. It splintered, broke, and was torn away in an instant. Then the black bodies crowded in.
Jones on one side and myself on the other fell upon them with our cutlasses, and the first three lay groaning and blocking the way. Hicks crouched down behind the pile of topsail and rested his musket, with its muzzle about three feet from the opening, but held his fire. He would wait until one of us failed to stop our men.
The three bodies were whisked away, and a half-score of black faces, with white eyeballs and ivory teeth, filled the gap, each savage trying to get in at once, none flinching in the least from the sword cuts. Capstan-bars, muskets, and cutlasses were shoved through, and we had to keep alert to prevent being wounded. One huge negro, with a woolly beard on his black chin, pulled a couple of his fellows back from the opening, and thrust a long muscular arm inside, holding a cutlass. He swung it with marvellous quickness, and parried my stroke, giving me a bad cut in return, but Jones reached him 302with a short-arm thrust, and, before he could recover, I had him out of action. He was jerked back before we could get hold of his weapon, and others took his place.
It was a nightmare scene there in between the decks of the old pirate barque. I could sometimes catch a glimpse of Sir John Hicks lying in the bight of the old topsail, with his eyes looking steadily along the barrel of the musket and shining like beads in the dim light. He was good for one fellow,--the one we would miss. Opposite me the big sailor slashed and cut at everything that came through the opening, while just without the black bodies crowded, and hideous black faces grinned and yelled in savage fury.
Another rush, and then another, and Jones received a stab from a cutlass thrust suddenly in at the door. Three armed negroes tried to enter at once, and almost succeeded. I stopped one, but Jones’s man came through, and another started to follow. Then the musket crashed in the passage, and we were choked with smoke. But Hicks had stopped the leader, and Jones then finished the other. We still held our own.
Suddenly the faces and forms drew back from the opening. A wild yelling was heard on deck, followed by a scrambling up the companion. Some 303noises sounded at the doors, pounding and hammering. We drew back and waited.
The minutes passed slowly. Hicks placed his spare gun in position, and coolly proceeded to load on the stores packed behind us. All was black and quiet now in the cabin, save for the hammering at the doors.
In a little while I began to get nervous. The yelling had begun to die away, and only now and then voices sounded forward.
“I reckon I’ll take a peep into the cabin,” I said. “Bring the lamp, and stand for a rush if there are any tricks played.”
Jones took the light, and, standing just inside the hole, let the rays fall upon the cabin-deck. It was apparently deserted. Poking my cutlass ahead of me, ready for a surprise, I made my way slowly through the opening, keeping my eyes on both sides as I came through. The cabin was empty.
I looked up at the companion entrance, and, as my eyes became accustomed to the gloom, I saw the doors were closed. The forward doors also had been put in place, and the hammering had now ceased. I distinctly heard the rattle of blocks with the tackle running rapidly.
“No one here,” I whispered, and Jones came through the bulkhead. Presently Hicks followed.
304“Better leave the light inside,” he suggested. “They may have some trick to get us out.”
Jones sniffed the air loudly for a few moments.
“What’s the matter?” asked Sir John.
“Seems to me they’ve already played it,” said Jones, coolly. “I smell smoke, an’ I smell it strong.”
“Powder smoke, man; the place is thick with it,” I said, choking and coughing a little.
Jones turned his great face toward me.
“You may be the gunner, Mr. Heywood, you might know,” said he, “but I smells wood. There ain’t no mistake. The barque’s on fire, an’ they’ve nailed us below.”
“For God’s sake bring the light,” said Hicks.
Jones did so, and, as its rays lit up the cabin, we saw that the smoke was thicker than when we first stopped firing. The peculiar pungent odour of burning tar and wood now became apparent.
The noise on deck had almost ceased entirely, but, as we listened, there broke upon our ears the dull boom of a heavy gun.
We looked at each other. Then it sounded again, and a loud crash above told of a shot tearing through our hull, while the dull report was repeated.
“Man-o’-war,” said Jones, significantly.
“Break down the door,” I cried. “We must get Miss Allen and Ernest.”
Hicks had already started for the light, and Jones bounded up the steps, cutting at the panels as he reached the top, while we hurried back to the lazarette.
Even as we went, the barque’s deck seemed to slant a trifle forward, and I wondered at it vaguely, 306as we made our way along the dark passage under the cockpit. In a few minutes we had made our way clear aft to the vessel’s run. Here, behind boxes and barrels of stores, that Hicks had broken out and formed into a barricade, was Miss Allen. She greeted us calmly, but I could see the terror in the girl’s eyes that the horror of the night had produced.
“I expected you,” she said, her voice trembling.
Hicks looked at her sadly, and held out his hand.
“Come,” he said, “we haven’t a minute to spare. Where’s Ernest?”
“Here, sir,” said the sailor, rising from the deck. He was badly hurt, and could hardly stand.
“Take a grip of my shoulder,” I said, “and hurry along. We must get out of this.”
Even as we went, the deck began sloping forward. The incline was getting greater all the time, as though the barque was settling by the head. By the time we reached the cabin, she had listed to starboard, and Jones, who was cutting away at the shattered companion doors, broke through just as the steps or ladder, torn from its fastenings by the rush upon it when the savages came below, fell to one side and crashed down upon the floor, bringing the big sailor with it. We tried to place it back again in position, but, while we lifted it, the deck began to slant dangerously. A flickering light shone 307down through the opening Jones had made in the barricade, and, as he staggered to his feet, he called out that it was no use.
“She’s listed too much. It won’t stand. She’s all afire forrads, and goin’ down by the head. The devils have plugged her, too, an’ she’s fillin’ like a basket! Put it on the starboard side, an’ I’ll hold it while ye mount.”
We tried this method, but it wobbled so that Jones was sent up first to hold the top.
The barque was now sinking rapidly. The blacks had evidently cut a hole in her, besides setting her afire, to make sure of catching us below. She was to be our coffin,--a fitting end for men engaged in the foul trade. Jorg must have gone forward with his axe, mad with the blow he had received from Shannon’s men, and, after he had liberated some slaves by knocking the irons off, they had evidently overpowered him, taken his axe, and cut a hole in the vessel’s bottom, while the mass of them had surged aft for vengeance.
It took several precious moments to clear the barricade above sufficiently for a man to get out. Jones tore and pried at the shattered woodwork, but the negroes had piled a lot of gratings, lines, etc., over the opening, after fastening the doors by spiking some of their bunk-boards or slave-deck timber over the shattered panels.
308They had intended to make certain of us before leaving in the small boats.
Gradually Jones forced his way out, while the noise of the escaping air under the sinking deck grew into a deep snore, rushing as it did through every aperture, while the sea followed after.
Quickly we passed Miss Allen up, while we felt the ship settling. Then Ernest was lifted until Jones could reach his hand and get him out. Then the big sailor disappeared a moment from the opening, and we knew he had taken the girl to safety, if such a thing existed near. The listing motion increased rapidly. There was a loud roaring below.
Hicks seized the ladder, while I held the foot of it to keep it from sliding to starboard. Then he turned.
“After you, Heywood,” he said, quickly. “Jump, there’s no time to lose.”
“Go!” I yelled; “go while you may. She’s going down now.”
But he turned his face to me, and for an instant I saw its expression in the dim light of the lamp still burning on the floor. There was no sign of fear in it. Only a deep sadness, as in one who has suffered a sudden great loss.
“After you,” he said, calmly, and made a motion with his hand toward the sloping steps. There was something of an old-time courtesy in that gesture 309that told of men who had gone before. They who had borne the name he had disgraced. Bad man he may have been, but who shall judge him after that gallant end?
I saw that argument would be useless, even had there been time for it. Seizing the steps, I mounted as quickly as I could, while I felt them slide beneath me. I grasped the coamings as the steps left my feet and fell away to starboard, leaving me hanging.
In a moment I had thrown a leg over the edge of the opening, and drew myself panting and gasping to the poop. Jones was just in the act of disappearing over the rail, having lowered Miss Allen and Ernest overboard to a couple of planks and gratings he had hove in. I called to him for aid to help me get Hicks out, but it was just too late.
The barque was now almost perpendicular, pointing bow forward to the bottom. As I staggered to my feet, she gave a sudden lurch. Then straight as an arrow, she dived, and I found myself in the roaring, swirling vortex she left behind.
In the choking blackness beneath the ocean’s surface, I seemed to stay. Down and down I went, in spite of frantic struggles. Then the suction ceased, and I began to mount. If I could only hold my breath a little longer!
A roaring was in my ears, and stars flashed in 310my eyes, and just when I was losing consciousness, my head came out into the air again.
How good was that first breath! I was back again in the world of air for another struggle. It seemed useless, and I swam slowly, wondering why I did so, yet my whole nature revolted against going under. It would only be a matter of minutes, and why not take the rest of a somewhat hard existence easy? My reason began to assert itself, and the uselessness of effort began to be manifest. Turning over on my back, I floated easily, only striking out now and then with a spasmodic kick.
Suddenly I heard voices. There were men near, and I quickly turned over again to try to gaze about me through the darkness.
Something made a rushing sound through the water, and, following the swish of the spray, I made out the regular stroke of oars. For an instant I thought of the slaves who had taken our boats, and I had no desire to call for aid. Then it struck me that the oar-stroke was very regular and could only come from trained men.
I called loudly, and soon had the satisfaction of getting an answer. The craft headed toward me, and in a moment I could make her out coming head on.
I grasped the gunwale as she came up, and was hauled inboard by a couple of men.
311“Here’s another rascal who’d rather hang than drown,” said one to the other. Then loudly to the man aft: “We’ve got him, sir.”
I was bundled aft, and made to sit in the bottom of the craft, which I now saw, by the aid of the lantern the helmsman had between his feet, to be a boat from a ship-of-war. The men were in uniform, and the man at the helm was an officer of the United States navy.
“How many of you got away in the boats?” he asked, sternly. “And how did you happen to be left behind?”
“I reckon I’m the only one left,” I said, sadly. “None of us escaped except me.”
“A likely yarn,” snapped the officer. “Who are you, anyway?”
“I’m an American, like yourself, and was gunner of the barque The Gentle Hand,” I answered.
I thought he would strike me when I said I was like himself, but he saw I meant no offence.
“Did all the slaves go down in her after you fired her, when you saw you couldn’t get away from us?” he asked again.
Then it suddenly dawned upon me that the cruiser had thought we had burned and scuttled the ship ourselves, after finding he was closing in and would soon have her under his guns.
“We didn’t fire her,” I answered. “The blacks 312did that, and there’s no one left alive of her crew that I know of besides myself.”
He gave a grunt of disgust, as if it were no use talking to a rascal, and headed for his vessel’s side. I could see her lights now only half a mile away, and I wondered who and what she was, and what fate she had in store for me.
It looked as if I had made a mistake in leaving The Gentle Hand, and visions of a figure swaying at a yard-arm began flitting through my tired brain.
When we came alongside the man-of-war, another small boat had already arrived. Lights were in the gangway, and forms showed along the rail. The vessel was a brig-rigged cruiser, not very large, but, judging from the heaviness of her spars that towered above in the darkness, she was very fast, capable of overhauling the majority of traders. She would not have caught The Gentle Hand in a breeze of any weight, and, as I gazed at her, I remembered the sail I had seen before dark, and to which I had called Bill’s attention while aloft. This vessel was evidently the one seen but not reported, and she had probably crept up on us in the darkness without our knowing it. Then came the rising forward among the men, planned and led by Shannon and Martin, who had plotted with the slave-driver ashore for some of the profits. They had intended taking the barque in themselves, selling and landing the cargo somewhere on either the Cuban or American coast, and then making 314another trip, or sinking her before being overhauled and found out. It was a game easily played among dealers who asked few questions and who paid cost prices. Clearing would not be difficult to men who thought nothing of forging papers, and who would close the mouths of certain officials of the Spanish ports well known to them by handing over a small percentage of the profits. How it all ended is now known, and I seemed to be the sole survivor of the affair.
We ranged alongside the cruiser, and the order came to peak oars. How the accurate obedience of the men and quick, certain movements brought back memories of the days when I wore the blue uniform and served frigate’s guns. Then we were fast, and I was ordered to stand up.
“Now then, up with you,” snapped the officer aft. “Clap that fellow in irons as he comes aboard,” he added to the quartermaster, who stood in the gangway, and who promptly laid a heavy paw upon my shoulder. I was seized by two sailors and hustled below without further ado, and when I arrived in the ’tween-decks, a fellow clapped the irons upon my wrists.
“Where’ll we put him?” asked one of the sailors of the master-at-arms, who was superintending operations.
The light from the lanterns shone upon me, and 315I must have presented a pretty hard spectacle. Several wounds that I had received had begun to bleed afresh, and the salt water mixed with the blood, completely saturating my clothing.
“You look like you had a clip or two, my friend,” said the master-at-arms to me. “Had a bit of a fracas, hey?”
The tone was familiar, and I looked hard at the man. Then, in spite of his clean-shaved face and uniform, I had no difficulty in recognizing old Peter Richards, bos’n of The Gentle Hand.
“Well, how in thunder did you get here?” I asked.
“Didn’t you get my note?” said Richards.
“I did, but am not the scholar you appear to be. Sink you, Peter, how did you play it on me so?”
Richards smiled grimly.
“You know,” he said, “when you first signed with old Watkins, I did not want to go in the barque. Your gaff set me on, John, and I thought you such a fool you would get in trouble. I knew what she was, well enough, but I would have stayed with her if they had treated me right. But folk in that business don’t treat people right. The whole game is one of wrong and oppression,--an’ you know it. When I left, I knew she was going out the next day, and tried to tell you, but you had just gone 316ashore, and when I found you had gone, I went as far as the place where you had the outfly with Curtis on account of the gal. I heard of the mess, an’ got to the long skipper’s boat in time to see him rowing you back to The Gentle Hand.”
“Did you know what he had in the chest, too?” I asked.
“No, but I knew he was up to something. I knew he couldn’t do much with the vessel he had, and I thought I would come along in your wake in this brig. We got here too late. Tell me how the trouble came about.”
I told as much as I could of the rising, and before I was through, an officer called him aft to give instructions about me. I knew he would do what he could, and hoped to have him stand between me and the end of the gant-line.
While he was gone, a master’s mate came up and took me in hand.
“What became of the rest of the crew?” he asked,
“They killed all hands,” I answered, sullenly. “I’m the only one left.”
“Not exactly,” answered the sailor, kindly. “Not exactly, my boy. There’s a pretty good lump of a Welshman and a fairly sized Dutchman already ahead of you.”
317“What!” I cried. “Did you pick up Miss Allen and Big Jones?”
“I haven’t the honour of the gal’s acquaintance,” said the fellow, “but we’ve got her aboard all right, and the men with her. Who is the young lady,--the skipper’s daughter?”
“Daughter of the trader,” I answered, with a feeling of relief. “Her father was killed with the rest. So she’s aboard, is she?”
“All safe, but we don’t hang women for piracy, so I don’t know what the old man’ll do with her. No, Sam, we won’t put him in the brig,” he said, addressing one of the men. “It’s too hot, too much like the hold of a slaver to suit him. I’ve always noticed these fellows are mighty particular about themselves. You can stow yourself there in that hammock to-night, my friend, and here’s some togs for you,” he continued to me, “and here’s a nip of grog for you. Stand by for a call to come aft and be sentenced.”
His tone was kindly, but so cool withal, when discussing my probable end, that I hated the fellow. Hadn’t I gone through enough? Must I be goaded and hung, after all? I changed my dripping clothes, with the help of a couple of men who loosed my hands for a few minutes, and then the order was passed to bring me aft to the captain for examination.
318Tired and exhausted as I was, I was hustled aft between two sailors, and brought to the poop, where sat the captain of the cruiser in a chair. He was only partly dressed, on account of the heat, and he smoked a long cigar of the kind rolled in Cuba. Richards had passed a word for me, and he looked less dangerous than I expected.
He was an intelligent officer, and, as I told my story, beginning at the time I was tricked into signing into the barque, he became interested, and I could see he believed much I told. While I talked, Jones was brought up, and, without hearing what I had already said, corroborated me in all details. Then we were allowed to go below and turn in, and for twelve blessed hours I knew nothing. Ernest was too far gone to talk that night, but the next day his story was found to be in the main like ours.
As for Miss Allen, she was unable to leave her room for several days, but when she could tell of the affair, her testimony did much to save our lives.
We were paroled and given the liberty of the ship while she cruised to the eastward along the coast of the Guinea Gulf and Bight of Benin.
Soon I found the cruiser, which proved to be the Hornet, was looking for a brig commanded by a fellow named Shannon, who had made a reputation on the coast for being a most desperate pirate and slaver. When the bos’n came aboard, they immediately 319gave chase to the barque. Then I explained the affair that happened in Funchal, and the encounter with the brig to the southward of that place. It was evident from my description of the fellow that it was the same man they were hunting, and they finally had enough confidence in my testimony to bear away again to the westward and start up the coast.
After two weeks’ cruising under the hot sun, we raised the topsails of a peculiar-looking craft that was heading down toward the slave coast. Her foretopmast was remarkably short, and, as we overhauled her, I had no difficulty in recognizing Captain Shannon’s vessel.
She saw us and stood inshore close-hauled, and when within a mile of the beach, backed her foresail and waited for us to come up. The brig fired a shot or two across her, and then called away three of her boats, which were filled with armed men, to go in and take possession.
We were to leeward, and the odour that came down the wind told plainly her occupation. Had it been night, Brannigan would have dumped the blacks he had aboard into the sea, for he was capable of anything, but the sun was shining now, and it was no use, for he had failed to recognize the Hornet as a man-of-war until she was close enough to see any such man?uvre from her tops. There 320was nothing to do but either get rid of the cargo, or get out of his vessel, and, as we could now see her deck plainly, Brannigan chose the only course to keep clear of the hangman’s noose. He lowered down his boats, and, as ours started in for him, he started for the beach, keeping up a rapid and well-directed fire from muskets until he struck the surf. His brig, which had been named the Black Jewel, after the manner customary among facetious slave-ship owners, was scuttled where she lay as soon as the blacks were taken out of her.
As the Hornet had been some time on the coast, just as soon as she put the slaves ashore, she stood away for home. We crossed the line, picked up the northeast trade, and made a straight course for the States.
I was allowed the freedom of the deck after I had made known my true rating, and had explained how I had once served in a war-ship and as first officer in several others. In this way I had a chance to meet Miss Allen.
“You are a rough sailorman, are you not, Mr. Heywood?” she asked one day, as we neared the Carolina coast.
“I suppose I may be classed as such,” I assented, “but I’ve held a master’s position once, and been mate of several ships.”
“Well,” she said, “I must confess that I like 321rough sailormen very much. You know I’ve been used to the society of gentlemen.”
“Your discernment in choosing acquaintance does you immense credit, Miss Allen,” I answered. “I’m sure I feel honoured.”
“I have always associated with men who could read and write, you know, and who have been to school. But I do like rough sailormen. They have much that is interesting about them,” she continued, calmly, without heeding my interruption.
“There are over a hundred on board this ship,” I asserted, getting my breath. “Possibly some of them could sign their names, or, at least, make a cross-mark opposite them. As for me, I fear so much learning would be dangerous in so rough a sailor.”
She flushed, and I saw at once that she had meant nothing disagreeable. Then she asked me straightway about Sir John Hicks.
“How was it he did not follow us?” she asked.
“Because he held the ladder for me,” I answered.
“And you let him stay below while you escaped,” she cried, her eyes flooding scorn and contempt. “You, a sailor, let him die, and ran to save yourself?”
“Only after he refused to go. I did all I could to persuade him,” I answered.
She looked long and steadily at me. Then she 322turned and went slowly below, and I saw her no more on board. We ran in between the Chesapeake Capes, and Jones, Ernest, and myself were soon given our liberty.
I took command of a coaster running general cargo to Havana, and before I sailed I received a letter from New York. I read it over and over many times on the run south, and finally decided to call on the writer at the end of the return voyage. But this matter has nothing further to do with the last voyage of The Gentle Hand.
Sometimes I wonder at the end of all those former shipmates of mine, all the strange, savage, and kindly crew of that old, ill-fated barque. Even Tim, the little American sailor, had a history. Where are all those faces, the strong, bad, saturnine, and jovial? They flit like phantoms through my memory,--men who have gone before. I have missed their voices often. In the deserted forecastle of some large, home-arrived ship, I have more than once half-expected to meet one or more of that last crew I sailed with as a man before the mast.
Far away offshore, in the middle of the southern ocean, I have heard that strange voice of the sea again, the low, far-reaching, vibrating murmur that thrills the soul of the listener until each fibre of his being responds. It is then the sailor realizes 323the vast world of rest and peace of the countless crews who have gone before, and wonders as though the cry came from some mighty invisible host, calling through the void of air and sunshine. He thinks of the men he once knew, and wonders. They were good. They were bad. They were a mixture of the two. But they were all human. And who shall say where they have gone?
The End