The Black Bar Part 34

He was obeyed, and the men laid them in, but made a slight noise--a mere trifle of sound, but it was sufficient to alarm the man forward, who was keeping watch; and to Mark's horror, he heard a quick movement, followed by a shout of alarm.

But it was just as the boat grazed up against the schooner's side, glided along, and Tom Fillot gripped the chains, stopped her course, and made fast the painter.

"What's the matter? Are they getting out?" cried the skipper, hurrying on deck, and of course upsetting the plan of keeping him and his men below.

But before he had quite finished his question, Mark's voice rang out,--"Forward!" and he sprang up in the chains, followed by his men, leaped on deck, and directly after there was aflash and the report of a pistol, but the man who fired it was driven headlong down upon the deck, to roll over and over until stopped by the bulwark.

It was the skipper who fired, and then went down with a fierce cry of rage, for Tom Fillot had rushed at him, striking him in violent collision, the weight of the running sailor being sufficient to send him flying. But he struggled up in a moment, and using his pistol as a club, struck with it fiercely in all directions as he cheered on his men, and bravely resisted the attempt to drive him and his followers below.

It was still very dark; the schooner's crew had rushed up at the first alarm, and as fast as they cleared the combings of the hatch, they dashed at their a.s.sailants, with the consequence that in a very few seconds the deck was a confusion of struggling, yelling, and cursing men, the two parties fighting hard for their different aims, to beat the defenders below--to drive the attacking party overboard into their boat or into the river--anywhere to clear the deck.

It was a wild and savage affair, the energy of desperation being fully developed on either side. Weapons were little used, for the two parties closed in a fierce struggle, or else struck out with their fists; and as the two parties were pretty well balanced for numbers, the fight was obstinate to a degree.

Cheering on his men, Mark had been one of the first to leap on deck, and, once there, he had dashed, dirk in hand, at the first sailor he encountered, and immediately found out that even if armed with a dirk, a middy of seventeen is no match for a st.u.r.dy, well-built fellow of thirty; and though he caught his adversary by the throat with one hand, and pointed his dirk with the other, as he bade the man surrender, matters went badly for him.

For the man, who knew that the capture of the vessel meant endless trouble and loss to him, had not the slightest intention of surrendering to a mere boy, and in two vigorous efforts he sent Mark's dirk flying in one direction, and hurled him in another so violently that the lad fell heavily on his head and shoulder, and for the s.p.a.ce of two minutes there was no one to hold the command.

But Mark's semi-insensibility only lasted those two minutes; then he was fully awake to the shouting and struggling going on around and over him.

Naturally objecting to be trampled, jumped upon, and used as a stumbling-block for friends and enemies to fall over, he exerted himself to get out of the way, rolled over and found his dirk beneath him, rose to his feet, aching, half-stunned, and, in pain intense enough to enrage him, he once more rushed at the nearest man, roaring to his followers to come on.

The orders were unnecessary, for the men had come on, and were locked in the embrace of their enemies, but the cry stimulated the brave fellows to fresh exertion, and to the rage and mortification of the Yankee skipper, the schooner's crew were driven back step by step aft, till the next thing seemed to be that they would be forced below, the hatch clapped on, and the Englishmen be masters of the slaver.

But it was not so. Load a gun with powder, fire it, and the force of the preparation will drive the bullet a certain distance. But then the powder has exploded, and its force is at an end. So it was with Mark's followers; the force in them was expended and sent the slavers right aft, but there was no more power left. They were all weak and suffering, and in obeying Mark's last cry they were completely spent, while their enemies were vigorous and strong.

Finding out the weakness of the attacking party, the slavers ceased giving way, rebounded, and the tables were rapidly turned, Mark's men being driven back step by step, forward and to the side over which they had come to the attack. It was in vain that they shouted to one another to stand by and come on, and that Tom Fillot bounded about, making his fists fly like windmill sails, while Mark's voice was heard above the din: they were thoroughly beaten. It was weak and injured men fighting against the well-fed, strong and hearty, and in spite of true British pluck and determination, the former gave way more and more, till the fight resolved itself into a.s.sault against stubborn resistance, the men seeming to say by their acts, "Well, if you are to pitch us overboard, you shall have as much trouble as we can give you."

"Ah, would yer!" roared Tom Fillot, making one of his rushes in time to upset a couple of the schooner's men, who had seized Mark in spite of his struggles, and were about to throw him over the side.

As the men went down Mark had another fall, but he gathered himself up, looking extremely vicious now, and while Tom Fillot was still struggling with the slavers, one of whom had got hold of his leg, another man made at the midshipman, and drove at him with a capstan bar, not striking, but thrusting fiercely at his face with the end.

Mark ducked, avoided the blow, and naturally sought to make reprisal with the ineffective little weapon he held, lunging out so sharply that it went home in the man's shoulder, and he yelled out, dropped the bar, and fled.

"Why didn't you do that before, ten times over, sir?" cried Tom Fillot, kicking himself free. "It's too late now, sir. I'm afraid we're beat this time."

"No, no, no," cried Mark, angrily. "Come on, my lads!" and he made a rush, which must have resulted in his being struck down, for he advanced quite alone, Tom Fillot, who would have followed, being beaten back along with the rest, till they stood against the bulwarks--that is, those who could stand, three being down on their knees.

"Mr Vandean, sir--help! help!" roared Tom Fillot just in the nick of time; and, striking out fiercely with his dirk, Mark returned to his men and released poor Dance, who was one of the weakest, by giving his a.s.sailant a sharp dig with the steel.

"Now, my lads, never mind the boy," cried the Yankee skipper; "over with them."

The men, who had drawn back for the moment, made a rush at Tom Fillot, seized him, there was a short struggle, a loud splash, and the schooners men had got rid of the most vigorous of their a.s.sailants.

A shout and another heave, and Dance had gone. Then d.i.c.k Bannock, who kicked and cursed like a madman, was swung up and tossed over. The rest followed, and, with his back to the bulwarks and his dirk advanced, Mark stood alone upon the deck, last of the gallant little crew, knowing that his turn had come, but ready to make whoever seized him smart for the indignity about to be put upon a British officer, even if he were a boy.

"Bah! rush him," roared the captain, and Mark had time for two blows at his a.s.sailants, whom he could now see clearly from where he had run right to the bows, for a flood of moonlight softly swept over the scene.

Then as he struggled hard with the men cursing and buffeting him with their fists, there came a loud, wildly appealing cry, as it seemed to him, from the hold where the poor blacks were confined; and it was with a bitter feeling of despair at his being unable to help them, that Mark made his last effort to free himself. The next moment he was jerked out from the side of the schooner, fell with a tremendous splash in the swiftly-running tide; there was a flashing as of silver in the moonbeams, then black darkness, and the thunder of the rushing waters in his ears.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

UNEXPECTED ALLIES.

"Here, hi! Look-out, lads! Where's our orficer?"

These words greeted Mark Vandean as, after a few struggles, his head shot up from the black water into the bright moonlight, and, giving it a good shake, he struck out for the boat.

The cold plunge had braced him up, clearing away the brain mists caused by exhaustion in the fight; and now once more he was himself, ready to save his own life, and think, as an officer should, about his men. Of course his first thoughts ought to have been about saving his men, and self afterwards; but he followed the natural instinct, and strove to reach the boat.

"Here I am," he shouted, as soon as he could get his breath; "shove out an oar."

Tom Fillot had already caught sight of his wet face shining in the moonlight, and thrusting an oar over the stern, began to paddle to turn the boat, but was checked directly by the painter, which he had made fast to the chains when they boarded the schooner.

To have stopped to unfasten it would have meant too much loss of time, so throwing himself on his chest, he reached out as far as he could with the oar toward Mark, who had been borne down from where he was plunged in at the bows toward the boat.

"Lay hold, sir!" cried Tom, excitedly.

"Yah! Cowards! Look-out!" was yelled behind Tom; the boat received a violent jerk as d.i.c.k Bannock gave it a thrust right away from the schooner, and simultaneously the men were deluged with water by a tremendous splash close to their side. Then a big wave rose and lapped over into the boat, striking Mark just as his fingers touched the tip of the oar blade, and the next moment he was swept on by the tide up the river.

"All right, sir!" cried Tom Fillot, loudly; "swim steady. We'll have you directly. You, d.i.c.k Bannock, cut that painter. Now, then: oars!"

He dropped down into a seat, and pulled a big stroke to send the boat's head round.

"Here, help me aboard, mate," cried a voice.

"And me, messmet," cried another, the two speakers holding on by the side which they had reached after being thrown from the schooner.

"No, no, hold on, mates," cried Tom. "Let's get Mr Vandean first.

What was that 'ere?"

"Pig o' ballast they chucked over to stave the bottom," growled d.i.c.k Bannock, beginning to row. "If I hadn't shoved her off, they'd ha' sunk us."

"We'll sink them yet," growled Tom Fillot. "Coming, Mr Van, sir.

We'll have you directly. Easy, mates," he cried, throwing in his oar, and leaning over again toward where Mark was swimming steadily facing the tide, but letting himself drift, content to keep afloat.

"Can you reach him, mate?" growled d.i.c.k.

"Not quite; pull your oar," cried Tom. "That's right. Hooray! Got him!"

This last was given with a yell of triumph, as he made a s.n.a.t.c.h at Mark's wrist, caught it firmly, and hauled the dripping lad over into the boat.

"Thankye," said Mark, panting. "I'm all right. Now then, help these two fellows in.--Well done!"

He said this breathlessly as he stood up and gave himself a shake, and then as the two men who had held on went to their places, he resumed his seat and looked round.

"Who's missing?" he cried.

"All here, sir, 'cept poor Joe Dance. I ain't seen him."