But he had no time to think of his own feelings, for the two blacks now stood gazing at him inquiringly, and with some trace of their old suspicious aspect lingering still.

"Water—to drink," said Mark: and he pointed away into the darkness.

They understood him, and dipping the pannikins full, they took each a step into the darkness, and held out the precious fluid toward those who must have been suffering agonies for its want. But no one stirred—not an advance was made, to Mark's great surprise, for he had anticipated that the black faces of his ambassadors would have been sufficient to make the prisoners feel confidence that no harm was intended.

"Go closer," said Mark; and the two blacks looked back at him inquiringly, but obeyed as soon as he laid his hand upon their shoulders and pressed them forward.

Then a voice broke the silence, the big black saying a few words in his own tongue, their effect being magical. A low murmur ran through the hold, and a harsh voice croaked out what was evidently a question, for the big black answered in a hesitating way, saying a few words, and then sharply one in a questioning tone, as if he had not understood.

The harsh, croaking voice was heard again, speaking angrily, and there were several interchanges of question and answer, as if between two men who did not quite understand each other's dialect.

And now Mark's eyes had become so accustomed to the darkness that he could dimly see that the place was full of a steamy mist, through which horrible-looking, ill-defined figures were moving, wild-eyed and strange. Some were tossing their arms about, others were stretching out their hands supplicatingly toward the water pannikins, which the two blacks kept dipping full and handing to those who pressed toward them; but there was no scuffling or fighting for the water, as might have been expected under the circumstances. The wretched prisoners seemed gentle and tolerant to each other, drinking and making way for companion sufferers.

As this went on, and Mark was able to search the horrible gloom more and more, he shuddered; and, suffering as he was from the effects of the deadly mephitic air, the whole scene preyed upon his mind until he could hardly believe that he was gazing at reality, the whole tragedy before him resembling the dream accompanying some fever, and it was only by an effort that he could master the intense desire to struggle up the ladder and escape into the light and the free fresh air.

The buckets were nearly empty, and he felt that it would be better for what was left in one to be poured into the other, so that the supplying might still go on while more was fetched, when it suddenly struck him that there was something wrong. In the darkness he could dimly make out two or three tall blacks pressing forward toward where the white-clothed sailors were dispensing the precious fluid, and it struck him that their aspect was threatening. The next moment he set the idea down as being imaginative, and the result of the unreal-looking, dreamy scene before him. For it was impossible, he argued, for the slaves to be about to resent the treatment they were receiving.

"It's my head all in a whirl," he said to himself; "and it's just like I used to feel when I was ill and half dead in the boat."

But the next minute he felt that the first idea was correct; something was wrong, and it struck him that the prisoners were going to make an attack. But he could not be sure; the darkness was too thick, and the excitement and horror of the whole scene made his imagination play strange pranks. At one moment he could see right back into the fore part of the hold where it was crowded with writhing, struggling beings; the next the mist closed over it apparently, and he could only make out gleaming eyes and shadows sweeping toward him and fading away, to appear at the side or hovering over his head.

"Yes; it's all from a disordered imagination," he said to himself; and he had hardly come to this conclusion, when he knew that he was gazing at the real, for dimly-seen, there before him was a crowd of figures surrounding the two black sailors. A harsh sound arose—a mingling of muttered cries and savage growlings as of wild beasts; there was the noise of the buckets being knocked over, of a fierce struggle and heavy blows, and a hot, sickening wave of mephitic air was driven outward. Thoroughly alarmed now, Mark shouted for help, and was then thrust aside as one of the blacks whom he had brought down made for the hatchway, and in the brief glance he obtained in the light which shone down from above, he saw that the man was covered with blood.

For a moment or two, weak still from his late illness, Mark felt completely prostrate and unable to act; but he recovered himself as quickly, and started forward to grasp the black's arm.

"Hurt?" he cried.

The man dropped back from the ladder to gaze at him, and then uttered a few words excitedly as he pointed back into the forward part of the dark hold.

"Here, stand aside!" cried the lieutenant, as he stepped down into the noisome hold, followed by Tom Fillot and a couple of the crew, each man with sword or cutlass in hand. "Now, Mr Vandean, quick; an attack?"

"Yes, sir; the slaves attacked our two men. One of them's badly wounded."

At that moment a dead silence fell, and the big black's white shirt and trousers were visible, and he, too, now stepped forward into the light, while before he could speak a low groan came out from the darkness.

"I thought he was killed," cried Mark, and the man began to speak volubly and gesticulate, pointing back.

"Bah!" exclaimed Mr Russell. "We ought not to be here without an interpreter. He is not hurt; it is the other black. Stand fast, my lads, in case the poor wretches attack. Now, then, where are you hurt?"

This was to the second black sailor, whose white duck shirt was horrible with stains of blood, as he began to talk fast now and point forward.

"Wounds must be slight," cried the lieutenant. "Can you make out a word of what he says, Vandean?"

"No, sir; but let me try."

Mark pointed forward, and without a moment's hesitation the two black sailors plunged into the darkness and returned, half dragging, half carrying a ghastly-looking object into the square of light shed from above.

"Oh, here's the wounded man, then," cried the lieutenant. "Let's get him up into the daylight."

Mark pointed down at the slave, who was bleeding freely, and the big sailor now spoke out a few words fiercely, with the result that half a dozen nude slaves came shrinkingly forward, and in obedience to a gesture, lifted the wounded man and carried him up to the deck.

The officers and men followed, and the two black sailors came last, to pay no heed to the wounded man, but proceed at once to refill the buckets, and carry them down into the hold past the guard set over the hatchway. Then after bidding Bob Howlett to hoist a signal for the surgeon to come aboard, Mr Russell roughly bandaged the terrible wound the slave had upon his head, the others who had carried up the sufferer looking stupidly on, blinking and troubled by the sunlight, to which they had evidently been strangers for some time.

"Now," said Mr Russell, as he rose, "we are in the dark as much as ever. Can't you explain what was wrong, Mr Vandean?"

"No, sir; I saw a struggle, and one man seemed wounded."

"And it was someone else. Tut—tut—tut! and we can't understand a word. What a useful thing speech is, after all."

Just then the two blacks came up for more water, and Mark tried to communicate with them, but only with the result that they looked puzzled till the midshipman pointed to the wounded man.

"How did it happen?" he said; and the big black looked at him heavily. Then he seemed to grasp the meaning of the question, and laughed excitedly.

Pointing to the wounded man lying on the deck, he ran to the group of slaves standing staring at him, with their foreheads wrinkled up and their eyes full of despair; he seized one, whose countenance assumed a stern look of anger as the black sailor pointed to him, and made the sign of striking a blow, pointing again at the wounded man.

"He evidently means that the man was wounded by his fellow-slave," said Mr Russell.

The black sailor watched the officer, and then thrust his hand behind the slave to take a short, flat piece of wood from the poor wretch's waistband—a piece of heavy wood, shaped something like a willow leaf.

"The weapon evidently," said Mr Russell; "but I don't see why he should wound his fellow-sufferer."

But the black sailor had not done with his explanation. He looked to see that the officers were watching him, and then placed the weapon in its owner's hand, which he raised, and said a few words to his fellow black with the blood-stained garb.

This man waited a moment to assist in the pantomimic explanation, and then, as his companion brought down the weapon towards his own head, he rushed up between them and received the blow, staggered away as if very much hurt, and, still acting, reeled and fell down beside the wounded man, pointing to him as he half rose, and then at the stains upon his own shirt.

"Well, what do you make of it?" said Mr Russell.

"I know, sir," cried Bob Howlett; "he wants you to understand that if we take them and make sailors of them, they'll kill all the slavers."

"Thank you, Mr Howlett. Now, then, Mr Vandean, what do you say?"

"I see now," cried Mark, eagerly. "What happened below helps me. That big fellow thought our man Taters was an enemy, and he tried to cut him down, but this poor fellow knew better, rushed between and received the blow."

"I'm inclined to think you are right," said Mr Russell. "Ah, here comes the doctor. Now, then, about getting these poor wretches up. Perhaps they'll come now."

He was right, for the task was easy. The blacks on deck, apathetic as they were, gradually comprehended that they had fallen into hands where they would be well treated, and after a few gestures and orders given by Mark, the two black sailors turned to the slaves and spoke. The result was that the big, fierce-looking black who was answerable for the injury done to his fellow-prisoner went down on his knees before Soup, and touched the deck with his forehead before rising with some show of animation, and then going to the hatch, descended in a half-crippled way, and they heard his voice directly after.

By this time the doctor was on board, sniffing about with an air of the most intense disgust.

"Faugh!" he ejaculated; "how horrible! And no disinfectants. Hallo! wounded man, eh? Humph!"

He forgot everything else in the interest he took in his fresh case, while now, slowly and shrinkingly, the slaves began to come up from below, foul, weak from injuries, and suffering from the dreadful air that they had been forced to breathe. They were a terrible crowd to gaze upon. Men, women, and children, all herded together like cattle, and flinching away whenever a sailor went near, as if expecting a blow.

There were nearly a hundred when all were on deck, and the first thing done was to distribute food and water. The next, to arrange about their being rowed on board the Nautilus, while the schooner was burned.

"And the best thing too," said the doctor. "Faugh! the vessel's loathsome. Nothing like fire for purifying."

"But we have to try first if we can get her off," said the lieutenant.

"Then all I can say is I hope you will not," said the doctor.

"But if we get her off," said Mark, smiling, "it means that the slaves will stay on board here."

"Eh? Does it? Oh, well then, I hope you will," cried the doctor. "Now, Russell, have me rowed back. That fellow's badly wounded, but he'll soon get well."



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

MARK'S REST IS DISTURBED.

The boat started back with the doctor, while the other took out an anchor right astern, the capstan was rigged, a good strain got upon the cable, and after a great deal of tugging with the handspikes the men gave a hearty cheer and began to strain harder, for the tide had risen a little, and the schooner gradually glided off into deeper water.

An answering cheer came back from the Nautilus, and a signal was hoisted, which Mr Russell read to mean, "Well done!"

Five minutes after they were lying at anchor, and Tom Fillot took the opportunity of passing to whisper to Mark,—

"We did tug at them bars, sir. It means no end o' prize-money—the saving of a smart craft like this; but, beg pardon, sir, ain't we going to have a bit of a wash and swab?"

"More signals, sir," cried Bob, who was watching the Nautilus and the flags being run up.

"Yes, I see," said the lieutenant. "Take the boat, Mr Howlett, and ask for stores to be sent on board here. We are to remain."

Bob looked disappointed, and then pleased.

"You're in for it, Van," he whispered, as they walked to the gangway. "I say, shall I send you a bottle of eau-de-cologne with the stores?"

Mark made a gesture as if to kick him, but Bob dropped down into the boat, was rowed off, and in due time the supplies arrived.

"Not quite the sort of duty we expected, Vandean," said the lieutenant, "but we must take the rough with the smooth, I suppose."

"Shall we have to stop on board here?"

"Not a doubt about it, my lad; but she's a valuable prize, and by to-morrow we'll have her different from this, or know the reason why."

He set to work giving orders after the men had been refreshed; and, now that the two black sailors grasped the object of the taking of the schooner, and comprehended that the slaves were to be set free, they began to work with tremendous energy. Though speaking a dialect somewhat different from that of the poor creatures on board, they made them understand that their lot had been bettered, and, as soon as this was understood, a complete change came over the scene. The women laughed and cried, and the men evinced a desire to help, so that before night the hold had been cleansed and ventilated, and the deck opened to let in light, till, though still far from being pure, the place began to be bearable.

The task had not been completed, though, without attendant horrors, for upon the first steps being taken to examine the hold, no less than six poor creatures, victims to the hideous traffic, were found lying where they had fallen—dead.

It was horrible in the extreme, Mark felt, but nothing else could be done, and the sufferers were committed to the deep by their more fortunate companions, with a few wails of grief and beatings of the breast. Then all was over, and the cleansing went on, till Mr Russell gave orders for the men to cease.

"And pretty well time," grumbled Tom Fillot. "There's been some hundred millions o' buckets o' water slooshed about this here schooner."

"More or less, Tom," said Mark, laughing.

"Well, sir, I dessay you're right," said the man, "for I didn't count; but I've been hauling up buckets and swabbing till I don't seem to have no arms. Howsoever, we are a little bit more decent, and I don't think we shall have anything on our consciences to-night."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't think any niggers'll die 'cause of our not taking care on 'em, sir, that's all."

Just before dark, Bob Howlett was back on board with a despatch for the lieutenant, and soon after he had gone Mr Russell told Mark the contents.

"We're to make sail as soon as there's a breath of wind," he said, "and steer for Port Goldby, so as to get the blacks ashore and in charge of the authorities as quickly as possible. But there will be no wind to-night, my lad, and I shouldn't be surprised if it was calm all day to-morrow. Still, there, one never knows what the weather is likely to be."

"It's calm enough now," said Mark, as he looked shoreward over the glassy sea to where a thin haze veiled the shore. "How hot it is!"

"Yes; Africa deserves its character," said the lieutenant, smiling. Then, as he looked toward the groups of blacks—slaves no longer—lying about the deck in comparative bliss, after what they had gone through—"I must send those poor creatures below," he said. "I don't think there is the most remote idea among them of an attempt to turn against us, but the land is near, and they might think they would like to strike off for liberty, and it would be a cruelty to let them go back to slavery, as they would if they got ashore."

"It does seem hard to send them down into that stifling hold," said Mark; "but I suppose it must be done."

"Yes, and at once," said Mr Russell, firmly. "Call that big black."

Mark went forward and summoned Soup, who came smiling, to look from one to the other inquiringly.

With some difficulty he was made to understand what was wanted; and as soon as he did he called his companion, and in a very few minutes they had cleared the deck, the women and children going below docilely enough, and the men making not the slightest opposition, though giving a longing look round at the soft evening sky.

"No trouble there," said Mr Russell. "Now, Vandean, I propose that we divide the night. I'll take the watch, and will call you for the next, unless the wind springs up, and then of course it will be all hands on deck. Who will you have in your watch—Dance, or Fillot?"

"Fillot," said Mark, promptly.

"Most amusing companion, but Dance is the better seaman."

"Shall I have Dance, then, sir?"

"I would rather you did, my lad, as the responsibility is great, and I should lie down to rest with more confidence. Not that I doubt you," he hastened to add. "There, I'll join you at a bit of supper at once. Things seem pretty comfortable in the cabin, and, as it is our prize, we may make free with what we like. Come along."

Mark gave a sharp look round as they walked toward the cabin-hatch, to see through the hot glow the Nautilus at anchor, looking trim, and with every yard squared. She seemed to stand up out of the water in the transparent atmosphere, with every rope clearly seen, but there was a peculiar look seaward, as if the transparent darkness were sweeping over the ocean to shut her in. He looked shoreward to faintly discern the tops of some palms, but all below these was shut in by haze which rose from the mouth of the river.

"Doesn't look a healthy place, and this can't be a healthy ship, Vandean, but we must make the best of it, and be off to sea at the first chance."

They both stood at the head of the cabin stairs, and took another look round, to see if anything had been left undone; and just then Dance the coxswain came up and touched his hat.

"Shall I hoist an anchor-light, sir, as soon as it's dark?" said the man, respectfully.

"No," replied the lieutenant, decisively. "No one is likely to run us down, here. Now, Vandean."

He led the way into the cabin, saying, "We don't want to show people ashore where we are. Hah! that's right. This is Tom Fillot's doing. He's a handy fellow."

He pointed to the preparations for a meal of no mean proportions, for the skipper of the schooner and his crew had been liberally provided for by their owners; and now, feeling hungry for the first time that day, Mark ate a hearty supper. After a little chat they went on deck again, to find that the sky was now literally black, and the only thing visible as they lay there in the utter silence was a star-like light lying apparently close by—a light which Mark knew at once must be that of the Nautilus.

"Why, she has come in closer while we've been below," he said.

"On the contrary, she has run out with the tide, and is a good two miles away. Let's have a look round."

The first movement was to the sentry on guard over the hatch, from which came the sounds of heavy breathing, and the man reported in a whisper that the blacks had not made another sound.

The rest of the watch were next visited, and there was nothing to report.

"There," said the lieutenant, "all's well. Go and sleep, my lad. I'll keep a faithful watch over you; when your turn comes do the same for me. Good-night."

"Good-night, sir," said Mark, eagerly taking the hand extended to him, and gripping it firmly. Then going below, feeling weary, but unwilling to leave the deck, he crept into the skipper's comfortable bunk to rest himself, feeling certain that he would not sleep. For it was very hot down there, in spite of the open cabin window; the mosquitoes were uttering their tiresome fine-drawn hum, and he was excited by the events of the day.

"It's like going to sleep on the edge of a volcano," he thought. "Suppose the blacks do rise, and, led by our two fellows, attack us. We should be taken by surprise, and it would be all over in a minute. I can't go to sleep. I'll lie still a bit, and then go on deck."

Mark lay still a bit, but did not go on deck, for he dropped off into a deep sleep, which seemed only to have lasted five minutes when Mr Russell came and roughly told him to turn out, flashing the lanthorn in his eyes as he awoke, puzzled and confused at the rough way in which his fellow-officer spoke. Then with a start he grasped the reality.

It was not the lieutenant holding the light, but someone else, who growled,—"Make so much as a sound and it will be your last—all but the splash going overboard. D'yer see this? Guess you do. Mind it don't go off."

There was no need for guessing; the object named was plain enough in the light of the lanthorn, being a pistol barrel, whose muzzle was about two feet from the lad's head.



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

A CONFUSED AWAKENING.

"Now then, out you come."

Mark Vandean did come out of the bunk in remarkably quick time, but he was still confused, and his brain refused to solve the puzzle before him, so he, to use a familiar expression, pulled himself together. The young officer resented being spoken to in this rough manner and threatened by a stranger with an American accent, and in as haughty a tone as he could assume he cried,—

"Who are you? What are you doing here?"

"Come, I like that. Hear him. Oh, all right," cried the man, as there was a hoarse chorus of laughter. "Who'm I, eh, my bantam cock? Waal, I'm Cap'n Ephrum Bynes, o' Charleston, South Car'lina. That's who I am. And what am I doing here? I'm kicking a set o' sarcy Britishers out o' my ship. Now you know that."

"Where's Lieutenant Russell?"

"Down in the boat, my sarcy Tom chicken; and that's all you've got to know. Say another word, and I'll have you pitched into the sea among the sharks instead of into the boat. So mind that. Bring him on deck."

Rough hands seized Mark on the instant, and as a man carrying the lanthorn stepped back, Mark saw the legs of the Yankee skipper ascending the companion ladder, and a minute later he was rudely dragged on deck, his heart beating wildly as he tried to pierce the darkness around in search of his companions. But all was pitchy black, and though his eyes wandered in search of the bright star-like lamp of the Nautilus, it was not to be seen. The next moment he knew why; a pleasant breeze was blowing off shore, hot but powerful enough to be acted upon, and in those brief moments he knew that the vessel must have sailed.

He had little time for thought. He was suddenly lifted from the deck, and he began to struggle wildly, striking out with his fists, but all in vain.

"Over with him!" cried the Yankee skipper, and a cry escaped from Mark's lips as he felt himself swung out over the side of the schooner, to fall, he expected, splash into the sea. He had time to think all this, for thought flies fast in emergencies, but his fall was partly upon someone below, partly upon the thwart of a boat, and a deep groan came from close to his ear as he looked up and saw the lanthorn resting on the schooner's bulwark, and several faces staring down.

"My compliments to your skipper," said a mocking voice, "if you ever ketch him, and tell him he's welkim to my boat. I'll take a glass o' liquor with him if ever he comes our way.—Now then, shove off, you there forward. If you stop another minute, I'll send a pig o' ballast through your bottom."

This was said with a savage snarl, and as Mark struggled up into a sitting position, he felt the boat begin to move.

"Here, ahoy, below there! You'd best lay your head to the north," came the voice again, as the light was suddenly hidden or put out. "Your skipper made signals when the wind rose, and we answered 'em for you. Get your oars out sharp, or you won't overtake them this year."

Then all was silence and darkness save where the movement of an oar sculling over the stern made the water flash and gleam with phosphorescence, and raised up ripples of pale lambent, golden light.

"Who's that?" said Mark, in a whisper.

"On'y me, sir," replied a familiar voice, in company with a smothered groan.

"Tom Fillot?"

"Ay, ay, sir," came back dismally. "I've got us out o' reach o' that pig o' ballast."

"But, Tom," cried Mark, excitedly, "what does it mean? Where's Mr Russell?"

"Somewheres underneath you, sir. I think you're a-sitting on him."

"There's someone lying here," cried Mark.

"Yes, sir, several someuns," said Tom Fillot. "Oh, my poor head!"

"But you don't tell me what it all means," cried Mark, angrily.

"Didn't know as it wanted no telling on, sir. Thought you knowed."

"But I know nothing. I was roused up, dragged out of the cabin, and thrown down into the boat."

"Yes, sir; so was we, and not very gently, nayther."

"Then the—" began Mark, but he did not finish. "That's it, sir. You've hit it. The Yankee captain come back from up the river somewhere in his boat as quiet as you please, and the first I knowed on it was that it was dark as pitch as I leaned my back against the bulwarks, and stood whistling softly, when—bang, I got it on the head, and as I went down three or four of 'em climbed aboard. 'What's that? You there, Fillot?' I heered in a dull sort o' way, and then the poor lufftenant went down with a groan, and same moment I hears a scrufflin' forrard and aft, cracks o' the head, and falls. Minute arter there was a row going on in the fo'c's'le. I heered that plain, sir, and wanted to go and help my mates, but when I was half up, seemed as if my head begun to spin like a top, and down I went again, and lay listening to the row below. There was some fighting, and I heered Joe Dance letting go awful. My, he did swear for a minute, and then he was quiet, and there was a bit o' rustling, and I hears a voice say, 'Guess that's all. Show the light.' Then there seemed to me to be a light walking about the deck with a lot o' legs, and I knowed that they were coming round picking up the pieces. Sure enough they was, sir, and they pitched all the bits of us overboard into a boat alongside; and I knowed we hadn't half kept our watch, and the Yankee skipper had come back and took his schooner."

"Oh, Tom Fillot!" groaned Mark. "And was that all?"

"No, sir; for I heered the skipper say, 'Anyone been in the cabin?' And when no one spoke he began to cuss 'em for a set o' idgits, and they all went below with the lanthorn, and come up again along o' you. My word, Mr Vandean, sir, how you must have slep'!"

"Oh, Tom Fillot!" cried Mark again.

"Yes, and it is 'Oh, Tom Fillot,' sir," groaned the poor fellow. "My skull's cracked in three or four places sure as a gun."

"And the others. Oh! the others. Are they killed?"

"I dunno, sir. I ain't—not quite. Sims to me that they'd got bats, and they hit us with 'em like they do the pigs in the north country, or the cod-fish aboard the fishing smacks. My poor head feels as if it's opening and shutting like a fish's gills every time I moves my mouth."

"Are all the men here, Tom?"

"Yes, sir; I think so. If they're not, it's 'cause they're dead."

"This is Mr Russell; I can feel his uniform," whispered Mark; "and he's dead—no, I can feel his heart beating. Come here, Tom, and help me."

"I'll come, sir; but I can't help you, and it don't seem no use for me to be waggling this 'ere oar about. Just as well let the tide send us along."

There was the sound of the oar being laid along the thwart, and then of someone stumbling.

"That was most nigh overboard, sir. Wish it warn't so dark. Why, it's black. What's that?"

There was a creaking sound from a little distance, and the man whispered,—

"They're making sail, sir, and they'll creep out afore morning, and get right away."

"With those poor creatures on board."

"Just as we'd made 'em clean and comf'able, sir. Oh, my poor head!"

"Let's see to Mr Russell first, and then I'll bind up your head as well as I can."

"How's one to see to Mr Russell, sir? Why, plagues o' Egypt's nothing to darkness like this."

Mark bent over his brother officer, and passed his hand over his face and head.

"He's not bleeding," he whispered, impressed as he was by the darkness and their terrible position.

"More am I, sir, but I'm precious bad all the same. Don't s'pose any one's bleeding, but they got it hard same as I did. Wood out here ain't like wood at home. Oak's hard enough, but iron-wood's like what they call it."

"Who is this?" said Mark, as, after gently letting Mr Russell's head sink back, his hands encountered another face.

"I dunno, sir. It was every man for hisself, and I was thinking about Tom Fillot, AB, and no one else. What's he feel like?"

"Like one of our men."

"But is it a hugly one with very stiff whiskers? If so be it is, you may take your davy it's Joe Dance."

"How am I to know whether he's ugly?" cried Mark, petulantly.

"By the feel, sir. Try his nose. Joe Dance's nose hangs a bit over to starboard, and there's a dent in it just about the end where he chipped it agin a shot case."

"Oh, I can't tell all that," cried Mark—"Yes, his nose has a little dent in it, and his whiskers are stiff."

"Then that's Joe Dance, sir."

"Avast there! Let my head alone, will yer?" came in a low, deep growl.

"That's Joe, sir, safe enough. Harkee there! Hear 'em?"

Sundry creaking sounds came out of the darkness some distance away now, and Tom Fillot continued in a whisper,—

"They're hysting all the sail they can, sir. Look! you can see the water briming as she sails. They're going same way as we. Tide's taking us."

"Oh, Tom Fillot, I oughtn't to have gone to sleep. I ought to have stopped on deck."

"No yer oughtn't, sir. Your orders was to take your watch below, and that was enough for you. Dooty is dooty, sir, be it never so dootiful, as the proverb says."

"But if I had been on deck I might have heard them coming, Tom."

"And got a rap o' the head like the pore fellows did, sir."

"Well, perhaps so, Tom. I wonder why they didn't strike me as they did you."

"'Cause you're a boy, sir, though you are a young gentleman, and a orficer. Fine thing to be a boy, sir. I was one once upon a time. Wish I was a boy at home now, instead o' having a head like this here."

"I'm thinking of what the captain will say," muttered Mark, despondently, as he ignored the man's remark.

"Say, sir? Why, what such a British officer as Cap'n Maitland's sure to say, sir, as he won't rest till he's blown that there schooner right out of the water."

"And those poor blacks," sighed Mark.

"Ah, it's hard lines for them poor chaps, and the women and bairns too, even if they are niggers. Oh, if I'd only got that there skipper by the scruff of his neck and the waistband of his breeches! Sharks might have him for all I should care. In he'd go. Hookey Walker, how my head do ache all round!"

"I'm very sorry, Tom Fillot."

"Which I knows you are, sir; and it ain't the first trouble as we two's been in together, so cheer up, sir. Daylight'll come some time, and then we'll heave to and repair damages."

Just then there was a low groan from forward.

"That's one of our blacky-toppers, sir. 'Tarn't a English groan. You feel; you'll know him by his woolly head, and nose. If he's got a nose hooked one way, it's Soup. If it's hooked t'other way—cocks up—it's Taters."

"The hair is curly," said Mark, who was investigating.

"P'raps it's Dick Bannock, sir. There, I said it warn't an English groan."

By this time some of the men were recovering from the stunning effect of the blows they had all received, and there were sounds of rustling and scuffles.

"Steady there, mate," growled one man. "What yer doing on?"

"Well, get off o' me, then," said another.

"Here, hi! What are you doing in my bunk? Hullo! Ahoy there! where are we now?"

"Steady there, and don't shout, my lads."

"All right, sir," growled a voice. "I was a bit confoosed like! Oh, my head!"

"Ay, mate," said Tom Fillot, "and it's oh, my, all our heads. Beg pardon, sir, for the liberty, but if you'd do it for me, I should know the worst, and I could get on then. I'm all nohow just now, and it worries me."

"Do what, Tom?" said Mark.

"Just pass your finger round my head, and tell me for sartin whether it's broke or no. It feels all opening and shutting like. Go it, sir; don't you be feared. I won't holler."

Mark leaned forward and felt the man's head.

"It's not fractured, Tom," he said. "If it had been it would have made you feel very different from this. You would have been insensible."

"Well, that what's I am, sir, and always have been. I never was a sensible chap. But are you sure as it ain't broke, sir?"

"Certain, Tom."

"Then who cares? I don't mind a bit o' aching, and I'm ready for any game you like. What do you say, sir, to trying to captivate the schooner again?"

"You and I, Tom?"

"Well, it ain't a very strong force, sir, be it?"

"We must wait for daylight, Tom, and I hope by then some of the lads will be able to pull an oar."

"Ay, ay, sir, o' course."

"I'm ready now," said Dick Bannock, with his voice sounding husky out of the darkness; and there was silence, broken only by a groan or two for a few minutes, during which Mark, feeling the terrible responsibility of his position, tried to make some plan as to his future proceedings, but only to be compelled to come back to the conclusion that there was nothing to be done but wait for morning.

At one moment insane ideas as to the recapture of the schooner came to trouble him, and this brought to mind what ought to have been his first duty as the officer upon whom the command had suddenly fallen.

"Tom Fillot," he cried, excitedly, "go round the boat as carefully as you can, and count the men, ourselves included. We ought to be eleven, ought we not?"

"Let's see, sir. Two orficers is two; six AB's and coxswain seven, and seven and two's nine; and the two nig—blacks, sir; nine and two's 'leven. That's right, sir 'leven."

"Go round then, and count."

"I think they could all answer to their names, sir, now, if I might be so bold."

"Call them over, then."

"Ay, ay, sir. Here goes, then, lads. First orficer, Mr Russell, sir, and you, sir's, two as we needn't count. Joe Dance, answer to your name."

"Ay, ay," came in a growl.

"Dick Bannock."

"Here."

"Bill Billings."

"What's left on me, mate."

"Sam Grote."

"Here, but ain't got no head."

"Bob Stepney."

"Here; and wish I warn't," came surlily out of the darkness.

"Don't you be sarcy 'fore your orficers, Bob, or there may be a row," said Tom Fillot, sharply.

"I can't see no orficers, messmate," said the same voice.

"That'll do, Bob Stepney. That's cheek. Tim Dunning."

"That's me."

"All here, sir, and able to use their tongues. Fisties, too, I dessay."

"The two blacks!" said Mark, quickly, and with a feeling of thankfulness to find matters so far well.

"Ay, ay, sir. Thought I'd give the white uns a chance first," said Tom Fillot. "Now, you two, try and understand plain English. Answer to your names. Soup."

There was no reply.

"Taters."

Still no reply.

"Not here?" said Mark, anxiously.

"Don't sabbee, p'raps, sir. I'll try again."

"Taters."

No answer.

"Soup."

No reply.

"Soup and Taters."

"Aren't aboard," growled several voices in chorus. "I'm 'fraid the Soup and Taters is done, sir," said Tom Fillot in a low voice.

"Oh, man, man, how can you try to joke at a time like this!" cried Mark, angrily.

"'Tarn't no joke, sir," cried Tom Fillot. "I'm sorry as you are, for they were getting to be two good messmates. They'd on'y got minds like a couple o' boys, but the way in which they took to their chew o' 'baccy was wonderful to behold."

"The men must have overlooked them," cried Mark. "They were below asleep."

"Nay, sir, they didn't care to go below. They was both asleep curled up forrard under the bulwarks. They'd had so much being below, that they shied at going down a hatchway."

"Then what do you think about them, Tom?" cried Mark, excitedly.

There was no reply.

"Why don't you answer, man?"

"Didn't like to tell you, sir," said Tom Fillot, quietly.

"Tell me what you are thinking at once."

"Well, sir, I thinks same as my mates do here. Them piratical sharks o' slavers didn't dare to be too hard on us because they knowed if they was ketched arterwards it meant a bit o' hemp round the neck, and a dance on nothing at all in the air; but when it comes to blacks, they're no more account to them than blackberries as grows on brambles. Strikes me they give them poor chaps a crack o' the head apiece, and knocked 'em down, same as they did we, but they wouldn't take the trouble to carry them and pitch them into a boat. They just chucked them overboard at once."

"Oh, impossible!" cried Mark, excitedly. "They could not be such brutes."

"What! not them, sir?" cried Tom Fillot, indignantly. "Harkye here, messmates; I says as chaps as'd half kill such a orficer as Mr Russell, who's as fine a gen'leman as ever stepped, 'd murder a King as soon as look at him."

"Ay, ay," came in a low growl.

"And if any o' you thinks different to my sentiments, let him speak out like a man."

"That's what we all think, messmet," came in another growl.

"And there you are, sir, and them's fax. They chucked them two pore chaps overboard, and, speaking up for my messmates and self, I says we don't hold with killing nobody 'cept in the name of dooty; but here's a set o' miserable beggars as goes about buying and selling the pore niggers, and treating 'em worse than they would a box o' worms to go fishing with. Why, it's murder, sir, wholesale, retail, and for exportation, as the man said over his shop door in our town o' Bristol, and if we can only get at 'em—well, I won't say what we'll do, but if there ain't some fatal accidents that day, my name ain't Tom."

"That's so, messmet—that's so," came in another deep growl.

"It's horrible, horrible," groaned Mark; and he bent over Mr Russell's face, and tried to make out whether there was any sign of returning consciousness.

"At a time like this, messmets," whispered Tom Fillot to those nearest to him, "I'd be quiet. Mr Vandean's in a deal of trouble about the lufftenant."

"Hi! all on you," came sharply from the forward part of the boat, which rocked a little from some one changing his position; and as it rocked tiny waves of light like liquid moonbeams flowed away to starboard and port, while dull sparks of light appeared in the water down below.

"What's the matter there?" said Mark, rousing himself up to speak. "Be silent, and keep the boat still."

"Ay, ay," growled Tom Fillot, but the boat still swayed.

"Do you hear there?" cried Mark, sharply. "Who's that?"

"Hi! all on you!" came again.

"Did you hear my order, Dance?" cried Mark. "Sit down, man. Do you want to capsize the boat?"

"I want my hitcher," said the man, sharply. "Who's been a-meddling with my boathook? it ain't in its place."

"Sit down, man. This is not the first cutter, but one of the schooner's boats. Your boathook is not here."

"Do you hear, all on you? I want my hitcher. Some on you's been and hidden it for a lark. Give it here."

"Are you deaf, Dance?" cried Mark, angrily. "How dare you, sir! Sit down."

"I know," continued the man, who was tumbling about forward. "Some on you's took it for a game, and Lufftenant Staples ain't the man to stand no larks. 'Where's that there boathook, Joe Dance?' he says. 'Produce it 'twonce, sir, or—' 'Ay, ay, sir. Starn all it is. Where are you coming? Pull. Starboard there—On Portsmouth hard in Portsmouth town. Three cheers, my merry lads—Now then, pull—pull hard—Ay, ay, sir—Now all together, my lads!'"

As the coxswain was speaking from out of the darkness, to the wonderment of all, Tom Fillot whispered quickly to his young officer,—

"It's the crack he got, sir. He'll be overboard if we don't mind. Poor chap, he has gone right off his nut."

Creeping forward past the men, Tom made for where Joe Dance was speaking loudly, evidently under the belief that he was talking to a number of people around. Then, stamping about in the boat, his words came forth more rapidly, but in quite a confused gabble, of which hardly a single word was comprehensible. Invisible though he was, it was evident that he was growing more and more excited, for his words flowed strangely, swiftly, and then became a mere babble, as, with a shout, he rushed aft at the touch of Tom Fillot.

"Stop him, some on you; he's mad!" roared Tom Fillot; and as instinctively Mark started up, it was to be seized by the poor wretch in his delirium, and held back, in spite of his struggles, more and more over the side of the boat toward the sea.



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

A DISABLED CREW.

"I thought it was all over with you, sir," said Tom Fillot, who, regardless of those over whom he had passed, had plunged aft and thrown himself upon the coxswain, bearing him and the young midshipman down into the stern-sheets of the boat, and holding the former till he was dragged away, laid in the bottom, and held down forward, in spite of his struggles and cries.

"I thought so, too, Tom. Ugh! how horrible! As if our position was not bad enough before; it is too hard to have a madman on board."

"'Tis, sir; but I wonder we ain't all mad. My head's bad enough for me to be. Are you much hurt, sir?"

"More frightened than hurt. I thought we should have been over into the black water."

"And it you had been, he'd ha' drowned you, as sure as sure, sir, for we couldn't ha' found you in the darkness."

"And the worst of it is, I don't know what to do," said Mark. "If Dr Whitney were only here."

"No use to wish, sir. If it was, I'd wish the Naughtylass was here to try and catch the schooner and her crew. There is one thing to wish for, though, and that's for to-morrow morning to come instead of to-night, sir."

"Yes, and I'm afraid it's a long way off yet," said Mark, with a sigh, as he looked round at the veil of black darkness which shut them in, and then sat listening to the struggles and cries of the unfortunate coxswain, till by degrees they grew weaker and weaker, and the men who had been holding him relaxed their efforts, for their prisoner sank into a heavy stupor.

Startling and painful as this episode in their night's adventures had been, it had had one advantage, that of making the time pass more swiftly; and in consequence it was with a feeling of wonder that the young officer turned sharply round as Tom Fillot said drily,—

"Good morning, sir."

"What! What do you mean?"

"First signs of it, sir. Listen! you can hear the birds beginning to pipe."

"Yes; that's a bird's whistle," said Mark. "Then we can't be so very far from the shore."

"That's right, sir, and what I hope is that we're not very far from the Naughtylass, and that they'll be at work with the spy-glasses to see where we are."

"And I've got to face the captain," thought Mark, "and give him an account of our night's work. How shall I do it? It's horrible to go back like this."

As the time glided on, the sounds grew more frequent from the shore, and by degrees there was a lightening around them, and they made out that they were slowly gliding along over the calm sea beneath a thick canopy of mist, some eight or ten feet above their head; and this was gradually growing opalescent, and shot with bright tints, till all beneath was fairly light, and the midshipman looked round for the Nautilus and the schooner.

But there were no signs of either, perhaps because the mist prevented them from seeing fifty yards in any direction.

There was plenty to see, however, inboard, and at the first glance round, before his gaze was concentrated upon his officer, Mark Vandean's heart sank within him at the sight of the wretched, dilapidated men, whom he had seen on the previous evening looking so smart and active. To a man they were battered, bruised, and bore traces of the terrible struggle through which they had passed. The coxswain lay asleep, and, upon examining him, he seemed cool, and with the hope that he might wake up calm and collected, Mark gave one look at Tom Fillot—who was the most disfigured of all, the blows he had received having caused his face to swell up till he was hardly recognisable—and then devoted his attention to Mr Russell, who lay senseless.

It seemed terrible to have him once more lying helpless in the bottom of the boat, and as the lad gazed at his companion, he began to think it would be wise to study surgery, ready for acting in an emergency like this.

Mark did what he could with Tom Fillot's help, doubling up a jacket for a pillow, and laying the lieutenant at his ease, before taking advantage of the mist beginning to disappear beneath the powerful rays of the morning sun to try and make out their position.

This was soon done. They were about a couple of miles from the shore, and the tide was carrying them southward right away from the river at whose mouth the schooner had been ashore, for the water was perfectly clear here, while there it had been muddy and discoloured.

Getting a clear view northward as the sun rose higher, both Mark and Tom Fillot carefully scanned the horizon in search of the Nautilus, but she was not in view. There was a possibility of her being round a headland which stretched out some ten miles away, but that was all.

The next search was for the schooner; and, as she was nowhere in sight seaward, they had to content themselves with the possibility of her having taken refuge in some river or creek, such as were plentiful enough on the low-lying shore.

Mark thought of his previous experience in an open boat, as he looked at their position, lying there with a crew suffering from the effects of their encounter—two men seriously injured, and neither provisions nor water. As to weapons, some of the men had preserved theirs, but others were unarmed.

Tom Fillot watched his officer as he looked round, and then ventured an observation.

"Looks lively, sir, don't it?"

"It's horrible, Tom; but we must act, and at once."

"Right, sir, and we're ready. Four on us can take an oar well enough, if you'll give the word."

"We must row in shore and coast along till we come to a stream."

"Not row out after the ship, sir?"

"Without food or water? Have you forgotten our last trip?" cried Mark.

"No, sir, and never shall forget it," said the man, with a shiver. "You're right, sir, of course. Water we must have, victuals if we can get any. Nothing like having an officer with you, clever as you may think yourself."

Five minutes later the men were rowing steadily toward the land, while Mark rejoiced at the only piece of good fortune he had encountered since the previous night when he lay down, and that was in the fact that to get rid of the party who had captured the schooner, the slaver captain had not scrupled to send them adrift in his own boat, one which proved to be light, swift, strong, and admirably adapted for facing the heavy swell that deluged the shore.

Mark's time was pretty well divided between steering, watching his patients, and keeping a look-out for an inlet into which the boat could be run. So as not to weary the men, he made them row with the tide until they had gone south some miles, and he was hesitating as to whether he ought not to turn back, when there were signs ahead of the mouth of a river whose banks were heavily timbered. These signs proved to be correct, and in half an hour the boat was steered into a narrow canal-like channel among the mangrove growth, made fast to a stem, and the men, feverish—hot and suffering, drank eagerly of the swiftly rushing water, forgetting its muddiness in the delicious coolness it imparted to their burning throats; while Fillot and his young officer busied themselves, as they lay in the shade of the overhanging trees, in bathing the heads of the two sufferers, in each case winning for reward sighs of satisfaction and content.

"Hah!" ejaculated Tom Fillot, when, after holding down his face close to the water, and drinking for some time like a horse, he sat up with a tin baler in his hands, sipping from the full vessel, enjoying himself, and making comments for his comrades to hear.

He had tried to smile, but the effort consequent upon the state of his swollen face was too painful, and he gave that up.

"Yer health, messmets," he said, raising the baler, "and wishing us all out of our difficulties."

He took another sip of the muddy fluid, and nodded as he passed the tin to the next man.

"Drink hearty, messmet," he said, "and pass it on. This is something like water. Reg'lar strong slab stuff as has got plenty o' victuals in it as well as drink. Reg'lar meaty water, like soup."

"Why, it's on'y mud, mate," said the man who held the tin; "hadn't we better let it settle?"

"What for? Drink, my hearty. What's mud but dust o' the earth made wet? Well, we're all made o' the dust o' the earth, ain't we, and consequently wet dust's just the stuff to make yer grow strong again. Deal better than salt junk and pickled pig and biscuit, I can tell yer. There, tip it up. It's wonderful filling at the price."

The man laughed, and emptied the baler.

"'Tarn't bad, mate," he said, as he leaned over the side to refill the tin.

"Bad? I should think not. I feel like a noo man."

"And you looks it, too, matey," said the other grinning. "I shouldn't ha' knowed you with that boiled duff fizz-mahogany o' yourn. How much bigger's it going to get?"

"Well, of all the pot calling kettle black as ever I knowed on," said Tom Fillot, "that's about the rummest. Why, your head's all o' one side like an ugly turmut, and your eyes is on'y two slits."

"We ain't none on us got much to boast on, 'cept our orficer," said Dick Bannock. "Pass that there tin."

"To be sure," said Tom Fillot, "and handsome is as handsome does. Might be a deal worse off, mates. Drink away; the mud won't hurt us. We're in the shade and got plenty o' water. Different to being right out at sea in a calm, eh, Mr Vandean, sir?"

"Don't talk about it, my lad," said Mark. "But look, Joe Dance is getting up. Pray don't let him break loose again."

For the coxswain suddenly sat up and stared about him wildly. Then calming down, he cried,—

"Got a drink o' water, messmets?"

"Plenty, my lad," said Tom Fillot, passing the tin. "How's your head this morning?"

"Bit achey," said the coxswain, who took the tin and drained it.

"Hah!" he ejaculated, as he drew a long, deep breath, "that's good, but you forgot to send it through the skipper's pilfer."

"Warn't time, matey," said Tom watching him curiously. "'Sides, pilfered water ain't good for you."

"Feel better this morning, Dance?" said Mark.

"Yes, sir, thankye sir. Head aches a deal and feels muzzy like, and I didn't sleep quite as I should like. Too much bad dream to please me."

"No wonder, mate," struck in Tom Fillot. "Having your head rubbed so hard with a big bat ain't good for no one."

Mark sat by his brother officer in the comparative coolness trying to think out some plan to adopt, for though they were resting in the shade, and the agonies of thirst were assuaged, he knew that it would not be long before they were all suffering from hunger, and he shuddered as he thought of the tales he had heard respecting the straits men had been driven to when perishing for want of food in an open boat.

But though he thought long and patiently, no idea came to him better than for them to coast along till they came abreast of some village, though he felt very little hope of meeting with such good fortune upon that sparsely inhabited shore. Further north there were towns and villages, but these were hundreds of miles away.

There was a possibility of their finding a native village, the home of some black chief, if they proceeded up the river; but it was chance work, and, unless compelled, Mark shrank from leaving the coast and cutting himself off from the chance of being seen by the Nautilus if she came back in search of them. So he decided to keep along the shore.

And now he blamed himself bitterly for his ignorance. For if he had devoted a little time to studying the charts, he might have had a fair knowledge of the coast, and the chance of finding some trading settlement north or south; while now, as he told himself, here he was in command of a boat, and, boy as he was, answerable to his superior officer for the lives of the men. Accident had placed him in his present position, but then officers had, as he knew, to be prepared for such emergencies, and he was not ready in the slightest degree.

He made a vow to make up for lost time if the opportunity occurred again, and began once more to examine Mr Russell's state.

The insensibility continued still, and the faint hope he had nursed of the lieutenant recovering sufficiently to relieve him of his responsibility died away, so he landed with Fillot and began to look about him.

The place he had selected at the river's mouth, for the sake of the shade and water, was hidden from any vessel passing, but it was so suited for their purpose that he felt it would be unwise to change it, as they could row out if a vessel hove in sight, and a good watch would be kept. Anything was better than exposing the men to the broiling sun, weak as they were with their injuries, and he felt that such a course would be fatal to Mr Russell, so he determined to stay, at all events till the heat of the day had passed, and then make the men row steadily north.

He had just come to this conclusion, when he caught sight of Tom Fillot's occupation, which was the unravelling of the boat's painter.

"What's that for, Fillot?" he asked, sharply.

"Well, sir, I couldn't see no fruit trees nor no fields o' corn ashore, so I thought the best thing to do would be to have a try at ketching a fish."



CHAPTER TWENTY.

WHAT MARK SAID TO THE CREW.

The position of the men would have been delightful if they had had a fair stock of provisions. For the cool water rippled by their boat, there was a refreshing breeze in the shady trees, and a pleasant sensation of dreamy repose and restfulness came over all as they lay about watching the dazzling sea and beautiful verdant tropic shore.

And as he gazed, Mark felt that undoubtedly fruit of some kind could be found sufficient to sustain life; and, with the determination to wait till another day, when the men would be better able to act, forgetful of the fact that fasting would make them more unfit, he thought of landing again directly after daylight, for a search, and then went to the boat and sat back to gaze out at sea.

————————————————————————————————————

"Mr Vandean, sir! Mr Vandean!"

"Eh? Yes! What's the matter?"

"Nothing sir, only I couldn't wake you up."

"Was I asleep?"

"Yes, sir; we've all been asleep, more shame for me to say so, and the lads have only just woke me up."

"Oh, it's horrible!" cried Mark; "how can I ever trust myself again?"

"Oh, don't you take on about that, sir: human natur's human natur. Everybody's weak and queer with the knocking about we had, and the proper thing for us was to have a good snooze, and we've only been getting ready to do a good night's work."

Mark looked at Mr Russell, who lay breathing comfortably enough, and then, in a stern way, he gave orders for the boat to be unmoored, and Dance rose at once, seeming feeble, but quite in his right mind, and ready to resent an attempt on the part of Fillot to relieve him of the task. A good thrust was given to the boat out into the rushing stream, oars fell on either side, and the men began to row, so as to get out of the mouth of the river and begin making their way north.

But in a very few minutes Mark was enlightened as to the state of affairs. While they slept the tide had turned, and in place of a swift stream of fresh water running out, they were in the rapid tidal current running in, any doubt he might have had on the subject being set at rest by scooping up a little water with his hand, to taste it, and find it salt.

The men were pulling steadily, but with a feeble, slow stroke, which at first kept them about stationary. Then by slow degrees the boat gave a little and a little more, till in the waning light Mark saw a cluster of trees ashore, by which they had been passing, begin to glide the other way.

"Pull, my lads, pull!" he cried, and the men tugged again for a few minutes, and managed to keep abreast of the trees, but their strokes again grew more feeble, and, in spite of spurt after spurt, it was evident enough that the tide was too strong for men suffering from injuries, and famishing with hunger, nothing having passed their lips save water for many hours.

"Here," cried Tom Fillot, "you don't half pull. Let me come. We'll soon get outside, where the current won't be so strong."

"It's o' no use, mate," said Dick Bannock. "She's too much for us. You can't do no good. After getting well, and a lot o' beef and biscuit, we might do it, but there's no pulling agin that 'ere."

"You don't half try," said Tom Fillot, sitting down and getting an oar over the side to add his strength, when all pulled again, working hard for quite half an hour, when Mark called to them to stop.

"Waste of strength, my lads," he said; "we've been drifting all the time."

"Yes, sir," said Tom Fillot. "I knowed it and was only waiting for you to speak. Most too dark to see, but I'm 'bout sure."

"We must let her go up with the tide, Tom, or else moor her again by the trees."

"Well, we should be brought back again, sir; but I think it would be best to make fast."

"Steadily, my lads," said Mark; "let's pull in shore with the tide till I see a good place."

"Or, feel it, sir," whispered Tom Fillot.

"Yes, or feel it, Tom," said Mark. "How dark it's getting. Easy—easy there; just dip so as to get nearer the shore. The current's so swift we may be capsized."

"Easy it is, sir," said Tom, and they rowed gently on with the current, getting nearer and nearer the shore with its heavy fringe of verdure, Mark watching eagerly in the gathering blackness for a big tree with overhanging boughs, but all in vain.

It was so dark now that they seemed to be gliding along right in the shadow, while more out towards the middle of what was evidently a broad river—the stream widening above the mouth—it was comparatively light, sufficiently so for them to see any object afloat.

"Can't you make anything we can hook on to, sir?" said Tom Fillot.

"No, my lad, not yet. But I shall directly. You be ready."

"Ready it is, sir. If I see a chance, shall I ketch hold?"

"Hist!"

"What's the matter, sir?"

"Talk lower. What's that? It may be enemies."

"Phew!" whistled Tom Fillot, softly. "It was behind me. I didn't see that. There, you have it."

He caught hold of the overhanging bough of a tree and brought the boat up as they both stood there watching a gleaming light at a little distance, which gradually was made out to be a lanthorn carried by someone here and there.

"Ashore," whispered Mark.

"Afloat," said Tom. "It's somebody aboard ship. Hark at that!"

There was the rattle of a chain, apparently being let out through the hawse-holes of a vessel, then a little more rattling, followed by the disappearance of the light, and silence once more.

"What do you make of it, sir?" whispered Tom.

As he spoke there came a strange, plaintive, smothered sound, so full of agony that Mark shuddered.

"I can hardly tell," he said. "I thought at first it was the Nautilus."

"No, sir; people on board the Naughtylass don't howl like that."

"Then—no: it can't be! Is it the slaver?" faltered Mark, as his heart beat rapidly with excitement.

"It's she or another on the cowardly beggars," whispered Tom Fillot, hoarsely. "Don't make a sound, my lads."

"But oh, it can't be," cried Mark, trembling now with eagerness.

"Don't see why not, sir. She was bound to go into hiding a bit till our ship had gone, and she's crept in here to lie by, and sail perhaps when the tide turns."

"Take a turn with a rope round that branch, Tom," whispered Mark; "and not a sound."

"Trust me, sir, for that," was whispered back; and there was a little rustling heard as Mark carefully made his way in the darkness to where Tom Fillot stood.

"Sit down," whispered Mark. "I want all the men to hear. Lean this way, all of you."

There was another rustling sound, and a certain amount of deep breathing as Mark whispered softly,—

"Mind, not a word when I've done, or we shall be heard aboard that vessel. She's not two hundred yards away."

There was not a sound, and after waiting a few moments to command his voice and to try and stay the tumultuous beating of his heart, Mark went on,—

"My lads, that must be the schooner waiting, as Tom Fillot said."

He paused again, for his words would hardly come. Then, more and more huskily from his emotion:

"My lads, I know you're weak, but you've got the pluck. The crew of that schooner stole upon us in the night, struck you all down, and pitched us into the boat."

There was another pause—a longer one, for it required a desperate effort to get out the words. Then, so faintly as to be hardly heard, but with a strength in them which electrified the listeners, Mark Vandean, midshipman and mere boy, said to the stout men around him,—

"It's dark as pitch now, lads, so couldn't we steal aboard and serve them the same?"



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

A DESPERATE ATTEMPT.

For the boat quivered as to a man all sprang up, and forgetting everything in their excitement, the men were about to cheer, but were brought back to a knowledge of their position by that softly-uttered warning sound just as a lanthorn was seen moving at a distance once more, followed by a sharp sound like the closing of a hatch.

The boat rocked a little again as the men sank back in their places, while Mark felt as if he were being suffocated, as he trembled, and felt the perspiration stand in big drops upon his forehead.

For he was startled at his venturesome plan, knowing that such a task would be that of a strong, experienced, determined man, and now that he had made the proposal he felt as if he must have been mad.

To carry out such a venture needed quite fresh, active men. Those to whom he had proposed the attempt were in no wise fit, and to induce them to try and recapture the schooner was like tempting them to their death.

"It is all foolishness," he said to himself in the brief instants during which these thoughts flashed through his brain, but the next moment he awoke to the fact that he had set a spark in contact with a train of human gunpowder, that the spark had caught, and that it was impossible now to stop.

"Heads close together, mates," whispered Tom Fillot. "Not a sound on your lives. Come, Mr Vandean, sir, say the word—when. Now? At once?"

"No, no," whispered back Mark; "you are all weak and ill. I've been thinking about it since I spoke, and it is too much for you to do."

A low, angry murmur arose, and Tom Fillot chuckled.

"Too much for us, sir? Not it. You've only got to give the word, and there's that in us now as'll carry us through anything. Only you lead us, sir, and we'll do all the work. Is that the right word, maties?"

"Yes," came like a hiss from the whole party.

"There, sir. You hear. Don't you be afraid as we won't do our duty by you."

"No, no, Tom Fillot, I'm not a bit afraid of that, but the venture seems too wild."

"Not it, sir. Why, we're all red hot to be let go; so now then, what about the plans?"

"I have none, and we had better give up the business."

"You're saying that to save us, sir, but we don't want to be saved the trouble. We want to get that schooner back, and serve out the rough 'uns who half killed all on us. And what's more, me and my mates liked the taste o' the prize-money we had got to our mouths afore it were snatched away, so we want to get it back again. That's so, ain't it, lads?"

"Ay, ay," was whispered so deeply that it hardly reached Mark's ears; but there was a fierce earnestness in it that told how strong was the determination on the part of the men to try and wipe out the past night's disgrace, while, just as he thought this, by a strange coincidence, Tom Fillot whispered,—

"We must take her, sir. You can't go back and meet the skipper without the schooner."

The most cunningly contrived advice could not have affected Mark more powerfully. His heart beat rapidly, and, carried away now by the contagious enthusiasm of the men, he said,—

"Right; then we will take her."

A low humming buzz went up at this, and Mark went on,—

"We shall wait till everything is quite still on board, and then let the boat drift alongside. Dance will hold on with the hook; we shall board her and take them by surprise as they did us, unless their watch is sharper than ours."

"You trust us, sir. We'll have her," whispered Tom Fillot. "We must."

"Then, now—silence. We must wait for a time, the later the better. When I give the word, Tom Fillot will let the boat drift, two men will give a few dips with oars, and I shall steer her alongside; then Dance will hook on. You will all follow me—"

"And the schooner's ours once more."

"If it is the schooner," said Mark, dubiously.

"If she ain't, she's a slaver, sir," replied Tom Fillot, "and that's enough for we."

They waited in the silence and darkness, listening intently for every sound, but very little was heard from the vessel. Once there were footsteps, and later on they made out a glow of light upon the water, which they judged rightly to be the reflection from the cabin windows, which of course was farthest from them, the vessel being moored from the stem.

Then they sat listening to the rippling of the swiftly-running water, and the peculiarly weird cries and other sounds which came from the shore, terribly suggestive of prowling beasts seeking their nightly food.

It must have been getting toward two bells when Mark, who had been bending over Mr Russell, to try and make out by touch how he was, started up in horror, for, from the direction of the moored vessel, there came a burst of cries, as if someone was being tortured in a terrible way.

"What's that?" cried Mark, in an excited whisper.

"What I wanted to hear, sir," replied Tom Fillot in the same tone. "It might ha' been as that warn't a slaver, after all; but that there noise settles it."

"Then you think it was the poor wretches crying out?"

"Sure on it, sir; as sure as I am that there's somebody going to shout at 'em to be quiet, or he'll come and chuck some of 'em overboard."

Even as the man spoke, footsteps were heard, and then there was a sharp sound like the banging of the top of the hatch with a capstan bar, followed by a fierce shout delivered in a threatening way.

Then came a low, piteous moaning and sobbing, mingled with the crying of children, and once more the top of the hatch was banged.

"Guess I'm coming down to give it to some of you. Stop that! Do yer hear?"

These words came clearly enough over the water in the silence of the tropic night, and once more all was still again, and there was a low whistling, as if someone were walking back to the cabin-hatch, where he stood for a few minutes, and then went below.

"Tom," said Mark, "that's the slaver skipper."

"Yes, sir, so I s'pose. Nobody else wouldn't bully like that."

"I mean the skipper of the schooner we took."

"Think so, sir?" cried the man, excitedly.

"I'm sure of it. I know his voice again. That's the man who had me thrown into the boat."

"That's right, then, sir. I couldn't tell, because my head was all dumb with the crack I got; but you weren't hit, and of course you'd know."

Just then there came a low, piteous, half-stifled wail from the vessel, which went so home to Mark's feelings, that his voice sounded changed and suffocated, as he whispered,—

"I've often said that I was sorry I came to sea, Tom Fillot, so as to be sent on this horrible slavery business, but I'm glad now."

"That's right, sir."

"And we'll have that schooner back, and set those poor creatures free if I die for it."

"That you shall, sir," cried Tom Fillot. "No, no, that you shan't, I mean."

"Not take her?" said Mark, half aloud in his surprise.

"Hist! No, no, sir. I didn't mean that; I mean not die for it."

"Oh, I see."

"You shall take her, sir, as soon as you give the word; but, begging your pardon, sir, if I might ask a favour for me and the men—"

"Yes; what is it?"

"Don't be too hard on us, sir, in the way of orders."

"What do you mean? I won't ask you to do anything I shall not try to do myself."

"Oh, it ain't that, Mr Vandean, sir. We know you for a fine, plucky young gent, as we'd follow anywhere. What I meant was, don't be too stiff with the men in the way o' stopping 'em. We don't want to kill any of the beggars, but we should like to give it 'em as hard as we can."

"Do, Tom," whispered Mark, excitedly. "The beasts! the wretches! the unmanly brutes! Oh, how can those poor blacks be such pitiful, miserable cowards, and not rise up and kill the villains who seize them and treat them in such a way!"

"I'll tell you, sir. It's because they've been beaten. I don't mean larruped with a stick, but beaten in some fight, and made prisoners up the country. Since then they've been chained and driven and starved and knocked about till all the man's gone out of 'em, and made 'em so that they haven't got a spark o' pluck left. You take 'em and treat 'em well, and it all comes back, like it did to poor old Soup and poor old Taters. They was fast growing into good, stiff, manly sort o' messmates, with nothing wrong in 'em but their black skins, and I don't see as that's anything agin a man. All a matter o' taste, sir. Dessay the black ladies thinks they're reg'lar han'some, and us and our white skins ugly as sin."

"We must have that schooner, Tom Fillot," said Mark, after a short pause.

"You've got it, sir, and we'll sail her up to the port with flying colours. You'll see."

"I hope you'll turn out a true prophet, Tom."

"So do I, sir, and I'm just going to whisper to the boys what you say, and then I'm thinking it'll soon be time to go on board and kick those chaps over the side."

"No killing, Tom."

"No, sir. You trust us. We won't go quite so far as that," said the sailor grimly; and he crept away to begin whispering to his messmates, while Mark sat straining his eyes in the direction of the schooner, hot, excited, but without the slightest sensation of shrinking. This had given place to an intense longing for action, which made his heart beat with a heavy throb, while, from time to time, there was a strange swelling in his throat, as he thought of the agony of the poor creatures pent-up in the stifling heat of the schooner's hold, some of them, perhaps, dying, others dead, and waiting to join their fellows in the silent waters, happily released from their pain.

He was so deeply plunged in thought that he did not notice Tom Fillot's return, and he gave quite a start as the man laid a hand upon his knee.

"Look there, sir," he whispered.

"Eh? where?"

"Over the trees, behind me."

"Fire?" whispered Mark, excitedly, as he gazed at a warm glow away beyond the forest.

"No, sir; the moon. She'll soon be up, and we must have that schooner in the dark."

"Then we'll begin at once," said Mark, decisively.

"Right, sir. The lads have some of 'em got their cutlashes, and them as ain't have each got two good hard fists; and it strikes me as they'll use 'em too. So when you're ready, sir, give the word."

Mark felt for his dirk, which was safe in his belt, and then thought of the quiet little parsonage at home, and of the horror that would assail his mother if she could know of the perilous enterprise upon which he was bound. Then came the recollection of his grave, stern-looking father, and of what would be his feelings.

"Would he say don't go?" thought Mark.

The answer seemed to come at once.

"No; he'd say, 'It's your duty, boy. In God's name go and do your best.'"

"I'm ready, Tom Fillot," he said half aloud, as he felt for and seized the rudder-lines. "Now, my lads."

There was a low buzz of excitement, and then, in obedience to an order, a couple of oars were softly thrust into the water. Dance stood ready, but there was no boathook, and he fretfully asked what he was to do.

"Hold on by the chains, mate," whispered Tom Fillot, "and I'll help you. Dessay we can make the painter fast afore we get aboard."

As he spoke, he was busily loosening the rope which held them to the tree, and then stood holding the end just round the bough.

"Ready, sir, when you like to say 'Let go!'"

Mark paused a moment or two, breathing hard, and tried to think of anything that had been left undone, knowing as he did that the slightest hitch in the proceedings might mean failure; but he could think of nothing, and leaning forward, he whispered,—

"You understand, my lads? Drop down, make fast, all in silence. Then follow me aboard, make for the cabin, and knock down every man who tries to get on deck."

"Ay, ay, sir," came in a whisper that was terribly impressive in its earnestness.

Nothing then remained but for him to say "Let go!" But he hesitated yet, and looked about him, to see that in a very few minutes the moon's edge would be rising above the forest, flooding the river with its silvery light. If a watch was kept, which seemed to be certain, they would be seen, the captain and crew alarmed before they could get aboard, and, with so weak an attacking party, they would be at a terrible disadvantage. So hesitating no longer than to give himself time to loosen his dirk in its sheath, he leaned forward once more, and in a low, earnest whisper gave the order,—

"Go!"

There was a faint rustle as the rope passed over the bough, a little splash as it struck the water, the two oars dipped without a sound, as the boat swung round, and they glided rapidly up the river with the tide.

The distance, at the rate of speed at which they were going, was extremely short, and Mark had to whisper to the men to pull harder, so as to make the boat answer to the rudder: while the moon rose higher, and though still invisible above the horizon, sent upward so warm a glow that the topmasts of the schooner became visible, and Mark was able to steer right for her bows.

"Now!" he whispered, "in with your oars."

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 assailants, 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 sturdy, 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 space 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 assault 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 assailant 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 assailants.

A shout and another heave, and Dance had gone. Then Dick 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 assailants, 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 Dick 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, Dick 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 Dick 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 Dick.

"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 snatch 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."

"Ain't looked," said a faint voice from under the men's legs. "They chucked me over, and I'm afeard I've squashed poor Mr Russell, for I come right down upon him."

"Then nobody's missing," cried Mark, joyously. "Look here, my lads; oars out—pull! pull!"

The men obeyed as vigorously as they could, rowing back toward the schooner, but slowly, for the tide was running sharply still, and the fight was hard.

"What yer going to do, sir?" said Tom Fillot, in a low tone.

"Do?" cried Mark, excitedly, for his blood was regularly up; "why, have another try, of course."

"Well done us!" said Dick Bannock, thickly. "I'm ready. We ain't beat."

"No good, sir," growled Tom Fillot, in a low, deep voice. "We ain't beat, but we can't do it, sir, for want o' strength."

"What?" cried Mark, who was determined upon his mad project—mad now in the face of so many difficulties. "There isn't a man here who will not follow me, and I'm sure you won't turn tail, Tom Fillot."

"Not me, sir," said the man; "you're orficer, and where you goes I follows. It's hard lines to let go of a prize like that. Lay her close alongside, sir?"

"Yes, of course," cried Mark, standing up as they began to near the schooner once more. "Why, there's something the matter on board— they're fighting—they're killing the blacks. Here, pull, men, pull. Quick! Don't you see? The blacks have got loose, and are fighting for their liberty; pull!"

The men forgot their pains and weakness once more as a fierce yelling, shouting, and shrieking arose from the deck of the schooner. Then shots were fired, and as the boat approached, now unobserved, they could see that the crew were driving back quite a little crowd of naked blacks, who seemed helpless before the attack of the armed men, but still in their desperation they gave way slowly, uttering fierce cries of rage and despair.

It was all plain in the bright moonlight which flooded the scene, and Mark could see the slaver captain making a rush here and a rush there, and at each effort he struck down some poor wretch with a heavy bludgeon he wielded with terrible force.

Then, as the boat glided in close under the stern, all this was shut out, but the noise increased.

"Now, my lads!" whispered Mark, "we shall take 'em between two fires. As soon as the blacks see us come they'll fight like fury, and we shall win. Do you see, Tom Fillot?"

"See, sir? yes. It's all right. We'll have 'em yet. I'll make fast to the main chains, and then up we go. But don't give the word till I'm ready, sir. I can fight now."

The preparations took almost less time than the talking, and then, freshly nerved by the exciting scene on deck, Mark Vandean and his men climbed on board to collect for a rush, just as the blacks were making a desperate stand. There in the front were two of the stoutest armed with capstan bars, and as the crew of the boat were about to dash forward, these two blacks yelled together and charged at the schooner's men, striking out so savagely that two of their adversaries went down, and the next they attacked shrank back.