Mark turned upon him angrily, and Tom Fillot gave him a deprecating look.

"Beg pardon, sir. It's my tongue, not me. It will talk."

"I suppose the others are imprisoned in the forecastle," said Mark, ignoring his remark.

"Dessay, sir. That's why they were getting the chain out of the cask."

"I hope they are not much hurt."

"Oh, I don't suppose they are, sir. We Naughtyla.s.ses are all about as hard a lot as the captain could pick out."

"Ay, ay," said d.i.c.k Bannock, "they're knocked about, same as we."

Just then there reached them a savage yell; the report of a pistol, and then another; and it was evident from the sounds that a fierce conflict was going on, exciting the men so that they made another desperate effort to get out; but the cabin entrance was too strong, and Mark ran to the window.

"Can we reach the deck from here?" he cried in his excitement, feeling as he did that the cause of the sounds was that the blacks were making an effort on their behalf against their old enslavers, and that at any cost they must get on deck and help.

Dragging open the cabin light, Mark began to climb out, but had just time to avoid a blow from a heavy bar, struck at him by someone looking over the p.o.o.p, and evidently on guard there to keep them from reaching the deck in that direction.

"Let me try, sir," said Tom. "I can dodge him, perhaps, and get up."

"Let's try together," said Mark; and looking up again, he could see that there was only one man, a sour, sinister-looking fellow, who seemed to take intense delight in his task.

"Wall," he shouted to them, "come on. Sharks is getting hungry, I dessay."

His words sent a chill through Mark, and he hesitated as he thought of the consequences of receiving a blow, losing his hold, and falling under the schooner's stern, where, in all probability, one or two of the savage fish were waiting for the unfortunate slaves who died and were thrown out of such vessels from time to time.

This idea did not strike Tom Fillot, who got well out and was about to climb up, when a blow came with a _whish_ within an inch of his head.

"Miss is as good as a mile," he said, coolly. "Here you, sir; it's rank mutiny to resist the Queen's men. Put down that capstan bar and surrender."

"Come up and take it away from me, mister," said the American, with a laugh. "Wall, why don't you come on?"

"I'm a-coming," said Tom Fillot, "only that bar's a bit in my way.

Better lay it down, mate, for I get a bit nasty if I'm hurt, and if you let me run my head again it, I might be in a pa.s.sion, and chuck you overboard."

"Oh, I shouldn't mind," said the American, laughing. "Come on."

Tom made a feint of climbing up, but there was another fierce blow at him, and all the while quite a battle was raging somewhere on deck, the sounds of blows and firing, with yells, oaths, and shrieks of agony reaching their ears in a confused murmur.

"Come on, Tom," cried Mark, who was completely carried away by the excitement, and half maddened by the knowledge that if they could make a diversion, the schooner and its cargo might yet be saved.

"Right, sir," cried Tom.

"Forward, then!"

Mark reached up, caught at the ornamental work of the stern, and in another moment would have drawn himself on deck, but the man struck a savage blow at him, and, as Mark threw himself sidewise to avoid the bar, one hand gave way, and in his efforts to save himself, the other followed, his feet seemed to be dragged from the ledge of the window upon which he stood, and he fell headlong. But he was checked, and the next moment found himself hanging head downwards, with his face pretty close to the murky water, in which he fancied he could see the broad shovel nose of a shark.

He fell no farther, for, quick as light, Tom had made a dash at him as he slipped, and managed to grasp one leg, which glided through his great, strong hand till he gripped it fast by the ankle.

"Hold on tight to me," cried Tom, excitedly; and two men grasped him firmly as he hung over the window-ledge, supporting Mark suspended there, face downward, and just above the level of the sea.

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE.

HISTORY REPEATING ITSELF.

"How do you like that?" cried the man, leaning over the p.o.o.p.

"I'll tell you bime by," said Tom Fillot beneath his breath. Then aloud, "All right, my lad. I've got you, you know that."

Mark did know it as he hung there with his teeth set fast, for Tom Fillot's fingers pressed into his flesh, and seemed to be crushing it against the bones of his ankle.

"Hi, some on you, get more grip o' me," shouted Tom. "Get well hold, d.i.c.k. You, too, Bob. Now, then, haul away, and have us both in together."

This was as he hung out of the window from the waist, holding Mark Vandean; and exerting their great strength, the two sailors--for Tom was helpless--drew him right back and inward till Bannock could seize Mark's other leg.

As they drew him in the man overhead made a savage blow at the boy with the bar he held, but it fell short.

"All right, sir, we'll pay all that back," said Tom, as Mark stood on the cabin floor once more, looking rather white, and listening to the smothered cries and yells still coming from the deck, while the big black's face was a study to see in his wild excitement.

He had hardly noted Mark's adventure, being all the time close up by the cabin door, listening to the brave fight made by his compatriots; and now, as a fresh pistol-shot was heard, he came from the door.

"All righ'!" he cried. "No, no. Come. Fight."

There was an ominous silence on deck succeeding his words, then a murmur of voices and the banging down of a hatch. Next came a loud splash, and Mark dashed to the cabin window to look-out for that which he felt sure he would see. And there it was--the body of a man floating slowly by, and then on backward in the schooner's wake, the body of one of the blacks, with wild upturned eyes set in death, and, as it seemed to Mark, a look of horror and appeal in the stern, staring face, gazing heavenward, as if asking why such things should be.

A low, deep sigh made the young officer start and look round from the dead figure which fascinated him, to see the big black, whose face was working, and he looked hard now at the young officer, and pointed back at the cabin door, as if asking to be led on deck to avenge his fellow-countryman who had pa.s.sed before them, another victim to the hated slaving--a black bar across a grand nation's fair fame.

"Yes," said Mark, slowly, as he looked at the negro, and met his appealing eyes, and spoke as if the man could comprehend every word, "we will punish them for this. The wretches deserve no mercy at our hands."

The great black could hardly grasp a word, but he smiled, as if a great satisfaction had filled his breast. For the tones in which the boy officer spoke and his manner were sufficient to make him stand back against the bulkhead with his arms folded, as if waiting for his superior's orders, and patiently watching as Mark called what may be dubbed a council of war.

The difficulty was to propose a plan of action, but Tom Fillot said cheerily:

"Don't know that there's much difficulty about it, sir. Them Yankees have shown us the way. All we've got to do is to follow their lead.

Why not?"

"'Cause they'll take jolly good care we don't, messmate," said d.i.c.k Bannock, wagging his head. "We've guv 'em a lesson in taking care of prisoners, and take my word on it, Tom Fillot, they've larnt it by heart."

"Hark!" cried Tom Fillot; "they're a-lowering down the boat."

For the chirruping of the little wheels of the falls sounded familiarly on their ears.

"It's to go to the other schooner," cried Mark, excitedly. "They'll take Dance and Grote prisoners too. Do you think you could reach the tow-rope, Tom?"

The sailor looked out from the little window and upward.