Chapter Three.
The Alarm and the Conflict.
The Mutineers—The Race for Life—The Coral Ledge—A Final Effort—A Brief Warning—The Strange Sail.
“Now bend the straining rowers to their oars;
Fast the light shallops leave the lessening shores,
No rival crews in emulous sport contend,
But life and death upon the event depend.”
The next moment we were startled by a quick, fierce shout, followed immediately by a long, piercing, and distressful cry, proceeding from the same quarter from which the reports of fire-arms had been heard; and before we had time to conjecture the cause or meaning of these frightful sounds, Morton bounded like a deer from the grove, about a hundred yards from the spot where we were standing, and ran swiftly towards us, crying out— “To the boats! for your lives to the boats!”
Our first thought was, that the party at the spring had been attacked and massacred by the natives. Arthur seized Johnny by one hand, and motioned to me to take the other, which I did, and without stopping to demand any explanations, we started at a rapid pace, in the direction of the yawl, Max taking the lead—Arthur and myself, dragging Johnny between us, coming next, and Morton a few paces behind us, bringing up the rear. It took but a few moments to enable us to reach the spot where the yawl lay, hauled up upon the beach. There was no one in her, or in sight, except Browne, who was comfortably stretched out near the boat sound asleep, with an open book lying beside him.
Morton aroused the sleeper by a violent shake. “Now, then,” cried he, “let us get the boat into the water; the tide is down, and the yawl is heavy; we shall want all the strength we can muster.”
By a united effort we got the yawl to the edge of the surf.
Browne, though not yet thoroughly awake, could not but observe our pale faces and excited appearance, and gazing from one to another in a bewildered manner, he asked what was the matter; but no one made any answer. Morton lifted Johnny into the boat and asked the rest of us to get in, except Arthur, saying that they two would push her through the surf.
“Hold!” cried Arthur, “let us not be too fast; some of the others may escape the savages, and they will naturally run this way—we must not leave them to be murdered.”
“There are no savages in the case,” answered Morton, “and there is no time to be lost; the men have killed the first officer, and Mr Frazer, too, I fear; and they will take the ship and commit more murders, unless we can get there before them, to warn those on board.”
This was more horrible than any thing that we had anticipated; but we had no time to dwell upon it: the sound of oars rattling in the row-locks, was heard from beyond the point.
“There are the mutineers!” cried Morton; “but I think that we have the advantage of them; they must pull round yonder point, which will make at least a quarter of a mile’s difference in the distance to the ship.”
“There is no use in trying to get to the ship before them,” said Max, “the long-boat pulls eight oars, and there are men enough to fill her.”
“There is use in trying; it would be shameful not to try; if they pull most oars, ours is the lightest boat,” answered Morton with vehemence.
“It us out of the question,” said Browne; “see, is there any hope that we can succeed?” and he pointed to the bow of the long-boat just appearing from behind the point.
“O, but this is not right!—Browne! Max! in the name of all that is honourable, let us make the attempt,” urged Morton, laying a hand in an imploring manner on the arm of each. “Shall we let them take the ship and murder our friends, without an effort to warn them of their danger? You, Arthur, are for making the attempt, I know—this delay is wrong: the time is precious.”
“Yes, let us try it,” said Arthur, glancing rapidly from the long-boat to the ship, “if we fail, no harm is done, except that we incur the anger of the mutineers. I, for one, am willing to take the risk.”
Max sprang into the boat, and seized an oar without another word.
“You know well, that I am willing to share any danger with the rest, and that it was not the danger that made me hesitate,” said Browne, laying his hand on Morton’s shoulder, and looking earnestly into his face; and then, in his usual deliberate manner, he followed Max’s example.
Morton, Arthur, and myself now pushed the boat into the surf and sprang in. At Arthur’s request, I took the rudder; he and Morton seized the two remaining oars, and the four commenced pulling with a degree of coolness and vigour, that would not have disgraced older and more practised oarsmen. As I saw the manner in which they bent to their work, and the progress we were making, I began to think our chance of reaching the ship before the crew of the long-boat, by no means desperate.
Morton, in spite of his slender figure and youthful appearance, which his fresh, ruddy complexion, blue eyes, and brown curling locks, rendered almost effeminate, possessed extraordinary strength, and indomitable energy.
Browne, though his rather heavy frame and breadth of shoulders gave him the appearance of greater strength than he actually possessed, was undoubtedly capable, when aroused, of more powerful temporary exertion than any other of our number; though in point of activity and endurance, he would scarcely equal Morton or Arthur. Max, too, was vigorous and active, and, when stimulated by danger or emulation, was capable of powerful effort. Arthur, though of slight and delicate frame, was compact and well knit, and his coolness, judgment and resolution, enabled him to dispose of his strength to the best advantage. All were animated by that high and generous spirit which is of greater value in an emergency than any amount of mere physical strength; a spirit which often stimulates the feeble to efforts as surprising to him who puts them forth, as to those who witness them.
Browne had the bow-oar, and putting his whole force into every stroke, was pulling like a giant. Morton, who was on the same side, handled his oar with less excitement and effort but with greater precision and equal efficiency. It was plain that these two were pulling Max and Arthur round, and turning the boat from her course; and as I had not yet succeeded in shipping the rudder, which was rendered difficult by the rising and falling of the boat, and the sudden impulse she received from every stroke, I requested Browne and Morton to pull more gently. Just as I had succeeded in getting the rudder hung, the crew of the long-boat seemed to have first observed us. They had cleared the point to the southward, and we were, perhaps, a hundred yards nearer the long point, beyond which we could see the masts of the ship, and on doubling which, we should be almost within hail of her. The latter point, was probably a little more than half a mile distant from us, and towards the head of it, both boats were steering. The long-boat was pulling eight oars, and Luerson, the man who had had the difficulty with the first officer at the Kingsmill Islands, was at the helm. As soon as he observed us, he appeared to speak to the crew of his boat, and they commenced pulling with greater vigour than before. He then hailed us,—“Holloa, lads! where’s Frazer? Are you going to leave him on the island!”
We pulled on in silence.
“He is looking for you now, somewhere along shore; he left us, just below the point, to find you; you had better pull back and bring him off.”
“All a trick,” said Morton; “don’t waste any breath with them;” and we bent to the oars with new energy.
“The young scamps mean to give the alarm,” I could hear Luerson mutter with an oath, as he surveyed, for a moment, the interval between the two boats, and then the distance to the point.
“There’s no use of mincing matters, my lads,” he cried, standing up in the stem; “we have knocked the first officer on the head, and served some of those who didn’t approve of the proceeding in the same way; and now we are going to take the ship.”
“We know it, and intend to prevent you,” cried Morton, panting with the violence of his exertions.
“Unship your oars till we pass you, and you shall not be hurt,” pursued Luerson in the same breath; “pull another stroke at them, and I will serve you like your friend, Frazer, and he lies at the spring with his throat slit!”
The ruffian’s design, in this savage threat, was doubtless to terrify us into submission; or, at least, so to appal and agitate us, as to make our exertions more confused and feeble. In this last calculation he may have been partially correct, for the threat was fearful, and the danger imminent; the harsh, deep tones of his voice, with the ferocious determination of his manner, sent a thrill of horror to every heart. More than this, he could not effect; there was not a craven spirit among our number.
“Steadily!” said Arthur, in a low, collected tone; “less than five minutes will bring us within hail of the ship.”
But the minutes seemed hours, amid such tremendous exertions, and such intense anxiety. The sweat streamed from the faces of the rowers; they gasped and panted for breath; the swollen veins stood out on their foreheads.
“Perhaps,” cried Luerson, after a pause, “perhaps there is some one in that boat who desires to save his life; whoever drops his oar shall not be harmed; the rest die.”
A scornful laugh from Morton was the only answer to this tempting offer.
Luerson now stooped for a moment and seemed to be groping for something in the bottom of the boat. When he rose, it was with a musket or fowling-piece in his hands, which he cocked, and, coming forward to the bow, levelled towards us.
“Once more,” he cried, “and once for all, drop your oars, or I fire among you.”
“I don’t believe it is loaded,” said Arthur, “or he would have used it sooner.”
“I think it is Frazer’s gun,” said Morton, “and he fired both barrels before they murdered him; there has been no time to reload it.”
The event showed the truth of these suspicions; for, upon seeing that his threat produced no effect, Luerson resumed his seat in the bows, the helm having been given to one of the men not at the oars.
We were now close upon the point, and, as I glanced from our pursuers to the ship, I began to breathe more freely. They had gained upon us; but it was inch by inch, and the goal was now at hand. The long-boat, though pulling eight oars, and those of greater length than ours, was a clumsier boat than the yawl, and at present heavily loaded; we had almost held our own with them thus far.
But now Luerson sprang up once more in the bow of the long-boat, and presented towards us the weapon with which he had a moment before threatened us; and this time it was no idle menace. A puff of smoke rose from the muzzle of the piece, and, just as the sharp report reached our ears, Browne uttered a quick exclamation of pain, and let fall his oar.
For a moment all was confusion and alarm; but Browne, who had seized his oar again almost instantly, declared that he was not hurt; that the ball had merely grazed the skin of his arm; and he attempted to recommence rowing; before, however, he had pulled half-a-dozen strokes, his right hand was covered with the blood which streamed down his arm.
I now insisted on taking his oar, and he took my place at the helm.
While this change was being effected, our pursuers gained upon us perceptibly. Every moment was precious. Luerson urged his men to greater efforts; the turning point of the struggle was now at hand, and the excitement became terrible.
“Steer close in; it will save something in distance,” gasped Morton, almost choking for breath.
“Not too close,” panted Arthur; “don’t get us aground.”
“There is no danger of that,” answered Morton, “it is deep, off the point.”
Almost as he spoke, a sharp, grating sound was heard, beneath the bottom of the boat, and our progress was arrested with a suddenness that threw Max and myself from our seats. We were upon a ledge of coral, which at a time of less excitement we could scarcely have failed to have observed and avoided, from the manner in which the sea broke upon it.
A shout of mingled exultation and derision, as they witnessed this disaster, greeted us from the long-boat, which was ploughing through the water, but a little way behind us, and some twenty yards further out from the shore.
“It is all up,” said Morton, bitterly, dropping his oar.
“Back water! Her stern still swings free,” cried Arthur, “the next swell will lift her clear.”
We got as far aft as possible, to lighten the bows; a huge wave broke upon the ledge, and drenched us with spray, but the yawl still grated upon the coral.
Luerson probably deemed himself secure of a more convenient opportunity, at no distant period, to wreak his vengeance upon us: at any rate there was no time for it now; he merely menaced us with his clenched fist, as they swept by. Almost at the same moment a great sea came rolling smoothly in, and, as our oars dipped to back water, we floated free: then a few vigorous strokes carried us to a safe distance from the treacherous shoal.
“One effort more!” cried Arthur, as the mutineers disappeared behind the point; “we are not yet too late to give them a warning, though it will be but a short one.”
Again we bent to the oars, and in a moment we too had doubled the point, and were in the wake of the long-boat. The ship lay directly before us, and within long hailing distance.
“Now, comrades, let us shout together, and try to make them understand their danger,” said Browne, standing up in the stern.
“A dozen strokes more,” said Arthur, “and we can do it with more certain success.”
Luerson merely glanced back at us, as he once more heard the dash of our oars; but he took no farther notice of us: the crisis was too close at hand.
On board the ship all seemed quiet. Some of the men were gathered together on the starboard bow, apparently engaged in fishing; they did not seem to notice the approach of the boats.
“Now, then!” cried Arthur, at length, unshipping his oar, and springing to his feet, “one united effort to attract their attention—all together—now, then!” and we sent up a cry that echoed wildly across the water, and startled the idlers congregated at the bows, who came running to the side of the vessel nearest us.
“We have got their attention; now hail them,” said Arthur, turning to Browne, who had a deep powerful voice; “tell them not to let the long-boat board them.”
Browne put his hands to his mouth, and in tones that could have been distinctly heard twice the distance, shouted— “Look-out for the long-boat—don’t let them board you—the men have killed the first officer, and want to take the ship!” From the stir and confusion that followed, it was clear that the warning was understood.
But the mutineers were now scarcely twenty yards from the vessel, towards which they were ploughing their way with unabated speed. The next moment they were under her bows; just as their oars flew into the air, we could hear a deep voice from the deck, sternly ordering them to “keep off,” and I thought that I could distinguish Captain Erskine standing near the bowsprit.
The mutineers gave no heed to the order; several of them sprang into the chains, and Luerson among the rest. A fierce, though unequal struggle, at once commenced. The captain, armed with a weapon which he wielded with both hands, and which I took to be a capstan-bar, struck right and left among the boarders as they attempted to gain the deck, and one, at least of them, fell back with a heavy plunge into the water. But the captain seemed to be almost unsupported; and the mutineers had nearly all reached the deck, and were pressing upon him.
“Oh, but this is a cruel sight!” said Browne, turning away with a shudder. “Comrades, can we do nothing more?”
Morton, who had been groping beneath the sail in the bottom of the boat now dragged forth the cutlasses which Spot had insisted on placing there when we went ashore.
“Here are arms!” he exclaimed, “we are not such boys, but that we can take a part in what is going on—let us pull to the ship!”
“What say you!” cried Arthur, glancing inquiringly from one to another; “we can’t, perhaps, do much, but shall we sit here and see Mr Erskine murdered, without trying to help him!”
“Friends, let us to the ship!” cried Browne, with deep emotion, “I am ready.”
“And I!” gasped Max, pale with excitement, “we can but be killed.”
Can we hope to turn the scale of this unequal strife? shall we do more than arrive at the scene of conflict in time to experience the vengeance of the victorious mutineers?—such were the thoughts that flew hurriedly through my mind. I was entirely unaccustomed to scenes of violence and bloodshed, and my head swam, and my heart sickened, as I gazed at the confused conflict raging on the vessel’s deck, and heard the shouts and cries of the combatants. Yet I felt an inward recoil against the baseness of sitting an idle spectator of such a struggle. A glance at the lion-hearted Erskine still maintaining the unequal fight, was an appeal to every noble and generous feeling: it nerved me for the attempt, and though I trembled as I grasped an oar, it was with excitement and eagerness, not with fear.
The yawl had hardly received the first impulse in the direction of the ship, when the report of fire-arms was heard.
“Merciful heavens!” cried Morton, “the captain is down! that fiend Luerson has shot him!”
The figure which I had taken for that of Mr Erskine, was no longer to be distinguished among the combatants, some person was now dragged to the side of the ship towards us, and thrown overboard; he sunk after a feeble struggle; a triumphant shout followed, and then two men were seen running up the rigging.
“There goes poor Spot up to the foretop,” said Max, pointing to one of the figures in the rigging; “he can only gain time at the best but it can’t be that they’ll kill him in cold blood.”
“Luerson is just the man to do it,” answered Morton; “the faithful fellow has stood by the captain, and that will seal his fate—look! it is as I said,” and I could see some one pointing, what was doubtless Mr Frazer’s fowling-piece, at the figure in the foretop. A parley seemed to follow; as the result of which, the fugitive came down and surrendered himself. The struggle now appeared to be over, and quiet was once more restored.
So rapidly had these events passed, and so stunning was their effect, that it was some moments before we could collect our thoughts, or fully realise our situation; and we sat, silent and bewildered, gazing toward the ship.
Max was the first to break silence; “And now, what’s to be done?” he said, “as to going aboard, that is of course out of the question: the ship is no longer our home.”
“I don’t know what we can do,” said Morton, “except to pull ashore, and stand the chance of being taken off by some vessel, before we starve.”
“Here is something better,” cried Max eagerly, pointing out to sea; and, looking in the direction indicated, we saw a large ship, with all her sails set, steering directly for us, or so nearly so, as to make it apparent that if she held on her present course, she must pass very near to us. Had we not been entirely engrossed by what was taking place immediately around us, we could not have failed to have seen her sooner, as she must have been in sight a considerable time.
“They have already seen her on board,” said Morton, “and that accounts for their great hurry in getting up anchor; they don’t feel like being neighbourly just now, with strange vessels.”
In fact, there was every indication on board of our own ship, of haste, and eagerness to be gone. While some of the men were at the capstan, getting up the anchor, others were busy in the rigging, and sail after sail was rapidly spread to the breeze, so that by the time the anchor was at the bows, the ship began to move slowly through the water.
“They don’t seem to consider us of much account anyway,” said Max, “they are going without so much as saying good-bye.”
“They may know more of the stranger than we do,” said Arthur, “they have glasses on board; if she should be an American man-of-war, their hurry is easily explained.”
“I can’t help believing that they see or suspect more, in regard to her, than appears to us,” said Morton, “or they would not fail to make an attempt to recover the yawl.”
“It is rapidly getting dark,” said Arthur, “and I think we had better put up the sail, and steer for the stranger.”
“Right,” said Morton, “for she may possibly tack before she sees us.”
Morton and myself proceeded to step the mast, and rig the sail; meantime, Arthur got Browne’s coat off, and examined and bandaged the wound on his arm, which had been bleeding all the while profusely; he pronounced it to be but a trifling hurt. A breeze from the south-east had sprung up at sunset, and we now had a free wind to fill our sail, as we steered directly out to sea to meet the stranger, which was still at too great a distance to make it probable that we had been seen by her people.
It was with a feeling of anxiety and uneasiness, that I saw the faint twilight fading away, with the suddenness usual in those latitudes, and the darkness gathering rapidly round us. Already the east was wrapped in gloom, and only a faint streak of light along the western horizon marked the spot where the sun had so recently disappeared.
“How suddenly the night has come upon us,” said Arthur, who had been peering through the dusk toward the approaching vessel, in anxious silence; “O, for twenty minutes more of daylight! I fear that she is about tacking.”
This announcement filled us all with dismay, and every eye was strained towards her with intense and painful interest.
Meantime, the breeze had freshened somewhat and we now had rather more of it than we desired, as our little boat was but poorly fitted to navigate the open ocean in rough weather. Johnny began to manifest some alarm, as we were tossed like a chip from wave to wave, and occasionally deluged with spray, by a sea bursting with a rude shock over our bow. I had not even in the violent storm of the preceding week, experienced such a sense of insecurity, such a feeling of helplessness, as now, when the actual danger was comparatively slight. The waves seemed tenfold larger and more threatening than when viewed from the deck of a large vessel. As we sunk into the trough of the sea, our horizon was contracted to the breadth of half-a-dozen yards, and we entirely lost sight of the land, and of both ships.
But it was evident that we were moving through the water with considerable velocity, and there was encouragement in that, for we felt confident that if the stranger should hold on her present course but a little longer, we should be on board of her before our safety would be seriously endangered by the increasing breeze.
If, however, she were really tacking, our situation would indeed be critical. A very few moments put a period to our suspense by confirming Arthur’s opinion, and our worst fears; the stranger had altered her course, her yards were braced round, and she was standing further out to sea. Still, however, there would have been a possibility of reaching her, but for the failure of light, for she had not so far changed her course, but that she would have to pass a point, which we could probably gain before her. But now, it was with difficulty, and only by means of the cloud of canvass she carried, that we could distinguish her through the momently deepening gloom; and with sinking hearts we relinquished the last hopes connected with her. Soon she entirely vanished from our sight, and when we gazed anxiously around the narrow horizon that now bounded our vision, sky and water alone met our view.