Under so many disadvantages, the former captain of musketeers showed that he had not forgotten his early training. All eyes and ears, he seemed to be everywhere at once, anticipating emergencies, multiplying precautions, yet finding a moment every now and then for a word of politeness and encouragement to the ladies, to regret the roughness of the path, to excuse the prospective discomforts of the brigantine, or to assure them of their speedy arrival in a place of safety. On these occasions he invariably directed his speech to the Marquise and his looks to her daughter.
Presently, as they continued to wind up the hill, the ascent grew more precipitous. At length, having crossed the bed of a rivulet that they could hear tumbling into a cascade many hundred feet below, they reached a pass on the mountain side where the path became level, but seemed so narrow as to preclude farther progress. It turned at a sharp angle round the bare face of a cliff, which rose on one side sheer and perpendicular several fathoms above their heads, and on the other shelved as abruptly into a dark abyss, the depth of which, not even one of the seamen, accustomed as they were to giddy heights, dared measure with his eye. Fleurette alone, standing on the brink, peered into it without wavering, and pointing downwards, looked back on the little party with triumph.
“See down there,” said she, in a voice that grew fainter with every syllable. “No road round up above; no road round down below. Once past here all safe, same as in bed at home. Come by, you! take hands one by one—so—small piece more—find white lagoon. All done then. Good-night!”
Holding each other by the hand, the whole party, to use Slap-Jack’s expression, “rounded the point” in safety. They now found themselves in an open and nearly flat space, encircled but unshadowed by the jungle. Below them, over a level of black tree tops, the friendly sea was shining in the moonlight; and nearer yet, a gleam through the dark mass of forest denoted that white lagoon of which Fleurette had spoken.
On any other night it would have been a peaceful and a lovely sight; but now a flickering glare on the sky showed them where the roof-tree of Montmirail West was burning into ashes, and the yells of the rioters could be heard, plainer and plainer, as they scoured the mountain in pursuit of the fugitives, encouraging each other in their search.
Some of these shouts sounded so near in the clear still night, that Captain George was of opinion their track had been already discovered and followed up. If this were indeed the case, no stand could be made so effectually as at the defile they had lately threaded, and he determined to defend it to the last. For this purpose he halted his party and gave them their directions.
“Slap-Jack,” said he, “I’ve got a bit of soldier’s work for you to do. It’s play to a sailor, but you attend to my orders all the same. If these black devils overhaul us, they can only round that corner one at a time. I’ll leave you with a couple of your own foretopmen here to stop that game. But we soldiers never want to fight without a support. Smoke-Jack and the rest of the boat’s crew will remain at your back. What say ye, my lads? It will be something queer if you can’t hold a hundred darkies and more in such a post as this, say, for three-quarters of an hour. I don’t ask ye for a minute longer; but mind ye, I expect that, if not a man of you ever comes on board again. When you’ve killed all the niggers, make sail straight away to the beach, fire three shots, and I’ll send a boat off. You won’t want to break your leave after to-night’s work. At all events, I wouldn’t advise you to try, and I shall get the anchor up soon after sunrise. Bottle-Jack comes with me, in case the ladies should want more assistance, and this dark girl—what d’ye call her?—Fleurette, to show us the way. God bless ye, my lads! Keep steady, level low, and don’t pull till you see the whites of their eyes!”
Bottle-Jack, slewing his body about with more than customary oscillation, declared his willingness to accompany the Captain, but pointing to Fleurette, expressed a fear that “this here gal had got a megrim or something, and wanted caulkin’ very bad, if not refittin’ altogether in dry dock.”
The moon shed a strong light upon the little party, and it was obvious that Fleurette, who had now sunk to the ground, with her head supported by Bottle-Jack as tenderly and carefully as if the honest tar had been an experienced nurse of her own sex, was seriously, if not mortally wounded, and certainly unable to proceed. The Marquise and her daughter were at her side in an instant, but she took no heed of the former, fixing her filmy eyes on Cerise, and pressing her young mistress’s hand to her heart.