They dragged her, screeching, to the starboard rail. All the time they had to hold those cat-clawed hands of hers. From side to side she flung herself, fighting every foot of the way. Briggs put back his head and laughed at the rare spectacle. Twice or thrice the sailors slipped in blood and rum upon the planking, and once Kuala Pahang all but jerked free from them. At the capstan, only the pistols of the three white guards held her kinsmen back from making a stampede rush; and not even the pistols could silence among them a menacing hum of rage that seethed and bubbled.
“Here, you!” shouted Briggs. “Mahmud Baba, you yellow cur, come here!”
Mahmud loosed his hold on the capstan-bar and in great anguish approached.
“Yas, sar?” whined he. The lean, brown form was trembling. The face had gone a jaundiced color. “I come, sar.”
Briggs leveled his revolver at the Malay. Unmindful of the spattering bullets, he spoke with deliberation.
“Son of a saffron dog,” said he, “you’re going to tell this wench something for me!”
“Yas, sar. What piecee thing me tell?”
“You tell her that if the boats don’t go back to land I’ll heave her over the rail. I’ll feed her to the sharks, by God! Alive, to the sharks—sharks, down there! Savvy?”
“Me savvy.”
“And she’s got to shout that to the canoes! She’s got to shout it to ’em. Go on, now, tell her!”