Chapter Fifty.
The Great Peril.
It was the terrible danger foretold by the mate, and dreaded by Oliver, coming when Mr Rimmer was away with his men, and unable to help his companions.
For the sailor’s eyes, long trained to watching through the darkness, had told the truth, there were the blacks slowly advancing, armed with those simple but deadly weapons, bundles of the most inflammable materials they could cut in the forest. There they came, stealing along in a line, crawling like insects toward the bows of the ship, with all a savage’s cunning, for they were pointed toward the west, whence the night breeze now blew strongly, and in utter silence first one and then another thrust his load close against the vessel and passed on into the darkness.
For a few minutes, the besieged gazed down over their breastwork of planking bewildered by the danger. They might have fired and shot many of their assailants, but they knew that would not save them, for the whole party kept persistently piling up the faggots, and though Oliver and his friends did not know it, passing round the brig to go back straight from the stern to the spot whence they had issued from the forest to fetch more faggots, so that there were soon two lines, one coming laden toward the bows, the other returning from the stern.
“Buckets,” said Oliver, suddenly. “Form lines to the water tanks.”
The men leaped with alacrity to the task, and in a very short time the buckets were being filled and passed along to where Smith and Wriggs bravely mounted on to the bowsprit and poured the water down upon the increasing heap.
“Give it a good souse round, Billy,” said Smith, “and wet all yer can.”
“Ay, ay,” was the reply, and splash, splash went the water, as the buckets were passed up and returned empty, producing a great deal of whispering from below, but no missiles were sent up, and the blacks worked on with the advantage that their supply was inexhaustible, while that of the unfortunate defenders was failing fast.