Hunting the Skipper: The Cruise of the "Seafowl" Sloop

by George Manville Fenn

As Murray gazed, fascinated by the weirdly strange scene before him, it seemed to him a dozen times over that a deadly struggle was going on between the two writhing creatures, and that every now and then, as the golden oval head darted out of the confusion of movement, it was only to gather force for a dart at the man and fix its fangs in the quivering flesh. But there was no cessation; the reptile was ever strong, and the man as vigorous as ever. Darting at the struggling figure about which it was twined, and then—perhaps it was the boy’s imagination—gaping wide to fix upon some part of the quivering flesh, breast, back, shoulder, or side, perhaps most often at the hands which kept on moving about as sharply as the flat head which played around with such wonderful rapidity. And the motion was ceaseless, always glistening and flashing with light, and watched by the hundreds upon hundreds of glowing opal eyes which reflected the cone of flame still going on spiralling upwards and burning more fiercely than ever.

What is going to be the end? Murray asked himself. Will the serpent conquer and the great black priest fall faint and powerless, strangled to death by the folds of the reptile, which were ever tightening round breast and neck? But they were ever loosening as well, and at one time the boy’s chest expanded with a glow of satisfaction, for it seemed to him that the man was gaining the mastery over his enemy, having succeeded in grasping the serpent’s neck with both hands, and begun to swing and whirl it round and round, whizzing through the air level with his neck. Murray could almost believe that it was whirled round so fast that he could even hear it hum and then snap and crack as if it were some mighty whip-lash with which the great black was flogging the golden darkness of the night.

The middy panted again, and there was a feeling of constriction about his chest, just as if the serpent or one of the many serpents that at times, it seemed, had thrown a fold about him—yes, and another had been cast about his neck, for in the struggle going on before his eyes the reptile seemed to be gaining the best of it once more, and the man was weakening rapidly.

He wondered too that the crowd eddying around remained so silent. It seemed to him only natural that they should give vent to their feelings with shouts of joy when the priest looked successful, and groanings when the serpent had him circled tightly in its toils.

But all the same the midshipman in his excitement realised that he was as silent as the rest, and stood there, with the perspiration trickling down from brow to cheek, watching and watching for the end which seemed as if it would never come.

It must be, he was sure, a struggle that could only end in one way—death for one of the combatants. And yet the lad felt doubt creep in, and he asked himself whether it might not end in death for both.

There were moments when, as he saw the great negro struggle and free himself partially from the serpent’s folds, he foresaw the reptile’s end in the glowing fire, which would become man’s colleague as well as servant, and he could almost see the monster writhing and curling up in the roaring flames to which it was apparently adding fresh fury.

But the next moment there was another phase of horror, for one fold of the many convolutions seemed to be tightened about the man’s arm, and he was evidently about to be dragged into the fire too, and, as he had before imagined, it was to be death for both.

But no; the serpent snatched itself away from the impending danger and tightened itself about the man, who was the next instant bound by the great living thong about and about his heaving body, and the struggle was resumed upon equal terms.

Was it never going to finish?