“What ship’s that?” was now asked from the darkness, but in anything but the loud hearty hail of a sailor.
“Sarah Ann, port of London,” answered the mate. “Are you from the sloop?”
“Ay, ay,” was the reply.
“Bring a lantern here, and swing over the side,” said Murray uneasily; and one of the anchor-lights was brought, and sent a feeble ray, cutting as it were the dense curtain that hung around. Then the bows of a boat were seen swiftly advancing, and for a moment Murray gazed at its occupants with a mixture of astonishment and terror; but the next instant he had seized one of the capstan-bars, and stood ready.
“Here, Smith, Norris, Jackson, be smart!” he shouted, “or we shall lose the ship. Convicts!”
That last word seemed to electrify the men into action; and as the boat grated against the side of the heavily-laden vessel, just beneath the fore-chains, man after man armed himself with the capstan-bars, and stood ready by the first mate.
The lantern was dashed out directly; and it was evident that men were climbing up the side by means of boat-hooks hitched into the fore-chains. Now followed a struggle—short, sharp, but decisive; for first one and then another convict was knocked back into the boat as he tried to gain a foothold. There was a little shouting, a few oaths; and then, apparently satisfied that the reception was too warm, and that they were fighting against odds, the occupants of the boat shoved off, just as the ship’s crew was reinforced by the captain and men who had gone below.
“That was a narrow escape,” said the captain. “Mr Murray, I sha’n’t forget to mention this to the owners.”
“Suppose we keep a sharp look-out for the rest of the night? They may come back, unless they find some other vessel less on the alert.”
“Oars again,” whispered one of the men.