“We must get one on deck, Tom,” cried Mark. “Lay hold of one as gently as you can, and let’s pull him up.”
Tom Fillot seized the first he could distinguish in the herd of poor cowering wretches, but this one, too, filled the foul air with his piercing yells, and fought so hard to free himself, that Tom let go, and stepped back below the hatch.
“They think we want to chuck ’em overboard, Mr Vandean, sir. I don’t know what to say to ’em. No good to tell ’em that under the British flag they’re free.”
“Let’s go and breathe for a few moments, Tom,” said Mark, his voice sounding as if he were half-stifled.
“I’d rather do that, sir, than have the best glass o’ grog ever mixed,” said the man.
“Now below there!” came from the hatch; “how are you getting on?”
Mark answered the question by stumbling up the ladder till he could put his face over the combings of the hatch, and breathe the air blowing over the vessel, Tom Fillot following suit.
“You look white as ashes, Vandean,” said the lieutenant. “I had no business to let you go down. But the men are not dangerous?”
“Like so many sheep,” replied Mark, rather faintly; “but we could not get one to come.”
“Come out, and I’ll go myself.”