“Oh, Tom Fillot!” groaned Mark. “And was that all?”
“No, sir; for I heered the skipper say, ‘Anyone been in the cabin?’ And when no one spoke he began to cuss ’em for a set o’ idgits, and they all went below with the lanthorn, and come up again along o’ you. My word, Mr Vandean, sir, how you must have slep’!”
“Oh, Tom Fillot!” cried Mark again.
“Yes, and it is ‘Oh, Tom Fillot,’ sir,” groaned the poor fellow. “My skull’s cracked in three or four places sure as a gun.”
“And the others. Oh! the others. Are they killed?”
“I dunno, sir. I ain’t—not quite. Sims to me that they’d got bats, and they hit us with ’em like they do the pigs in the north country, or the cod-fish aboard the fishing smacks. My poor head feels as if it’s opening and shutting like a fish’s gills every time I moves my mouth.”
“Are all the men here, Tom?”
“Yes, sir; I think so. If they’re not, it’s ’cause they’re dead.”
“This is Mr Russell; I can feel his uniform,” whispered Mark; “and he’s dead—no, I can feel his heart beating. Come here, Tom, and help me.”
“I’ll come, sir; but I can’t help you, and it don’t seem no use for me to be waggling this ’ere oar about. Just as well let the tide send us along.”