“Now, my lads, never mind the boy,” cried the Yankee skipper; “over with them.”
The men, who had drawn back for the moment, made a rush at Tom Fillot, seized him, there was a short struggle, a loud splash, and the schooners men had got rid of the most vigorous of their assailants.
A shout and another heave, and Dance had gone. Then Dick Bannock, who kicked and cursed like a madman, was swung up and tossed over. The rest followed, and, with his back to the bulwarks and his dirk advanced, Mark stood alone upon the deck, last of the gallant little crew, knowing that his turn had come, but ready to make whoever seized him smart for the indignity about to be put upon a British officer, even if he were a boy.
“Bah! rush him,” roared the captain, and Mark had time for two blows at his assailants, whom he could now see clearly from where he had run right to the bows, for a flood of moonlight softly swept over the scene.
Then as he struggled hard with the men cursing and buffeting him with their fists, there came a loud, wildly appealing cry, as it seemed to him, from the hold where the poor blacks were confined; and it was with a bitter feeling of despair at his being unable to help them, that Mark made his last effort to free himself. The next moment he was jerked out from the side of the schooner, fell with a tremendous splash in the swiftly-running tide; there was a flashing as of silver in the moonbeams, then black darkness, and the thunder of the rushing waters in his ears.
Chapter Twenty Two.
Unexpected Allies.
“Here, hi! Look-out, lads! Where’s our orficer?”