“Have they killed him?” said the midshipman, hoarsely.
“No, sir; he’s swimming like a seal—the warmint. He’ll reach the shore. But hadn’t you better get us together, sir? The niggers may have a turn at us now. P’r’aps they don’t know we’re friends.”
“Oh yes they do, Tom; they must have seen how we fought for them.” But all the same the lad gave a long piercing whistle, and his men clustered about him, ready for the blacks, who were now coming aft in a body.
“It means another fight, sir,” whispered Tom. “Can’t anybody say in nigger lingo as we’re friends?”
“Yes, friends; all friends,” cried a harsh voice, as the great, perfectly nude, black sprang up out of the hatchway, and threw down his heavy wooden bar, an example followed by the other, while, as the moon now shone full upon their convulsed and excited faces, Tom Fillot burst into a roar of laughter, rushed forward, and slapped first one and then the other on the bare shoulder, yelling out,—
“Here’s a game, mates; why, it’s old Soup and Taters. Why, my black-mugged messmates, we thought you was both on you drowned. What’s become of your tog-a-ree?”
The blacks’ faces relaxed into a broad smile, as, led by Mark, the men crowded round to shake hands warmly, while the crowd of slaves set up a peculiar cry, and danced about them, waving their arms, ending by going down upon their knees about Mark and laying their foreheads on the deck, while the women in the background set up a strangely wild wail.
“Then you two escaped,” cried Mark, as soon as the excitement had subsided a little; and the big black tried to explain, but could only get out the words, “All right, messmate,” and then spoke volubly in his own tongue.
“Never mind, sir; they did get off,” cried Tom Fillot. “They must have been chucked below along with the rest, and then kep’ prisoners.”
“And a good job for us, Tom,” said Mark.