“You soon shall,” said Tom, “if you don’t mind. Now then, get down into that boat.”
“Who are yew ordering about, sir?”
“You,” cried Tom. “Now then, once more, get down into that boat.”
The skipper turned to walk away, but Tom’s temper was getting hot, and without a moment’s hesitation he seized the man by the collar and waistband, thrust him to the side, and jerked him out of the gangway.
“Ketch hold!” he shouted, and the man in charge of the boat caught hold and dragged the skipper down into the boat just as the other was rowed alongside.
The skipper started up to revenge himself, and then sat down again to brood over the affront, while, as rapidly as they could be transferred, two more men were thrust into the same boat with him, and the rest into the other boat, the fellows looking fierce, and ready for a fresh attempt to recapture their schooner. But the arms of the English sailors, and the fierce readiness of the blacks, Soup and Taters, awed them, especially as their skipper made no sign, and a quarter of an hour later captain and men were safely fastened in the forecastle, with Soup now as sentry—Taters having been sent on board the second schooner to see to the freed slaves, with another man to help him. Then a hawser was made fast and sail set, the first schooner towing the second fairly well, and some knots were sailed toward the north before the position of the sun suggested to Mark that an anxious time was coming. For if an attempt were made to turn the tables upon them, it would for certain be that night.
However, Mark went on with his preparations. The blacks on both ships were fed, every precaution taken, and, giving up all idea of sleep for that night, a well-armed watch was set, and he paced the deck, feeling quite an old man with his responsibility. He asked himself whether there was anything he had left undone, whether the tow-line would hold, and a score of other questions, while all above was calmness, and the great stars glittered and shone down from the purply black sky.
“Are we to have a peaceful night?” he thought, as he looked over the schooner’s counter at the dark silent vessel towed behind.
Tom Fillot gave him the answer, by running aft to him, his bare feet making a soft pad pad upon the deck.
“Got your shooter, sir?” he whispered.