By this time the rest of the men were gathered round, and it was just as well, for a daring attempt was made to climb on deck, but only for each man who attempted the feat to be sent down again by a blow on head or shoulder.
“If you’d give orders, sir,” said Tom, “we’d soon have that hatch over again, and fifty fathom o’ chain cable piled atop.”
“I don’t like risking you men’s lives,” said Mark; “but there’s no going back now; it must be done.”
“Come on, Dick Bannock,” cried Tom Fillot, rolling up his sleeves. “You chaps stand by with the end of that cable.”
Another shot was fired from the forecastle, and directly after the muzzle of a pistol appeared over the side with a hand directing it, when bang, crash—down came Soup’s capstan bar, striking pistol and hand with such good effect that they were snatched back, and a burst of fierce oaths came up.
“Well done, my lad!” cried Mark; and the black looked at him and showed his white teeth as he stood watchful, and ready, with the bar raised for another blow.
By this time the men had laid hold of the end of the cable and drawn some two or three fathoms up from the little forward compartment, while Tom Fillot and Bannock seized the loose hatch ready to clap on.
“No, no,” cried Mark, hastily; “don’t expose yourselves needlessly, my lads. Lie down and crawl toward the hatchway, pushing the cable before you.”
“Thought you’d fancy we were cowardly, sir,” said Tom, obeying his orders.
“Then don’t think so again, sir,” cried Mark, who wondered at his own sharpness and authoritative way. “Now then, stand by all. Ready?”