Then came, faintly heard, a whispering, as of orders what to do; and Mark drew his dirk in an agony of desperation, wondering the while why he did not rouse up the blacks to help him.
The moments seemed to be drawn out into minutes, the minutes to hours, before he heard the soft patting of the men’s bare feet over the deck.
Then they were about him, each seizing the side of the cask to hold it down, and the blacks sprang up, ready to strike at those around.
“Yah!” growled Tom Fillot, fiercely; “it’s court-martial for you.”
At that moment there was a strong heave up of the hatch, but the attempt was vain; and knowing that all had been discovered, a low growl arose, and then, as if enraged beyond bearing at their failure, one of the men below fired a shot upwards, one which passed through the bottom of the cask, but did no harm to its holders, the only effect produced being the trickling out of the water through a second hole.
“Shall we have it off now, sir, and nail down the hatch?”
“No,” said Mark; “two of you open the cable tier, and hand out the chain.”
“Again, sir?” whispered Tom.
“Yes, man, quick!”
Fillot and Stepney seized the chain and brought the end forward.