“Can we reach the deck from here?” he cried in his excitement, feeling as he did that the cause of the sounds was that the blacks were making an effort on their behalf against their old enslavers, and that at any cost they must get on deck and help.
Dragging open the cabin light, Mark began to climb out, but had just time to avoid a blow from a heavy bar, struck at him by someone looking over the poop, and evidently on guard there to keep them from reaching the deck in that direction.
“Let me try, sir,” said Tom. “I can dodge him, perhaps, and get up.”
“Let’s try together,” said Mark; and looking up again, he could see that there was only one man, a sour, sinister-looking fellow, who seemed to take intense delight in his task.
“Wall,” he shouted to them, “come on. Sharks is getting hungry, I dessay.”
His words sent a chill through Mark, and he hesitated as he thought of the consequences of receiving a blow, losing his hold, and falling under the schooner’s stern, where, in all probability, one or two of the savage fish were waiting for the unfortunate slaves who died and were thrown out of such vessels from time to time.
This idea did not strike Tom Fillot, who got well out and was about to climb up, when a blow came with a whish within an inch of his head.
“Miss is as good as a mile,” he said, coolly. “Here you, sir; it’s rank mutiny to resist the Queen’s men. Put down that capstan bar and surrender.”
“Come up and take it away from me, mister,” said the American, with a laugh. “Wall, why don’t you come on?”
“I’m a-coming,” said Tom Fillot, “only that bar’s a bit in my way. Better lay it down, mate, for I get a bit nasty if I’m hurt, and if you let me run my head again it, I might be in a passion, and chuck you overboard.”