For while the oars splashed and the men pulled, the coxswain tried to get out his knife, and as Mark and the others watched him, he was evidently nervous, and fumbled. Then he tried to open it with his teeth, but the spring was strong, and he had to alter his tactics and begin to open it with his forefinger and thumb nail, and still it seemed as if he could not get it open; and all the time the boat was rapidly setting nearer. In another few seconds it would be alongside, and the Americans would be on board, five against two, unless Taters made a brave defence. There were a couple of dozen blacks on deck, but they were only staring stupidly at the approaching boat, and Joe Dance was still fumbling with his knife, while Grote had disappeared.
“Oh, if I was only there!” cried Tom Fillot.
“They might have saved that schooner,” groaned Mark. “Oh, Tom, Tom, is there nothing we can do?”
“No, sir; only look on. Hah! at last.”
“Yes, he’s sawing at the cable with his knife.”
“And it’s blunt as hoop iron,” groaned Tom.
“They’re alongside. It’s all over. Was there ever such luck?”
“Cut, you beggar, cut!” yelled Tom Fillot.
“Too late—too late!” said Mark bitterly, as he saw Dance still hacking at the cable, and the boat pulled alongside, while the bow man threw in his oar, and seized a boathook as he rose in his place.
In another minute the Americans would have been on deck, and the schooner taken; but, just as Mark Vandean’s heart sank heavy as lead, Grote suddenly appeared with an axe in his hand, while his words of warning came clearly to where they stood looking on.