The sailors were now recalled, and the boats hoisted. The men were thoroughly exhausted, so the doctor begged the captain to splice the main-brace, and soon the stewardess was seen marching forward with “Black Jack.” Black Jack wasn’t a man, nor a boy either, but simply a huge can with a spout to it, that held half a gallon of rum at the very least.
The men began to sing after this, for your true sailor never neglects an opportunity of being merry when he can. Some of them could sing charmingly, and they were accompanied by the carpenter on his violin. That grand old song, “The Bay of Biscay,” as given by a bass-voiced sailor, was delightful to listen to. As the notes rose and fell one seemed to hear the shrieking of the wind in the rigging, the wild turmoil of the dashing waters, and the deep rolling of the thunder that shook the doomed ship from stem to stern.
“Hullo?” cried Hall, looking shorewards. “See yonder—a little black fleet of canoes, their crews like devils incarnate!”
“Ha!” said Dickson. “Come they in peace or come they in war, we shall be ready. Lay aft here, lads. Get your rifles. Load with ball cartridge, and get our two little guns ready and loaded with grape.”
The savages were indeed coming on as swift as the wind, with wild shouts and cries, meant perhaps only to hurry the paddle-men, but startling enough in all conscience.
Chapter Fourteen.
Against Fearful Odds.
Hardly a heart on board that did not throb with anxiety, if not with fear, as that fiendish-looking cannibal fleet drew swiftly nigh. Armed with bows and arrows and spears were they, and Dickson could see also the glitter of ugly creases in the bottom of each canoe. Not tall men were any of them; all nearly naked, however, broad-shouldered, fierce, and grim.