The remainder of the watch had settled down to sleep, as a matter of course; they had not the lookout; and they were within call of the officer of the watch, should their services be required; that, they considered, was all that was just then expected of them; and they closed their eyes, and yielded to their feelings of drowsiness without a shadow of compunction.
Thus, by half-past ten o’clock that night, the entire ship’s company of the Aurora, fore and aft, were fast asleep.
Whilst all hands were thus wrapped in peaceful oblivion a small object gradually merged into view immediately ahead of the Aurora. Had the lookout man been broad awake—instead of fast asleep, as he was—he would certainly not have noticed this object until it was within a mile of the ship—unless his gaze had happened to have been attracted by an occasional momentary flashing gleam of silvery light—because its colour so artfully matched the delicate steely blue grey of the gently-rippled sea that it was absolutely invisible beyond that distance. Even at the distance of half a mile a cursory careless glance ahead might have easily missed it. But when a quarter of a mile only intervened between it and the barque the look out man, had he been wide-awake and with all his wits about him, would suddenly have become conscious that a large boat, painted grey, and full of men, was pulling swiftly and noiselessly toward the ship. On she swept, silently as a dream; not a word was uttered on board her; there was no warning roll and rattle of the oars in the rowlocks to apprise the sleeping crew of the approach of danger; there was not even the plashing sound of the oar-blades dipping into the water, they rose and fell silently as the misty oars of a phantom boat; and when at length she swept up alongside the Aurora, a sign was all that was needed to convey the orders of the officer in charge to his crew: his right hand was gently raised, the oars were noiselessly lifted from the rowlocks and laid in without a sound upon the padded thwarts, the boat sheered alongside, without absolutely touching, the painter was made fast to the Aurora’s fore-chains, and sixteen armed figures climbed noiselessly as ghosts over the bulwarks, leaving two in charge of the boat.
Chapter Fourteen.
Sold into Slavery.
When George Leicester retired to his cabin that night, it was with the full intention to at once retire to his cot. Instead, however, of doing this, he flung himself down on the sofa, to indulge in a few minutes of entirely undisturbed thought, and there sleep overtook him.
From this he was abruptly startled into complete wakefulness by a sudden cry, immediately followed by a confused sound of struggling on deck, and of a dull crunching blow, a cry of “Oh, God! have mercy upon my dear—” another blow, a heavy fall on the planking overhead, a deep groan, and then a splash in the water alongside.
Conscious at once that something terrible had happened, he sprang to his feet, buckled on his cutlass, and, snatching up a pistol in one hand and a lamp in the other, hurriedly stepped out of the cabin to investigate. He was just in time to encounter at the foot of the companion-ladder a motley crowd of swarthy-skinned strangers, who, with bared daggers and sword-blades, were making their way down to the cabin. That they were enemies was so instantly apparent that George unhesitatingly levelled his pistol at the foremost man and fired. The bullet struck the man in the shoulder, shattering the bone, and he staggered to one side,—only to make way for others, however, who, pressing upon George, disarmed and overpowered him before he had opportunity to do further harm. Mr Bowen, who had dashed out of his cabin just behind George, was similarly disarmed and overpowered; and then the crowd pressed on into the cabin, where they found and secured Walford and the lad Tom.