With Drake on the Spanish Main

by Herbert Strang

"And so it will. I will presently go speak to the maroons with my tongue, and, seeing that the poor mortals lack understanding, with my fingers and my eyes and my ten toes if the case do require it."

Dennis watched the sailor somewhat anxiously. It would be a stroke of rank ill-fortune if they refused to have their manacles replaced. Everything depended on their docility. To his joy, after some minutes of gesticulation, Turnpenny came back, his broad face beaming with conscious self-esteem.

"Be jowned if I haven't done it easy!" he said. "I spoke 'em plain, and to make all clear, I put my two hands together, with one finger pointing aloft: that stood for yonder vessel. Then I pointed to this doublet, and to yours, and set my face to a most wondrous frown, by the which they understood that you and me pass for Spaniards. A firk with my cutlass did signify our warlike intent, a thrust of my arms forth and back pictured the sweep of oars; and, to make an end o't, they understand our fixed purpose and are keen set to lend us their aid."

"Admirably contrived!" said Dennis. "Now, while I bring the Spaniard to bear us company, do you replace the irons and fasten ropes about the logs. Darkness will steal upon us unawares and prevent the first part of our contriving."

As Dennis returned to the gully to fetch the Spaniard, he saw that Mirandola was keeping pace with him through the trees. Since the event of the morning the monkey had held himself aloof, as if scared by the presence of so many strange men. Dennis halted and called to him, but the animal blinked and made no movement to descend.

"Ah, Mirandola," said Dennis, as he walked on, "even the wisest of us have our failings. Jealousy, my friend, is a canker. I love thee none the less because I have a new friend. Will you not believe it? Is there not room for both—Turnpenny and Mirandola? If we succeed in this enterprise, you and Amos must be made at one."

Some little while later, in the growing dusk, the four maroons were hauling a heavy log out from the undergrowth that fringed the sea. Dennis and Turnpenny urged them with rough cries and persistent cracking of their whips. As soon as they came within view of the vessel the ropes were cast off, and they all made their way back. When they returned with a second log, there came a faint hail from the vessel.

"Ay, ay, 'od rot you!" shouted Turnpenny indistinctly in response, knowing that at the distance his voice could not be recognized. "Belike 'tis a call to us to embark, sir," he said to Dennis. "Mark you, they called us; no man dare say they did not call us; and if they do not like us when we appear, 'tis not because we are not proper men."

The logs were laid alongside of those brought down the previous day; then the men released the boat's moorings, and hauled her off the shoal where she lay into water deep enough to float her. By this time it was almost dark, and the number of men who clambered into the boat could not easily be counted on board the vessel, nor would it be noticed that the maroons hoisted each a large bundle. At the last moment Dennis had decided not to encumber the boat with the captive Spaniard. He had thought of using the man to reply in Spanish to any hail from the vessel during the passage from the shore; but this might be attended with danger if the Spaniard should have courage enough to risk the inevitable penalty should he raise his voice to warn his comrades. Accordingly he was left on shore, gagged and bound, in a spot where he might easily be discovered by the Spaniards next day if the enterprise failed. There were no wild beasts to molest him, and the place chosen was remote from the haunts of the boa constrictor.

The maroons pulled steadily towards the silent vessel, lying low in the water some two hundred yards off shore. Already a lamp had been lit aboard. Every member of the little party in the boat was tense with anticipation. Not a word was spoken. The silence would cause no wonderment among the Spaniards on the vessel; a party of free negroes might have filled the air with their babblement; but the maroons partook of the reserve of the Indian race, and, living, as they did, in a state of deadly feud with the Spaniards, they nourished a deep silent longing for vengeance in their hearts. Besides, these men were cowed slaves, and, after the hard day's toil they were supposed to have undergone, no one would have expected them to be talkative or merry.