“Aye. Ring the engine-room gong. I want every man-jack on deck that Mr Stokes can spare; tell him so.”
While old Masters was sounding his boatswain’s pipe and while busy feet were tramping aft, the men were beginning to cluster in the waist immediately below the back of the poop. And here Captain Applegarth stood stern and erect like an old lion, his cap off and his wavy grey hair fluffed out over his head by the wind. While this was happening we could hear the distant sound of the engine-room bell, and then there came a hail from Mr Fosset.
“Mr Stokes is sending up every one from below, sir,” yelled out the first mate. “He says he can manage by himself now that we’re nearly up to the chase, with the help of a couple of the other firemen; and the engineers and stokers, the whole lot of them in a batch, have volunteered to come on deck and join the boarding party.”
“That’s your sort, my hearty,” cried the skipper enthusiastically, looking down at the sea of excited faces below gazing up expectantly at his, awaiting the stirring words they knew to be coming, all having got wind of the approaching fray. “Now, men, I have summoned the lot of you aft because—well, because I’ve got something to say to you.”
“Bully for you, old man,” exclaimed one of the men, amidst a grand roar, while I could distinguish, distinctly above the other voices of the crew, Accra Prout, the mulatto cook’s laugh as he called out approvingly, “Golly, dat so, sonny!”
“Heavens!” ejaculated Colonel Vereker, seemingly, like myself, to recognise the voice at once, “who’s that?” said he sharply.
Accra Prout, who stood a head taller than any other of the men clustered round him, caught sight of the colonel as the latter cast his eyes downwards, rising from his seat and coming to the side of the skipper; and the mulatto’s eyes grew as large as saucers, while his eyeballs rolled in delight and his wide mouth extended itself from ear to ear.
“Bress de Lor’!” he cried out, with all a darkey’s emphatic enthusiasm, breaking into a huge guffaw that was almost hysterical—“bress de Lor’! it’s de massa; it’s Mass’ Vereker from de plantation, for surh!”
“Yes, it’s me, myself, sure enough, Prout; and I’m right glad to see you,” said the colonel, equally delighted. “There, Señor Applegarth, didn’t I tell you any of my old Louisianian hands would like to see me again, in spite of what I said about those infernal niggers who seized our ship?”
“Aye, you did, colonel, you did,” replied the skipper, waving his hand in the air; “but never mind that now—I’m going to speak to the crew.”