Going thither at once, Captain Applegarth knocked with his knuckles on the panel of the closed door of one of the larger state rooms, running athwart the ship from whence the sounds proceeded.
“Hullo, within there!” he shouted, “what’s the matter? What’s the row? Come out!”
A shrill scream was the only response to his inquiries.
“What’s the matter?” repeated the skipper, speaking in a gentler tone. “You have nothing to fear. We’re all friends here!”
The cries and confused noises continued, however, and the skipper thereupon resumed his knocking, this time more forcibly, and with his fists aided by a kick from his heavy boot against the lower part of the still closed door.
At this imperative summons the shrieking ceased, and we heard a feeble voice within, calling out in French— “Mercy! for the love of God!” we could distinguish amidst a plentitude of sobs and violent groans in a deeper key. “Ah! brave Haytians! Have pity, and spare our lives!”
“Hang it all, you cowards, we’re not those cursed Haytians, and I wish you could have been left to their mercy! It is only what you deserve!” roared the skipper, infuriated and out of all patience at the Frenchwoman’s mistake and her appealing in such terms to the murderous scoundrels of whom we had made so summary an end. “We’re Englishmen; we’re your friends, I tell you, true-hearted British sailors, who have come to rescue you, so open the door!”
But Madame Boisson, who, of course, was his interlocutrice behind the door, remained obdurate.
“Ah! the false English,” she cried, “down with the pigs!”
At this the skipper laughed grimly, and all standing near him were much amused.