“Had they no arms?” asked the wounded man.
“None—not so much as a cutlass even. Diego, Rivas, and Garcia, who helped them to discharge the boat, saw everything taken out of her but the oars and sails. There was a big man—a half-caste, who was dressed like a white man—in charge of the four Samoans. I asked him to come on deck and have a glass of grog; but he said his crew did not want him to leave the boat. They were frightened, he said, because our men had pistols in their belts.”
Almanza gave a sigh of relief. “And you are sure they will return and tow us?”
“Sure, amigo.”
And just as supper was over, and Frewen and Ryan returned to the deck, a sailor called out that the whale boat and five others were in sight.
“Ah, my partner is not the man to lose time in an important matter like this, Captain Ryan,” said Frewen; “your tow-line will be tautened out before the three hours we mentioned.”
CHAPTER IX
Soon after Raymond and the old chief with his followers had set out for the ship, and when the swift tropic night had closed in upon the island, Captain Marston died. He was conscious when his kindly host and Randall Cheyne had returned, and before he passed away, thanked the planter sincerely for all that he had done for his wife, his crew, and himself; for he well knew that his end was near.
“I fear that nothing will ever be heard of my ship again,” he said, in a whisper. “They will scuttle or burn her. My poor wife!” and he pressed her hand. “But thank God, Amy, you will not be quite penniless. Mercado” (his agent in Valparaiso) “will have about two or three thousand pounds to pay you for some cargo he bought from me. You must go there. He is an honourable man, and will not seek to evade his liabilities. I know him well.”