In a few minutes they had executed this manoeuvre, and now closed in, until their vessels floated among the drooping branches of the cypress. A shout of triumph told that they had discovered our retreat; and I now saw their faces peering through the curtain of straggling tillandsia.
They could see the pirogue, and both the negro and myself standing by the bow.
“Surrender!” shouted a voice in a loud, firm tone. “If you resist, your lives be on your own heads!”
Notwithstanding this summons, the boats did not advance any nearer. They knew that I carried pistols, and that I knew how to handle them—the proofs, were fresh. They approached, therefore, with caution—thinking I might still use my weapons.
They had no need to be apprehensive. I had not the slightest intention of doing so. Resistance against twenty men—for there were that number in the boats, twenty men well armed—would have been a piece of desperate folly. I never thought of such a thing; though, if I had, I believe the Bambarra would have stood by me to the death. The brave fellow, steeled to a supernatural courage by the prospect of his punishment, had even proposed fight! But his courage was madness; and I entreated him not to resist—as they would certainly have slain him on the spot.
I meant no resistance, but I hesitated a moment in making answer.
“We’re all armed,” continued the speaker, who seemed to have some authority over the others. “It is useless for you to resist—you had better give up!”
“Damn them!” cried another and a rougher voice; “don’t waste talk on them. Let’s fire the tree, and smoke ’em out; that moss ’ll burn, I reckon!”
I recognised the voice that uttered this inhuman suggestion. It came from Bully Bill.
“I have no intention of making resistance,” I called out in reply to the first speaker. “I am ready to go with you. I have committed no crime. For what I have done I am ready to answer to the laws.”