Bound and helpless—deprived even of the consolation of speech—the situation of the two was now miserable enough. The deadly gas from the burning charcoal was fast poisoning the close atmosphere of the hold, and the prisoners could taste the sickening vapor as it entered their throats.
The air became more stifling every moment. The seamen felt their temples throb with violence—an acute pain tearing through the brain like a knife shot at intervals into the head of each.
They believed that their doom was sealed—that they were destined to expire in this miserable pent-up spot, with their rebellious shipmates within hailing distance of them, and yet—if we except the Portuguese—unaware of their condition.
CHAPTER VII.
ADRIFT.
As soon as the steward had fastened the hatch of the run, he made his way to the deck. Tom Lark was standing near the mizzen-mast watching the operations of three of the men, who, in obedience to his orders, had commenced to unlash an old half-shattered boat that was secured to the beams, extending crossways above the quarter-deck.
“Come! come! bear a hand there!” he shouted. “We must get the boat alongside as soon as possible. Here, you, steward,” he added, turning to that functionary, “jump up there, and help those men.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” said the Portuguese, in a cringing tone of voice; “me glad to do what you tell me!” and he mounted to the beams.
The lashings were soon unfastened, and, by means of a tackle, which had been rigged over the steerage hatch, a few days previously, the boat was hoisted, and then lowered alongside.
“It leaks bad,” said Driko, who had jumped into the vessel, for the purpose of receiving the oars, and the other articles which Lark had ordered to be passed into it.
“Never mind the leak,” said the giant; “the little craft is good enough for those that are to occupy it. I shall let ’em have some provision for the sake of the gal. That’s what I call equal rights!”