“What’s the rest,--likker?” asked Jim, wofully.
And then the men split up, each seeking a spot for resting during his watch below, some on deck and some in the forecastle.
I followed Bill to the windlass, and we stretched out in my old favourite spot, with our heads upon a coil of the forestaysail-downhaul. Here we had the draught from under the foot of the sail blowing downward in our faces, and we instantly gave way to its soothing influence and fell asleep. Since Watkins had gone over the side, with a shot to each foot, sewed tightly in canvas, I had been a bit more free to sleep out on deck at night in the warm weather, and I now rested as only a tired and healthy sailor could. The barque held along steadily and the motion was slight, and there was silence on board save for the murmur coming from below. The first thing I knew of trouble was being suddenly aroused by a piercing scream. It was shrill and sharp and full of terror and pain.
Bill started up at the same time, and both of us asked each other what was the matter. I tried to put out my hand to steady myself from the roll of the barque and get to my feet, but something held it firmly to the other in front of me. The night was intensely black, as the moon had not yet risen, and for an instant I was blundering about, striving to free myself, until Bill blurted out that he was ironed. Then I realized that my hands were shackled fast in iron bracelets, and that there was little use to try to free them. Some one had slipped them upon our wrists while we slept, and we were as helpless as though paralyzed.
I tried to see the watch on deck, and strained my eyes through the gloom to catch sight of their forms in the waist, where they usually grouped to keep awake and tell yarns. There was not a soul in sight. Even the poop seemed vacant, but, while I looked, shadows appeared creeping up the gangways over the break, and in a moment a flash lit the darkness. Following the report, a perfect roar of voices burst forth, yelling and bawling, interspersed now and again with shouts and cries of wounded men. Then Martin’s hoarse yell arose above the uproar aft, and I began to realize what was happening.
“Break loose, Bill, for God’s sake,” I cried, tugging away at my irons. “Break loose, for that devil, Martin, is going amuck, and Shannon is in his wake.” Our legs were free, and I ran to the windlass-bitts, which were covered with metal. Raising my hands high above my head, I brought the bracelets down with all my force upon the iron tops.
The pain was awful. For some moments I could do nothing but gasp, for it seemed to me that I had broken both my wrists. They were numb and paralyzed with the shock.
“Let me try,” said Bill, and he brought his hands down with full force. The lock on his iron sprang open, and he gave a groan.
“Lay your wrists here,” he said, and I stretched the connecting link over the bitt-head. Bill seized a heavy chain-hook and smote again and again upon the chain link until it bent, buckled, and finally opened. I was free.
With my irons hanging to my wrists, we started aft, where the fracas was now in full sway. Forms were surging upon the break of the poop, and among them I recognized some of our men mixed with the naked black bodies of the Africans. We dived into the forward cabin door to get at the cutlass rack in the passage, where all the arms were hung. As we did so, Mr. Curtis thrust a pistol into my face and pulled the trigger. The damp, hot climate had evidently affected the priming of the weapon, for I heard the flint fall distinctly. Then I struck up the muzzle as it exploded, the charge going upward into the deck.