“Murther!” yelled Dinny, dropping his oar, but stooping to pick it up again as he shook his hand. “It’s gone right through,” he continued, as he gazed at a bead of blood oozing from the back of his hand, and another on the other side in the centre of his palm. “I wish I knew the divil who fired that. It feels like one of the overseer’s games.”
“Anyone else hit?” said Abel. “Jack!”
“It’s nothing – a scratch,” said Jack, rowing away with all his might, as the blood began to trickle down from a scored place upon his forehead. “Go on rowing.”
“Bad luck to ’em! There’s so many shot in a charge; it gives ’em such a chance,” grumbled Dinny. “But niver mind, Masther Jack. It’ll be a bit of a shmart; but losing a dhrop o’ blood won’t hurt ye.”
Jack nodded, and tugged away rapidly, reducing the distance between them and the cutter; but they could not get farther from the firing party, who kept up a furious fusillade as they followed along round the side of the little bay, the pellets whistling by the fugitives, and more than one finding a home.
“Faix, and ye’ve got the best place there, Bart, me lad,” cried Dinny, merrily. “Shall I come and howlt him while you take a change?”
“Look here!” growled Bart, as another volley was fired at them, and the shot came hurtling round; “it’s no good now. Are you going to give in?”
The sailor looked from one to the other as he lay, with his head in the water at the bottom of the boat.
“Well, this here ar’nt cheerful,” he said.
“You’re beat. Why don’t you give in?”
“Is it weazand slitting?” he said. “Snickersnee!”
“Get out!” cried Dinny. “Did they cut mine?”
“Yours, you deserter!” said the sailor, contemptuously.
“As much a deserter as you are, Dick Dullock. Sure, and they tuck me prishner, wid a musket to me ear and a bagnet to my chist.”
“You look like one,” said the sailor, sourly.
“Will you surrender?” growled Bart.
“Yes. Can’t do no more, can I? Only bear witness, all on you, as I did my dooty. Didn’t I, youngster?”
“You fought like a brave man,” said Jack, gravely; “but it is of no use to struggle now, so give up.”
“Ay, I’ll give in,” said the sailor; “but I’m a-going to lie here till the firing’s done. I’ll stand fire when there’s fighting o’ both sides; but I’m a prisoner now, and out of it, so here I stays.”
Bart rose from where he had been kneeling on the man’s chest, and straightened himself slowly, but only to start as a fresh volley was fired and a pellet grazed his chin; but he only uttered a savage growl like an angry beast, and made way for Dinny to sit down and row with all his strength.
Suddenly a shout from the bay shore took the attention of those in the boat, and the firing ceased.
“What’s that mean?” cried Abel.
“They’ve found our boat,” said Jack, excitedly.
It was true enough; and the fugitives redoubled their efforts to reach the cutter, while the overseer continued the firing, so as to disable some of the party before they could attain the shelter the vessel would give.
Abel was hit twice, and Bart received another shot, but the distance was great now, and the pellets too small to do serious mischief; but as they rowed round behind the cutter, anxiously watching to see that no one was aboard, its hull sheltering them from the firing, the noise and the buzz of voices ashore drew their attention to the fact that the overseer, the officer, and four more had entered the boat, which started with a cheer from those left behind, and pulled rapidly in pursuit.
“Quick, Bart, run up the jib while I cut the rope.”
“Nay, haul up to it, you and Dinny,” cried Bart, as he ran forward. “It’s only a grapnel.”
The firing recommenced now so viciously that every act on board the cutter was performed with great risk, the overseer and the officer taking it in turns to send a hail of buckshot at everyone who showed a head above the low side of the vessel.
But in spite of this the party worked well, and the sailor having surrendered, contented himself, as soon as he was aboard, by lying down upon the deck and beginning to chew.
The grapnel was hauled in, the jib hoisted, and Jack stationed at the tiller; but the sail slowly flapped to and fro, refusing to fill, and the only way on the cutter was that given by the falling tide.
“She’ll be aboard of us, Bart, long before we get out of the bay,” said Abel, with a groan of despair.
“Niver say die,” cried Dinny, who had just given a turn to the painter which held the cutter’s boat.
“Are there any arms aboard?” growled Bart. “Cuss it! look there!”
This last was consequent upon a shot ploughing a little channel along his neck. “D’yer hear what I say – you?” he said again to their prisoner. “Are there any arms aboard?”
“Yes, in the cabin – muskets,” said the sailor; “but you leave ’em alone, my lad. This here as you’ve done’s piracy, and if you kill anybody it’s murder.”
“Then let ’em keep off,” said Bart, with a fierce growl as he followed Abel into the cabin, both reappearing again directly with muskets and ammunition.
“I tell you it’s piracy,” said the sailor from where he lay. “Isn’t it, Dennis Kelly?”
“Faix, I s’pose it is,” said Dinny, smiling. “There’s so much in a name.”
“Here you, Dinny, get up a musket,” cried Abel. “You can shoot.”
“Don’t you, Dinny!” said the sailor. “It’s hanging business.”
“But I’m a prishner,” said Dinny, grinning, “and obliged.”
“It’ll be a hanging matter, Dinny,” cried the sailor, as the Irishman reappeared with a musket in his hand.
“It’ll be a flogging sure if I’m took,” said Dinny, “for they’ll niver belave I’m acting against my will. Now, Captain Abel,” he continued, as he loaded his piece, and laid it so that he could command the boat, “whin you ordher me to fire, why, av coorse I shall, but you must take the credit of the shot.”
“Keep off!” roared Abel, as the boat now neared them fast. “You’ll get bullets instead of buckshot: you come nearer.”
“Surrender, you piratical scoundrel!” roared the overseer. “Put down that musket. Row hard, my lads!”
Whatever may have been the overseer’s weakness, want of courage was not one; and this he proved by discharging his piece, and standing up in the boat to watch the effect.
The distance was short, but there was a faint puff of air now which filled the sail, and there was a feeling of intense relief as the cutter rapidly left the coming boat behind.
Jack’s cheeks flushed, and his eyes sparkled as, with a touch of the tiller, he seemed to send the cutter rushing through the water; while an angry yell rose from behind as the boat dropped back.
But their despondency in the boat was only of a minute’s duration, for the wind dropped as suddenly as it had risen, the cutter ceased to glide onward with the water rattling and splashing beneath her bows, the jib shivered and hung motionless, and a cheer arose from the pursuers as the firing recommenced.
“Be ready, Bart,” said Abel, with a lurid look in his eyes, as he once more levelled his piece. “You, Dinny, are you going to help?”
“No,” said the sailor. “It’s piracy and murder if you shoot them, Dinny Kelly, and it’s fair-play if they shoot you.”
“Yis, it is awkward,” said Dinny; “but Oi’m thinking I don’t want to go back and be on senthry again, and there, Oi’ll make a compromise of it. I won’t shoot, but I’m mak’ believe, and frecken ’em.”
As he spoke he lay down on the deck and took aim at the occupants of the coming boat, whose position was extremely perilous, while the sides of the cutter sheltered those on board.
“Keep back!” roared Abel, as the boat neared them fast. “We’re loaded with ball, not shot.”
There was a momentary indecision on the part of the overseer, and it was instantly communicated to the men, for they ceased to paddle, while the two principals bent forward and spoke earnestly.
“No, they will not dare,” said the overseer, loudly. “Go on, my lads! Surrender, you dogs, or you shall all be hung.”
The boat was urged through the water again, and the overseer raised his fowling-piece, took aim, and was about to fire, when the officer with him laid his hand upon his arm.
“Wait,” he said. “Then both fire together, close in, and board.”
“We’ll do that afterwards,” cried the overseer, discharging his piece and rapidly reloading as the boat glided on till it was only about twenty yards away, and, in spite of a fierce threat or two, the repugnance to shed blood and the natural desire not to fight against the law had kept Abel and Bart from returning the fire.
Their case seemed hopeless now, unless in the struggle to come they repelled the boarders, for the wind which dotted the sea a hundred yards away with ripples refused to kiss their sail, and in another minute the overseer and his party would have been alongside, when, just as he covered Jack’s arm, which could be seen lying upon the tiller, and when a shot at such short range would have been almost as bad as one from a bullet, there was a puff of smoke, a sharp report, and the overseer started up in the boat, dropped his fowling-piece, which fell into the sea with a splash, and then, before the officer could save him, he pitched head foremost over the side.
“Look at that now,” said Dinny, who had risen into a sitting position on the deck, with his musket across his lap.
“Yes; you’ve done it now, Dinny Kelly,” said the sailor, gruffly. “Desarted from the station, and shot the superintendent.”
“Sorra a bit,” said Dinny, as the wind suddenly struck the cutter, which heeled over and began to forge rapidly through the water. “Sorra a bit, man. It was this awkward baste of a mushket. I just closed my finger for a moment on the thrigger, and whoo! off she went, kicking up her heels like a nigger’s mule. D’yer think the overseer’s hurt?”
“I think you’ve killed him.”
“Not I, bedad. It was me mushket,” said Dinny. “Divil a bit will I have any more to do wid it. I’ll have another with a thrigger which isn’t wake.”
“You’ve saved us, Dinny,” said Jack, excitedly, as the boat was being left far behind.
“Not I, my lad. Shure, it’s between the wind and this worn-out old mushket. It’s a baste of a thing. Why, it moight have killed the poor man. I say, lad; d’yer think he’s much hurt?”
“A broken arm, that’s all, Dinny,” said Jack, smiling.
“Ah, well!” said Dinny, reloading the piece; “that’ll do him good, and give the poor divils at the plantation a bit of a rest.”
He paused in the act of reloading, drew the charge with a dry look upon his countenance, and laid the musket down upon the deck.
“No, thank ye,” he said, shaking his head at the piece. “It’s a murdhering baste ye are, and ye’ll be getting some poor fellow into throuble wan of these days. Don’t you think so, Dick?”
The prisoner screwed up his countenance, and then relaxed it as he looked hard at Dinny.
“Well, it’s pretty nigh a hanging matter for you, Dinny,” he said.
“What! for an accident, man?”
“Accident! you’ve gone and committed a rank act of piracy! But, I say, what’ll they do with me?”
“Hang ye, I should say,” replied Dinny, with a droll look in his eye. “Hang ye as soon as they’ve got toime to think about ye; or no: maybe they’ll save themselves the throuble, and hand ye over to thim ruffians there.”
He pointed over the side, and the sailor gave a start and changed colour as he caught sight of the back-fins of a couple of huge sharks gliding along through the water a little way astern.
“Oh, they’re a bad lot with their prisoners, Dick. Look at me.”
“But what are they going to do?” said the sailor, eagerly. “They can’t put in anywhere, and as soon as this day’s work’s known, they’ll have a man-o’-war sent after ’em.”
“Sorra a wan o’ me knows,” said Dinny; “but it’s moighty plisant out here. I’m toired o’ pipe-claying me belts and marching and being senthry, and they may make me prishner as long as they like.”
“You didn’t half-kill one of them, and they don’t bear malice against you,” said the sailor, thoughtfully.
“An’ is it malice? Why, didn’t I thry to run wan of ’em through wid me bagnet, and attimpt to shoot the other! Malice! I belave they liked it, for we’ve been the best o’ friends iver since. Here, Bart, me lad; Dick here wants to shake hands with yez.”
“I don’t,” said the sailor, sternly; but as Bart came from where he had been taking a pull at one of the ropes, smiling and open-handed, Dick’s face relaxed.
“That was a pretty good wrastle,” said Bart, running his eye approvingly over the physique of his late opponent, and gripping Dick’s hand heartily; “but I got the best of you.”
Dick did not answer, but he returned the grip, and Bart went aft directly to relieve Jack at the tiller, while the darkness came on rapidly, and with it the breeze increased in force till the cutter careened over and rapidly left the island behind.
“Well, Dennis Kelly,” said the sailor, as they sat together on board later, with the stars gathering overhead, and faint sounds wafted to them from time to time as they glided rapidly along a few miles from land, “you can only make one thing of it, my boy, and that’s piracy; and piracy’s yard-arm, and a swing at the end of the rope.”
“Ah! get along wid ye,” said Dinny, contemptuously, “and don’t call things by bad names. They’re three very plisant fellows, and they’ve borried the boat and taken us prishners to help them in the cruise; or, if ye like it better, we’re pressed men.”
“But what are they going to do next?”
“Divil a bit do I know, and the divil a bit do I care. I’ve no belts to pipe-clay, and you’ve no deck to holy-stone. What there is to ate they share wid ye, and they take their turn at the watch. Sure, it’s a gintleman’s life, and what more would ye have?”
“But it’s piracy – rank piracy!” said Dick, stubbornly; “and I want to know what we’re going to do next.”
“Well, thin, I’ll tell ye,” said Dinny; “but it’s a saycret, moind.”
“Well, what?”
“It’s a saycret, moind,” said Dinny, “and ye won’t tell?”
“Tell! Who is there to tell here?”
“Nobody yet; but ye’ll keep the saycret?”
“Yes,” said Dick, earnestly. “What are they going to do?”
“Didn’t I say I’d tell ye,” said Dinny, “as soon as I know?”
“Yah!” snarled Dick.
“Well,” cried Dinny, “how can I tell ye till I know? Why, it’s my belief, Dick, me lad, that they don’t know themselves.”
“Where do you mean to go, Abel?” said Jack at last.
“Go, my lass – my lad!” he said, correcting himself. “Anywhere. We can’t touch port, but we’ve got a tidy little vessel, not too big to manage, and we must sail somewhere to be safe.”
“Well, I don’t care,” came from forward, as Dick raised his voice in stubborn reiteration with Dinny. “I says it’s piracy, and if they’re ketched, they’ll all be hanged.”
A dead silence fell upon the little group, and at last it was Bart who spoke, as if to himself.
“If you helps yourself to a bit o’ anything that comes ashore, they says it’s wrecking; and if you want a drop o’ brandy or a bit o’ lace from a furrin boat, it’s smuggling; and now, if a man wants to get away, and fights for his liberty, he’s a pirate.”
“For seizing a vessel, Bart,” said Jack.
“Yes, lad, I know. Well, they may call me what they like. Here we are, and we’ve got to live.”
“Where d’ye think they’ll sail?” said Dick again, raising his voice, but in ignorance that the words could reach the group by the tiller.
“Where shall we sail?” said Jack, who was steering. “I don’t know, for all before us seems black; but I’ve saved my brother and his true old friend, so let fate guide us: the world is very wide.”
“Yes, Dinny, I don’t mind for a change; but it’s piracy, and I hope as we sha’n’t all be hung.”
“The same to you,” said Dinny, giving the sailor’s shoulder a sounding slap.
“Piracy!” said Jack, softly, as the boat glided on. “Well, it was not our choice, and, at all events, we’re free.”
Chapter Sixteen
After a Lapse
“Then we’ll die for it, Bart,” said Jack, fiercely.
“If so be as you says die for it now, or to-morrow, or next day, or next week, die it is, my lad,” said Bart, despondently; “but luck’s agen us, and we’re beat. Why not give up?”
“Give up?” cried Jack, whose appearance was somewhat altered by his two years of hard sea-life in the tropics since the night when the cutter sailed away into the darkness of what seemed to be their future. “Give up?”
“Yes; and back out of it all. Why not take passage somewhere, not as Jack, Commodore Junk’s brother, but as bonny Mary Dell o’ Devonshire, going back home along o’ Bart Wrigley, as is Bartholomew by rights?”
“Well?” said Jack, sternly.
“Don’t look black at me, my lad. I’m tired o’ boarding ships and sending people adrift.”
“Growing afraid, Bart?”
“Yes, my lad; but not for Bart Wrigley. For someone else.”
“You are preaching to-night, Bart.”
“Maybe, my lad, for it’s solemn times; and something keeps a-saying to me: ‘Don’t run no more risks! There’s old Devon a-waiting for you, and there’s the old cottage and the bay, and you’ve got the money to buy a decent lugger, and there’s plenty o’ fish in the sea.’”
“Go, on,” said Jack, mockingly.
“Ay, lad, I will,” said Bart. “And you might settle down there, and live happy with a man there to wait on you and be your sarvent – ay, your dog if you liked; and some day, if you thought better of it, and was ready to say, ‘Bart, my lad, you’ve been a true chap to me, and I know as you’ve loved me ever since you was a boy, so now I’ll be your wife,’ why, then – ”
Bart stopped with his lips apart, gazing wonderingly at the angry countenance before him.
“You madman! What are you saying?” was hissed into his ears. “Mary Dell died when she left her home, driven away by man’s tyranny – when she sought out her brother and his friend, to find them working like slaves in that plantation. It was John Dell who became your companion: Mary Dell’s dead.”
“No,” said Bart, speaking softly and with a homely pathos, full of a poetical sentiment that could not have been expected from his rough exterior as he sat on the deck of a long, low, heavily-sparred schooner. “No, my lad, Mary Dell isn’t dead. She’s hidden here in my breast, where I can look inwards and see the bonny lass with the dark eyes and long black hair as I knowed I loved as soon as I knowed what love meant, and as long as I’ve that lass will never die.”
“Hush, Bart, old friend!” said Jack, softly. “Let her live, then, there; but to me she is dead, and I live to think of her persecutions, and how for two years man has pursued us with his bitter hatred, and hunted us down as if we were savage beasts.”
“Ay,” said Bart, softly; “but isn’t it time to take the other road, and get away?”
“No,” said Jack, fiercely. “Bart, old friend – you are my friend.”
“Friend!” said Bart, in a reproachful tone.
“Yes. I know you are; but once more, if you value my friendship, never speak to me again as you have spoken now.”
“You’re captain, my lad. I’ll do what you like.”
“I know you will. Well, then, do you think I can forgive the treatment we have received? It has been a dog’s life, I tell you – the life of a savage dog.”
“Ay, but we’ve bit pretty sharp sometimes,” said Bart, smiling. “See how we’ve growed, too. First it was the bit of a canoe thing as you came in up the creek.”
Jack nodded.
“Then we took the cutter.”
“Yes, Bart.”
“And with that cutter we took first one ship, and then with that another, always masters, and getting, bit by bit, stout, staunch men.”
“And savages,” said Jack, bitterly.
“Well, yes, some on ’em is savage like, specially Mazzard.”
“Black Mazzard is a ruffianly wretch!”
“True, lad; but we’ve gone on and got better and stronger, till we have under our feet the swiftest schooner as swims the sea, and Commodore Junk’s name’s known all along the coast.”
“And hated, and a price set upon his head; and now that he is a prisoner his people turn against him, and his most faithful follower wants to go and leave him in the lurch.”
“Nay, don’t say that, my lad,” cried Bart. “We was overmatched, and he was took.”
“Yes, by his men’s cowardice.”
“Nay; you’re cross, my lad,” said Bart, unconsciously raising one arm and drawing back the sleeve to readjust a bandage. “Month to-night and the deck was running into the scuppers with blood, half the lads was killed, and t’other half all got a wound. We was obliged to sheer off.”
“Yes, you coward! you left your captain to his fate.”
“But I saved the captain’s – brother,” said Bart, slowly, “or he’d have been shut up in prison along with poor Abel now.”
“Better so,” said the other, fiercely; “and then there’d be an end of a persecuted life.”
“Better as it is,” said Bart, quietly; “but I did save you.”
“Bart, old lad, don’t take any notice of what I say,” whispered Jack.
“I don’t, lad, when you’re put out. I never do.”
“Don’t speak to me like that. It maddens me more.”
“No, it don’t, lad. It’s only me speaking, and you may hammer me with words all night if it does you good. I don’t mind, I’m only Bart.”
“My true old friend,” whispered the other, quickly; “but it’s time they were back.”
“Nay, not yet,” said Bart, as the other stood gazing over the side of the schooner toward where a long, low bank of mist seemed to shut out everything beyond.
“They’ve been gone two hours, and it’s now four bells.”
“Ay, and it’ll be six bells before they get back, and it’s a long way to row. Do you mean to try it, then?”
“Try it? Yes, if I die in the attempt. Did I hesitate when you two were on the plantation, and I was alone and – a boy?”
“Not you,” said Bart.
“Then, do you think I shall hesitate now that I have a ship and followers to back me up?”
Bart shook his head.
“Abel must be saved; and the men agree.”
“Ay; they say they’ll have the skipper out of the prison or they’ll die first.”
“Brave fellows!” cried Jack, enthusiastically.
“But I don’t see how a schooner’s to attack forts and cannon and stone walls. My lad, it can’t be done.”
“It shall be done!” cried Jack. “How’s Dinny?”
“Bit weak still; but he says he can fight, and he shall go.”
“Brave, true-hearted fellow! And Dick?”
“Says he shall be well enough to go; but he won’t – he’s weak as a rat.”
Jack drew a deep breath, and a fiercely vindictive look flashed from the dark eyes which glared at Bart.
“They shall suffer for all this. Abel will pay them their due.”
“Ay,” said Bart; and then to himself – “when he gets away.”
“It was a cruel, cowardly fight – four to one.”
“He would attack,” said Bart, heavily. “He’d had such luck that he wouldn’t believe he could be beat.”
“He was right,” said the other, fiercely. “He is not beaten, for we will fetch him out, and he shall pay them bitterly for all this.”
The speaker strode forward, and went below into the cabin, while Bart drew his breath hard as he rose from where he had been seated and limped, slightly bending down once to press his leg where a severe flesh-wound was received on the night of the engagement when Abel Dell – whose name had begun to be well-known for freebooting enterprise as Commodore Junk – had been taken prisoner.
Bart walked to the forecastle, where, on descending, he found Dinny and Dick Dullock playing cards, the life they had led with their three companions being one to which they had settled down without a hint of change.
“Well!” asked Dinny, looking up from his dirty cards; “what does he say?”
Dick the sailor gazed inquiringly at both in turn.
“Says he shall fetch the captain out.”
Dinny whistled.
“And what does Black Mazzard say?” asked Dick.
“Don’t know. Hasn’t been asked.”
“Look here,” said Dick, in a low voice. “There’s going to be trouble over this. Black Mazzard’s captain now, he says, and he’s got to be asked. He was down here swearing about that boat being sent off, and he’s been drunk and savage ever since.”
“Hist! What’s that?” said Dinny, starting up, and then catching at Bart’s shoulder to save himself from falling. “Head swims,” he said, apologetically.
“Ay, you’re weak, lad,” said Bart, helping him back to his seat. “Why, the boat’s back!”
He hurried on deck, to find a boat alongside, out of which four men climbed on deck, while Jack Dell, who had just heard the hail, came hurrying up.
“Well?” he said. “What news?”
The one spoken to turned away and did not answer.
“Do you hear?” cried Jack, catching him by the shoulder as a heavy-looking man came on deck, lurched slightly, recovered himself, and then walked fiercely and steadily up to the group.
“Bad news, captain,” said another of the men, who had just come aboard.
“Bad – news?” said Jack, heavily.
“Bad news of the Commodore!” said the heavy-looking fellow, who was now swaying himself to and fro, evidently drunk in body but sober in mind.
“Yes,” said the man who had first spoken, “bad news.”
“Tell me,” cried Jack, hoarsely, as he pressed forward to gaze full in the speaker’s face, “what is it? They have not sent him away?”
The man was silent; and as the rest of the crew, attracted by the return of the boat, clustered round, Jack reeled.
“Stand by, my lad,” whispered Bart at his ear. “Don’t forget.”
The words seemed to give nerve to the sturdy, broad-shouldered young man, who spoke hoarsely.
“Tried and condemned,” he said, in a hoarse, strange voice.
“They’ve hung him – ”
“What!”
“In chains on a gibbet.”
A hoarse, guttural sound escaped from Jack’s throat as he clung tightly to Bart’s arm.
“The gibbet’s on the low point by the mangrove swamp,” said the man. “They’ve cut down two palms about a dozen feet and nailed another across, and the captain’s swinging there.”
“A lie!” yelled Jack; “not my brother!”
There was a dead pause of utter silence for a few moments, and then the man said slowly:
“Yes, we all saw it and made sure;” and a murmur of acquiescence arose from his three companions, who had been in the boat in search of far different information to that which they had brought.
“But not my brother?” groaned Jack.
“Yes,” said the man. “It was Commodore Junk.”
As a dead silence once more fell upon the poop, the dark, heavy-looking man stood swaying to and fro for a few minutes, gazing down at Jack, who had dropped into a sitting position upon a water-keg, his arms resting upon his knees, his hands hanging, and his head drooped; while Bart stood by his shoulder with his face wrinkled and a pained expression upon his brow, just illumined by the bright glint of the stars.
The heavy man nodded and seemed about to speak, but remained silent for a time. Then patting Jack on the shoulder:
“Brave lad! Good captain! For time of war!” he said. “But never mind, my lads. We’ll pay them for it, yet.”
He lurched slightly and walked slowly toward the captain’s cabin, unnoticed by Jack and Bart; but Dinny’s eyes were sharp enough to read what all this meant, and he turned to his comrade Dick.
“Look at that, now!” he whispered.
“Ay, I was looking. What does it mean?”
“Mane!” said Dinny, scornfully. “It manes that Black Mazzard thinks he’s captain now.”
“Then if the throat-cutting scoundrel is, I’m off first chance.”
“An’ I’m wid ye,” said Dinny, earnestly. “I’ll go and lade a virtuous life.”
“And leave the skipper’s brother and Bart?”
Dinny pulled off his cap and rubbed his head viciously.
“Now, why did ye want to go and say that?” he cried. “Iverything was as aisy as could be, and you go and upset it all.”
“Poor Abel!” said Jack at last, softly.
“Ay, poor old Abel!” said Bart, with a groan.
“You here?” said Jack, starting up and catching the rough fellow by the arm.
“Here? – ay!” growled Bart, slowly. “Where did you think I was, lad?”
“I didn’t think, Bart, or I shouldn’t have said that,” cried Jack, earnestly. “Where would you be but at my elbow if I was in trouble, ready to be of help?”
“Ay, but there’s no helping you here, lad,” said Bart with a groan.
“No helping me! But you can, Bart. Do you wonder that I hate the world? – that I see it all as one crowd of enemies fighting against me and trying to crush me down? Not help me! Oh, but you shall! My poor brother! They shall pay heavily for this!”
“What’ll you do, lad?” said Bart, despondently.
“Do!” cried Jack, with a savage laugh – “do what poor Abel always hung back from doing, and stopped Black Mazzard from many a time. I don’t read my Bible now, Bart; but doesn’t it say that there shall be blood for blood; and my poor brother’s cries aloud for vengeance, as they shall see!”
“No, no, my lad,” whispered Bart, hoarsely; “let it stop here. It seems to me as if something said: ‘This here’s the end on it. Now get her to go back home.’”
“Home!” said Jack, with a fierce laugh. “Where is home?”
“Yonder,” said Bart, stolidly.
“No! Here – at sea. Bart, there is no other home for me; no other hope but to have revenge!”
“Revenge, lad?”
“Ay, a bitter, cruel revenge. I could have been different. I was once full of love and hope before I knew what the world was like, but that’s all past and dead – yes, dead; and the dead yonder is looking toward me and asking me to remember what we have suffered.”
“But think.”
“Think, Bart? I have thought till my brain has seemed to burn; and everything points to revenge, and revenge I’ll have!”
“It’s the end of it all now,” said Bart, solemnly. “Let’s go back.”
“The way is open, Bart Wrigley. I have no hold upon you, and I can work alone. Go!”
“You wouldn’t talk like that,” said Bart, huskily, “if you was cool.”
“What do you mean, man?”
“’Bout me going,” said Bart, in a low, husky voice. “There’s only one way for me, and that’s where you go, lad. It allus has been, and it allus will be till I’m took. What are you going to do?”
The question was asked in a quick, decisive way, very different to the despondent air that had pervaded his words before, and the manner was so marked that Jack laid his hands on his companion’s shoulders.
“It’s my fate to be always saying bitter things to you, Bart, and wounding you.”
“Never mind about that,” said Bart, huskily. “Long as I’m the one as you trusts, that’s enough for me. What are you going to do next?”
There was no answer for a few minutes, and then the words whispered were very short and decisive.
“And let ’em think it’s scared us, and we’ve gone right away?” said Bart.
“Yes.”
Bart gave a short, quick nod of the head, walked sharply to the forecastle and yelled to the men to tumble up. The result was that in a very short time sail after sail was spread till a dusky cloud seemed to hover over the deck of the schooner, which heeled over in the light breeze and began skimming as lightly as a yacht eastward, as if to leave the scene of the Commodore’s execution far behind.