The Black Bar Part 36

"You're right, sir. Sooner we're out at sea the better I shall like it."

"Exactly. I want the men to go below and have a good rest. Poor lads!

they have been slaves."

"To save slaves, sir; but beg pardon, sir; you won' be offended?"

"Offended? No, Tom Fillot; you've been too good a friend," cried the mids.h.i.+pman, eagerly. "What were you going to say?"

"Only this, sir. What we're most feared of is the Yankee skipper coming back!"

"Of course."

"Then why not strengthen the watch, sir?"

"How? I wish I could."

"Oh, I'll soon show you how, sir. You get Soup and Taters, and make 'em understand what you want, and it will be all right."

"But what do I want, Tom?"

"I'll show you, sir, and I think you can make 'em understand. Tell 'em to pick out half-a-dozen of the strongest young blacks, and we'll give 'em a cutlash and a belt apiece, and set 'em to keep guard by the schooner's side."

"But would it be safe, Tom?" cried Mark eagerly.

"Not very, sir, for the skipper and his men. Soup'll explain it to 'em, and once they know, you see if they don't do all that dooty splendid, and leave us free to navigate the schooner."

"Navigate the schooner, Tom?" said Mark, rather dolefully, as he thought of his shortcomings in that direction.

"Oh, it'll be easy enough, sir. All we've got to do is to sail doo north and hug the sh.o.r.e. We can't go wrong."

Soup and Taters were summoned, and grasped the idea readily enough, with the result that in a very short time they had under their command six of the blacks keeping watch and ward against surprise, leaving the weary crew opportunity for getting up the anchor when the tide turned. Then a sail was hoisted for steering purposes, and the men gave a hearty cheer as they began to drop down the river with their prize.

"Lor', mates!" said d.i.c.k Bannock, "who'd ha' thought of our getting of her after all. Shows as it never does to say die. 'Persewere,' says you, 'and never mind the difficoolties.' What yer larfin' for, Tom Fillot? Don't I say what's true?"

"I warn't laughing at you, messmate, but at the n.i.g.g.e.rs keeping watch."

"Ay, they do look rum," said d.i.c.k, smiling; "but they do splendid. Seem proud o' their uniform too, eh?"

"Yes," said Joe Dance, who was leaning his back against the bulwark, "but you might give 'em a bit of something else to put on."

"Well, yes, I might--a sword-belt ain't much for a man to wear, and his legs would be very thin to get 'em hid behind a scabbard. But we shall see, my lad, we shall see."

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

A STRANGE AWAKENING.

"What's a wonder to me, sir," said Tom Fillot, respectfully, "is as no one seems to have been killed."

"But we don't know that," said Mark, sharply. "Tired as I was when I lay down last night, I couldn't sleep for thinking of those men. Do you think they could reach the sh.o.r.e?"

"Reach the sh.o.r.e, sir! Why not? What was to prevent 'em?"

"Some of them were half-stunned when they were dashed overboard."

"Then the water would make 'em come to, sir, and freshen 'em up. Don't you wherrit yourself about that, sir. I saw 'em all swimming for the bank, and they'd get there before the crocks woke up to try for 'em."

"Crocodiles?"

"Oh yes, sir, I should think there'd be plenty of them in the river: sure to be in a hot country like this."

"I wish I could feel sure they were safe."

Tom Fillot's look at the young officer was a mingling of admiration and contempt.

"It's very nyste of you, sir, to think so much about the enemies as nearly killed our Mr Russell, I didn't think nothing o' them. I was hard at it about our poor chaps as has been knocked about, and the way they bear it all without hollering is, I says, sir, a credit to a Englishman, let alone a Scotchman such as d.i.c.k Bannock is. As I says afore, it's wonderful as none of us was killed, being whacked over the head as we was, 'sides being nigh drownded."

"It was wonderful, Tom, and if only poor Mr Russell would come round, I should be as happy as could be. But he doesn't show a sign of recovery."

"No, sir, he don't, but there's the t'other side o' the book in keeping account like--he don't show no sign o' getting worse and dying. You know what's the matter with him, o' course?"

"Matter?" said Mark, looking at the man wonderingly, as the schooner glided along, a mile away from the coast, the evening after their struggle in the river. "Of course I do. He was beaten about the head worse than any of us."

"'Zactly, sir; but did you examine on him?"

"Yes, and retied the bandage about his head."

"That's good, sir; but you didn't find out quite what was the matter."

"I thought I knew enough."

"Yes, sir, but I did examine him when you sent me below to see how he was, and I found out."

"What?" cried Mark, eagerly.

"Well, sir, he's got the same as an old messmate o' mine had in my last s.h.i.+p--the _Foogoose_."

"The what?"

"_Foogoose_, sir."

"Oh, the _Fougueux_."

"That's her, sir. Well, we was up aloft shortening sail on a rough day, and Micky missed the stirrup just as the s.h.i.+p give a regular pitch.

'I'm off, Tommy,' he shouts, and down he went head fust on to the yard below, and then Snoots off on to one of the stays, and from there on to the deck, where every one thought he was killed. But he warn't, only onsensible because his skull was dinted in, and the doctor said it rested on his brain; and that's what's the matter with our lufftenant, for I felt his head."

"And did the man die?" cried Mark.