This is not quite correct. There were no lanterns, but a full moon, that one could have seen to read the smallest type by.
The graves were dug deeply, near the edge of the sea, during a receding tide, and there they were laid to rest for ever and for aye.
Miss Leona was there, and while around the open graves Antonio and his men stood with bared heads, she read the beautiful service of the English Church for the dead.
Nay, nay, not dead, we trust, but gone before. For Christians, though of the simplest kind, were these poor fellows—just children grown up. That was all. But Christ our risen Lord loved children, and He loves all who are innocent, even should ignorance be combined with that innocence.
And now the graves are speedily covered in. When the tide returns it will efface all tell-tale marks, and the last resting-place of those brave fellows, who died in defence of their native island, will never be known.
. . . . . .
“Why, sir,” said Davie Drake suddenly to Captain Antonio, “I——”
“Well, dearie?”
“Do you know what we’ve done?”
“We’ve done so much that I hardly know what you refer to.”
“We have in our excitement forgotten all about poor Johnnie Smart!”
“Dear! dear!” said Antonio; and a search-party was instantly organised.
They found him at last under a banana tree, and at first they believed him dead.
He was still tied fast to the bamboo, but was only sleeping the sleep of exhaustion.
They undid the cords from his cut and swollen limbs, and some of the men wrapped their jackets round him, and quickly bore him to the beach.
It was not until some time after he had been taken on board, and placed in a warm bunk, that Johnnie recovered consciousness.
He sat partially up, supported by Antonio himself. Evidently he was only half awake.
“I say, you know—why—which I—what, you, Captain Antonio? Ha, ha, ha.
“Why, captain, I did have the drollest dream. I thought"—then his big mouth expanded in a broad smile, his eyes as usual sunk out of sight behind his fat cheeks, he bent back his head and exploded in a hearty laugh.
Antonio held a glass to his mouth, and he drank feverishly.
“Which I’ll tell you the dream to-morrow, captain,” he said; and sinking back on the pillow, he was soon fast asleep once more.
He was better and almost well when he awoke next forenoon; and scarcely could he be convinced for a time that his terrible adventure of the day before was not all a dream. But the reality came home to him at last, and he shuddered to think of the narrow escape he had had; then quickly recovering himself, laughed in the same old way, for nothing could alter Johnnie.
“Which there may be some nice pickin’s on me,” he told Davie Drake, “’cause I’m exstronar’ plump and beefy, ye know. But, lo! I don’t want to be trussed and eaten by they devils, you bet. ’Sides,” he added solemnly, “I’ve got a mother, and a granny, and a little sister; and, lo! Mr. Drake, if they were to hear o’ my bein’ cooked like a Christmas goose, widn’t they just—
. . . . . .
The wounded, including Barclay, did well. They were all on board ship. Awnings were spread for them fore and aft, and under these hammocks were hung; and no doubt it was the delightful and ozonic breath of the blue sea that helped to restore them and heal their wounds.
Antonio was the surgeon, but Leona was dresser and nurse; and poor little Teenie was busy enough also as a helper.
But every minute she could spare she spent by the couch-side of Barclay Stuart. His wound was more severe than had at first been dreamt of, for the spear appeared to have been poisoned.
Convalescence came at last, however—dreamy, sleepy, but happy convalescence.
Teenie, while nursing Barclay, seemed to be a changed being—child no longer, but an earnest, sympathising, loving wee woman. He wanted for nothing. Sometimes he would stretch out a hand to her, and she would hold it, and nurse it till he dropped gently off to sleep. She even had a muslin veil to throw over his cot and face, to guard him from the venomous mosquitoes.
When awake, Teenie would sit by his cot and read to him just the stories that she herself delighted in—sea tales such as “Tom Cringle’s Log,” and others from the writings of Russell, and Captain Marryat. For a whole month she never left the ship; but she waxed neither white nor ill. The monkeys were her constant companions. As for poor pussy, she never left her master’s cot, except to take food and a little run on deck.
Teenie was filled with joy when Barclay Stuart was at last able to get up and take exercise on the quarter-deck. He leant on the arm of his friend—his brother, I might almost say—Davie Drake. Teenie took his other arm; and pussy, looking very demure, brought up the rear.
In six weeks’ time all was well; every wounded man had recovered afloat and ashore, and everything was quiet in this lovely island paradise.
One month more and the Zingara would set sail once again, and steer westward through the Pacific isles, visiting many of them, round the Cape of Good Hope, and so northward along the west coast of Africa, back to Merrie England—that was their intention.
I must here repeat, however, that there is nothing certain at sea—except the unexpected.
When Leona, in her quiet and earnest way, undertook—very many months ago—the terrible task of converting this cannibal island to Christianity, she often trembled to think that when she was no longer among the poor creatures, they might revert to their old savage customs and manners.
She prayed for strength and for hope.
Both came. Early one morning, even before she had left her cot, a suggestion appeared to come floating across her mind, and she determined to act upon it at once.
There were several reverend old men among the islanders, who had always been looked up to by their juniors and inferiors. They had been seers, in a manner of speaking—seers and fetishmen. But they had, under the ministry of Leona, abandoned all pretensions of being seers, and cast the fetish behind them.
These men were voluble speakers. Why not teach them specially, and train them to preach? She carried out the idea, and elected Wooma, the most earnest and eloquent of them, to be pastor of the island; the others would also preach occasionally, but in other respects they would be elders of the Palm-Leaf Church.
The plan succeeded beyond her utmost expectations.
Antonio made Wooma a present of a little harmonium that he had on board, and taught an elder to lead the music, while a choir of black boys and girls took up the singing.
Leona now felt assured that the good seed sown, and which had taken root so speedily and so firmly, would spring up and nourish like a green bay-tree. He who rules on earth and in heaven, she told herself, would not permit that tree to wither and perish.
. . . . . .
In another month’s time the Zingara was being got ready for sea once again.
Her cargo was not a heavy one, but it was very valuable; and as they passed through that mist of islands which dot the Pacific Ocean almost from the western coast of South America to the far Philippine Isles and the rugged shores of Borneo, they would have ample opportunity of adding to their cargo.
Farewell! Ah, what sadness breathes in that one wee word. It is one that in print should be put in the faintest type; and when spoken it should be but breathed or whispered.
Says the Anglo-Scottish poet Byron—
. . . . . .
Not so, poet of my earliest years! For if we meet no more here below, may we not hope to meet again in another and better world than this? Then why “despair”?
Leona’s parting with her congregation, and her last sermon, were quite affecting. Strange how the religion of Christ can soften the heart of even the savage.
There was not a dry eye in all that little church, as they crowded round her to touch her hand before she departed. Hardly, indeed, could they prevail upon themselves to let her depart.
Just before Leona’s boat rounded a wooded cape in the lagoon, and would be seen no more by those she was leaving, she looked back. They were still all there—disconsolate, dreary.
She stood up in the boat, and waved her handkerchief.
It was a wet one.
Hitherto she had borne up well; but now, woman-like, she sank down in the stern-sheets of the boat, and burst into tears.
Teenie got on to her lap, and with her arms around Leona’s neck did all a child could do to comfort and cheer her.
But the ship’s anchor was now up, her sails filled, and she was soon far away at sea, with the island looking once more like a green cloud afloat in the sky. Then Leona’s heart grew calmer.
. . . . . .
Captain Antonio had taken away with him four sturdy natives, simply because they had expressed a desire to see Britain and Britain’s kindly Queen.
He soon had them dressed in European fashion, in jackets and trousers of duck; a costume all in white, that made them look darker in skin than they really were.
They became fairly good sailors in time, however, and were most obedient to command.
Very great friends of Teenie’s did those white-jacketed, converted savages become. Like most girl children who have been born and bred in the country, Teenie was fond of horses. So she would put a bit in the mouth of one, with long ribbons as a bridle, and mounting on the neck of the other, who represented the dog-cart, crack her little whip, and drive madly round and round the decks, till even those sturdy natives themselves would confess to feeling tired.
What a long long voyage was before those mariners! Twenty thousand miles and over. Can you conceive of such a distance, reader?
Yet, on the whole, they were lucky, and had favouring breezes.
They visited many little fairy isles, but only when the natives were friendly, and brought fruit and fish to barter for beads and gaily-coloured cotton cloth.
As this cloth can be bought in England for about twopence a yard, it is an excellent thing to barter with; and glass beads are certainly cheap enough.
Some of the islands on which they landed—I really forget their names—were large and mountainous, and inhabited by peace-loving natives, who made them heartily welcome—islands of romance; islands of dell and dingle, adown which rivulets, with water clear as crystal, ran singing to the sea.
The hills or mountains on these islands were often wooded to the very top, but from betwixt the tall tree stems, our two young heroes, with Teenie and Johnnie Smart, could catch glimpses of the distant sea, than which no ocean in all the world can look brighter or bluer—islands of woods, but islands of wild flowers as well, that carpeted all the earth, and covered and clung to the trees, embracing and beautifying everything.
Islands too of bright-winged birds, and of splendidly Nature-painted butterflies, that, as they floated in the sunshine, looked like animated fans.
Four-winged dragon-flies often went whirring past. These were of very large dimensions, and shining in crimson, blue, or gold.
In little pools or tiny backwaters by the river, it was a treat for the boys, and for Teenie most of all, to see one or two great butterflies, with wings as broad as an envelope, alight and wade gingerly into the water to bathe their bodies and legs, and even their eyes and heads. But they folded their wings during the bath—it would not suit their purpose to wet these.
And here, too, were kingfishers of such lovely colours that it would be worth a naturalist’s while to come and study there, although he should have to live in the islands for months.
Nothing did our heroes find either that could hurt, apart from the ever busy ever bloodthirsty mosquito, or some jet-black wasps that made their nests or paper hives on the lime-trees.
Re the mosquito, although it may be a digression—and you are at liberty therefore to skip it—I would like to tell my readers something curious. The same holds good, you will understand, about the mosquito’s second cousin, the gnat, who dwells in Merrie England, and sucks our blood by night.
Well then, first and foremost, it is only the lady-mosquito who bites and bleeds us; the gentleman mosquito is quiet and social. After she has filled herself with blood, she seeks out some quiet spot near to a pool of stagnant water. There she meditates on things in general for five or six days. Then off she flies, and alighting gently on the water, lays her eggs, and—drops down dead. After floating about a few days, the eggs give birth to tiny swimming larvæ. These swim about and grow fast, frequently casting their skins to allow of expansion.
Later on they pass into the nympha stage, and soon float on the top of the water. After a time, the shell or little coffin cracks along the top, and out comes a pure white mosquito. He stands on his empty shell till he photographs down to his proper colour, and his wings get dry and rigid. Then away he flies, with all the sunny world before him. I don’t respect the mosquito, and the larva for its size is a perfect tiger, eating everything it can come across, if soft enough—even the dead body of its late mother is devoured, so that these wild islands of the Pacific contain not only cannibal men, but cannibal mosquitoes.
But limes were not the only fruit on those charming isles. There were oranges, plantains, and bananas, the luscious and flesh-like pomolo, the pine-apple, the ubiquitous cocoa-nut and guavas, that tasted like strawberries smothered in cream.
The Zingara took in thousands of cocoa-nuts, also cassava-root, and many boxes of arrowroot, besides gum-copal, and nutmegs and spices.
. . . . . .
Fain would they have landed at Borneo; but some kind of internecine war was going on there, and Antonio had no desire to be mixed up therein. So on he went past Singapore, far to the north, through the Straits of Sunda, ’twixt Sumatra and Java, and in a few weeks’ time they found themselves far away on the blue bosom of the Indian Ocean, sailing west and by south, and bearing up for the heath-clad hills that stand sentry over Capetown.
“I tell you what it is, Petersen, you’re a muff and a coward, and I guess that is pretty plain English. What say you, maties?”
There were nine of them in all, and they sat or lay on the grass, half-way up a beautiful mountain side that overlooks picturesque little Jamestown, the capital of this lovely isle of the sea—St. Helena—on which, in his lonely mansion at Longwood, Napoleon Bonaparte breathed his last.
Yes, yonder is the town, with its snow-white houses straggling up the bonnie glen; just beyond is the harbour or roadstead, in which, slowly moving to the heave of the swell, are many ships from many nations. A saucy British cruiser is there at anchor, her white ensign streaming gaily out against the background of water. Yonder is a German, and farther off the Stars and Stripes of a bold Yankee merchantman, and at least a dozen others, with dark boats passing to and fro the shore, the men singing as they bend to their work, the water dripping from their oars, and sparkling like precious stones in the sunshine.
Beyond is the blue, blue sea itself, patched here and there with the shadows of fleecy clouds, that float in the azure sky.
All around the glade, where the men of the Zingara are holding their meeting, the tall cactuses are growing, with flowers of scarlet and carmine.
The songs of the boatmen are borne up the hill, with the buzz and murmur of the streets; but so faint and low that they sound like a gentle lullaby, to which the boom of the waves that break on the black rocks or beach forms a strange and dreamy bass.
Such sights, such sounds, on so sunny a day as this, might well be supposed to lull the fiercest passions that ever dwelt in human breast. In this case the poetry and romance of sea and shore are lost on the men here assembled.
Alas! it cannot conquer the lust and fiendish greed of gold that inspire this meeting.
Petersen sprang to his feet.
“Elman,” he cried, “stand up and repeat those words; stand up like a man, and we’ll soon see who is the coward and the muff.”
But a Finn held up his hand.
He seemed to be the leader and chairman of this mutinous assembly.
“Boys,” he cried, “there shall be no fighting, no disputes. We must hold together through thick and thin; to quarrel means to fail. Now,” he added, “I’m a plain-spoken man. Elman, you’ve got to apologise to good Petersen"—the Finn produced a pistol as he spoke. “You’ve got to apologise, or we can soon arrange for you to sleep beneath the cactus.”
Elman advanced, and shook hands with Petersen, who grasped his manfully.
Then pipes were lit, and there was a lull in the conversation, broken at last by Petersen himself.
“Men,” he said, “let us try to arrange this little affair, without unnecessary bloodshed or violence. Antonio has been good to me; he must be spared. Little Teenie has got round all our hearts: her life is sacred! Is it not so, boys?”
“Yes! yes!” from all save one. He too was a Finn, of the lowest caste. His bushy eyebrows and fiendish looks proved him to be a man who would stick at nothing to gain an end.
He helped himself from a flask of arrack, so strong that it made even his eyes flash and water.
“I’ve been on jobs of this sort afore,” he said, “and my motto has always been——”
“What?” said Elman.
“A dark night, and a bloody blanket!”
Even Petersen shuddered as he heard these fearful words.
But the leader lifted his hand.
“I agree with Petersen,” he cried, “that there must be no bloodshed—if possible.”
“And what is more,” he added, “we are strong enough to do the work without—that is, if every man is true to his oath, and obedient to command.”
“Bravo!” from several voices.
“We are not all here, by several,” he added. “Even Antonio would have been suspicious had we all come on shore.”
“What about the black fellows?” said a voice.
“They are fools enough to be true to the old man.”
“Yes, if we let them.”
“Right,” said the leader. “They alone may be quietened. But, boys, the game is worth playing. There are enough precious pearls in that ship to make us all rich for life. Now, men, the oath.”
Every would-be mutineer stood up, and formed a circle around their leader.
Heaven forbid I should defile my pages by describing that scene. It ill accorded with the beauty of the day, with the sylvan scenery, with those gorgeous banks of flowering cactus, or the sweet trilling of bright-winged tropical birds in the thickets adjoining.
They had just got seated once again, when a merry childish voice was heard, and next moment Teenie herself ran out from the cactus, laughing and shouting.
She rushed straight for Peterson, and flung her arms round his neck.
“Where have you left your maid, darling?” he said.
“Oh, I just runned away from her. I is all alone. Miss Leona is in the town.”
“Have you been in the bush long?” This from the leader.
“Bush? What is that?”
“Among the cactus, yonder.”
“Oh, quite five minutes. I was listening.”
“She must die,” said the ugly Finn. “It is for our salvation.” He spoke in his own language, but even those who understood it not could easily understand its meaning.
Petersen took out his knife, and laid it ominously down by his side.
“If she dies, I die,” he said, in the same language.
“Listen, dear,” he continued, turning the child’s face up towards his own. “Tell us what you saw and heard?”
She clasped her hands in a devotional attitude.
“Oh,” she cried, “you is good good men, and I loves you all. You were saying you’ prayers. That was all, and I not like to ’sturb you. So I stay till you is quite finished.”
“Now then, men,” said Petersen, “are you quite satisfied? Is there a man here who would injure a hair of this innocent head? If so, let him come into the wood with me.”
“We are all satisfied,” cried the men. Only the auburn-haired, fiend-faced Finn said nothing.
. . . . . .
The Zingara was once more at sea, and the wind was blowing free and fresh. Birds from the far-off islands or shores were floating in the air around her, and the very waves seemed to join in their wild and happy song.
Fore and aft the decks were clean and white, not a rope’s end uncoiled, not a trace that was not taut. Our heroes, Barclay and Davie, were briskly walking fore and aft on the lee-side of the deck, the thoughtful Antonio on the weather.
It was a day that would have made the heart of the veriest land-lubber jump for joy.
And yet the officers of this ship are standing on a veritable volcano, which may burst at any moment, though they know it not.
The mutineers have determined at all hazards to capture the Zingara, to land the officers and others on some island, and proceed to South America, to dispose of both ship and cargo.
But a storm of a different kind is brewing that will delay the mutiny—for a time, at all events.
Archie Webber comes on deck and approaches the captain.
“Glass going tumbling down, sir,” he says, “and look! look! why, the storm-clouds are banking up yonder already.”
“All hands on deck!” was the order that followed. The men came tumbling up, eager and anxious.
“Lay aft here, lads,” shouted Antonio.
The order was instantly obeyed, though the sworn mutineers lagged a little. Their evil consciences smote them. Oh, not with remorse! They merely imagined that Petersen had split. The ugly Finn stood close behind this sailor, determined that if his suspicions were correct he should immediately plunge his knife into his back.
“Men,” cried Antonio, “there is a storm gathering, and soon to burst, that I mean to be ready for and to fight, for the sake of the good ship that has borne us through so many dangers and trials.”
The mutineers exchanged glances, and the evil Finn edged still nearer to poor Petersen. His hand was on that ugly knife.
“Look to windward, lads. Hear the muttering thunder! We have twenty minutes and no more to trim ship, for unless I am much mistaken we are to have about the biggest thing in tornadoes that ever went whirling over the Atlantic.
“Away aloft there, lads, and get in sail; set the storm-jib, mate, and I’ve little doubt we shall weather it. Now, men, merrily does it. Away!”
The mutineers breathed more freely now; and right cheerily they worked. In an incredibly short time all sails were taken in that could be done without. The rest were close reefed.
When they came below again, the steward, honest Pandoo, was ready to splice the main brace; and never was a glass of rum better deserved.
. . . . . .
I am not going to describe this terrible war with the elements; suffice it to say that it was fearful, and that it ended in a gale.
The Zingara emerged therefrom, almost a total wreck.
Two masts, the mizen and the main, had gone almost by the board; there remained of them only the jagged stumps. The fore-topsail was also carried away, and the rudder itself was all but useless. They had been drifted away far from their course.
The boats had been taken in-board. There were five of these altogether, but being turned bottom upwards on the deck, they had luckily escaped injury.
“To-night!” said or rather whispered the leader of the mutineers.
“To-night!” The word was passed round, and every one knew that the hour had all but arrived.
By seven bells in the first watch the wind had gone down. Not a breath of air; not a zephyr to ruffle the oily, heaving waves.
Once more the good ship was but like a log on the great waters, drifting helplessly at the mercy of the current.
Our heroes and all aft had turned in. Even Antonio was sound asleep, and both mates also, for the bo’s’n was now permitted to keep watch.
Barclay Stuart was awakened by an ugly dream. He started and listened.
Then his heart almost stood still. There was the sound of scuffling on deck—the noise of a fierce fight coming aft and aft, till it raged on the very quarter-deck.
“Down below with them!” This he knew to be the voice of that bloodthirsty Finn, whom he had never trusted.
“Tumble the darkies overboard!”
But some one was heard interceding.
It was Petersen.
“No, no,” he cried, “spare them. No bloodshed.”
“Over they go without bloodshed. Leave the bloodshed to the sharks.”
There were shrieks for mercy now—ah! dear reader, mutiny is a fearful thing—then the sound of heavy bodies falling into the sea told the awful story.
In less time than it takes me to write it, every one in the saloon cabins was astir.
They rushed to—I was going to say arms. Alas! these were all gone. They were therefore helpless.
At the same time the good men and true had been driven below to the saloon, into which they rushed for safety’s sake.
Several were bleeding from wounds, and one poor fellow fell dead by the stove immediately after entering.
Then the saloon doors were closed, and barricaded outside by the mutineers.
The ship was captured no doubt, though what the end might be no one could even guess. Yet the prisoners in the saloon dreaded the very worst. Had their arms not been taken away, they would have sold their lives dearly. As it was, if the mutineers meant to murder them, it would be a mere massacre in cold blood.
No bells were struck to-night; but the saloon clock pointed to the hour of two. It would be over four long hours yet, then, ere the red sun leapt up from the sea and daylight began.
Daylight? Yes, and every one seemed to feel it would be their last day on earth.
Antonio knew well that as soon as morning broke those fiends incarnate would commence to loot the ship—and the fate of the prisoners would be too dreadful to contemplate.
Yet this weird little Captain Antonio did all he could to cheer every one around him up. It was a sad task and a difficult, for the shadow of death seemed to have settled on every heart, a gloom that kept all silent. Even Teenie herself, who would sit nowhere but on Barclay’s knee, was sad and fearful. Again and again she asked the boy the question—
“What will they do, Barc? What will the bad men do to us?”
For a whole hour Miss Leona sat weeping.
At last she started to her feet and dried her tears.
“Captain Antonio,” she said quietly, “we still can pray.”
“We can,” was the solemn reply.
Miss Leona’s prayer was earnest, pleading, pathetic.
“Yet not our will but Thine be done,” she concluded. And I think he or she is a true Christian who can pray these words from the inmost heart. Then at her request, some of the beautiful verses from that psalm of psalms, the twenty-third, were sung:—
. . . . . .
The only one missing in the saloon was strangely enough the fat boy Johnnie Smart, and considerable anxiety was felt as to his fate. Surely he too could not have joined the mutineers.
But about half-past three o’clock on that eventful night, a single low knock was heard at the door of the saloon, and a moment after a piece of paper was passed in under it.
It was a letter from Johnnie. Only an ill-spelt, badly written scrawl; but it rejoiced the hearts of all inside nevertheless, and raised hopes within them.
It was Leona who read it first.
“God has heard our prayers,” she said. “He will even yet give us the victory.”
Then she handed the note to Antonio.
Johnnie Smart’s note ran as follows:—
“Which I is a-makin’ on ’em berlieve I’se the biggest mootineer hout. They is now a clammerin’ for grog. Said I’d go aft and ax ye. I goes back now to say what I knows’ll please ’em. Which I means to save Teenie and ye all, if I can. Will let ye out when the time comes. Keep up yer peckers, I says, says I, and trust to yours truly,
“Johnnie Smart.”
We will follow Johnnie forward.
The mutineers, completely armed with knives and pistols, were seated in the galley. They had been eating; now they were smoking, and talking low together.
It was determined that as the ship was now an unmanageable hulk, they should first seize all the gold and pearls—with as little bloodshed as possible; then leave in two of the boats, and make their way to the nearest island. Here it would be easy to explain that they were the only survivors of a merchant ship—the Juno, for example—and so secure a passage to London.
“As soon’s daylight comes in the work begins,” said the evil Finn, feeling the edge of his knife, and smiling grimly to himself.
“Ah! here comes Johnnie,” cried Petersen.
“Now, Johnnie, what about the grog?”
“Which I never axed for it,” was the quiet reply.
“Never asked for it,” cried the leader. “Go back at once and tell them from me, that if the rum is not at once handed out we’ll commence shooting through the door.”
“Don’t try to fool with us,” said another fellow, “else we’ll knife you, sure’s your name is John.”
“Ay, that will we,” from several.
“Look ’ere,” replied the boy. “Which I’se doin’ all for the best. Listen—I knows Captain Antonio, and he is as wise and wicked as——”
He pointed with his finger downwards, instead of completing the sentence.
“Go on,” cried Petersen.
“Mind, then, he ain’t a chap as ’ill stand much ’umbug.”
“He’s our prisoner, lad, and we’ve drawn the wasp’s sting. They haven’t even a knife to make a flourish with.”
“Listen again,” said Johnnie. “If Antonio’s going to die, we’ve all got to go up together.”
“Explain.”
“Which the magazine is connected with a hellectric wire. All that the hold man’s got to do is to touch a button, and——”
The men were for a moment paralysed with terror.
“Now the reason I didn’t ax for grog like is this: he might ha’ pized it, see!”
“Bravo! Johnnie, you’re good and wise.”
“All the same,” said the leader, “a glass all round would be precious handy.”
“Well,” said Johnnie, his eyes getting wider than usual, “I could tell ye how to get it. But that beast Shenkoff, he torked about knifin’ I. I’se got a knife too, and——”
“Bah!” cried the leader, “he didn’t mean it. Shenkoff, if you’re going to make yourself so darned disagreeable, we’ll have to do without you. That’s a fair warning. Now, Johnnie, how are we to get the rum?”
Johnnie sheathed his knife.
Then he held back his head, and laughed in the old way.
“As simple as sinning,” he replied.
“Stop a minute,” he added.
Aft he went, and returned shortly with three sharp adzes and two saws.
“D’ye catch on, men?” he asked.
“No, Johnnie, no.”
“Take off your boots, and follow Johnnie. Just three on ye—no more.”
He handed an adze to each; he himself carried a saw.
As soon as they were on deck under the stars, and a bright scimitar of a moon, that silvered all the calm and heaving sea, Johnnie whispered to his followers—
“We scuppers the deck right over the store-room. Down we goes, and there’s the rum.”
. . . . . .
Those below heard with fear and trembling the blows and thuds on the upper deck abaft the saloon.
“They’re scuppering the deck to descend to the spirit-room,” said Archie the mate.
“Heaven be praised!” cried Antonio, “even in that there is a ray of hope.”
In less than ten minutes a hole had been made through the upper deck. A candle was lit, and down went one of the men. Shortly after, the door leading to the saloon was barricaded. Then first one huge black jack, and then another, was hauled up.
These were coolly emptied into a bucket, another bucket was filled, and once more the men went forward.
. . . . . .
Just an hour after this, the prisoners could tell that the rum was doing its work. Maudlin songs, and the sound of revelry, rose higher and higher.
But there was no quarrelling.
These sounds, however, died gradually away, and by three bells in the morning watch not a sound was to be heard in the ship.
Twenty long weary minutes passed by; each minute seemed an hour.
The fastenings were being undone, and the door was opened.
It was Johnnie, sure enough.
But before he could enter or even speak, he had to hold back his head several times, his eyes taking refuge behind his fat cheeks, and laugh low to himself.
“All drunk as biled owls,” said the fat boy at last, “and a-sleepin’, jist like babes as ever was.”
Then he handed Antonio a basket: seven loaded revolvers and as many daggers lay within.
“We are saved,” cried Leona. “Heaven has heard our humble prayers.”
“Mi’d you’d better look main sharp,” said Johnnie, “and not shout t’ll you’se clear o’ the wood.”
But he told Antonio that every mutineer was disarmed, and that all that was required now was to batten down the deck before they should awake.
The noise inseparable from this, however, did awaken the drunken men.
They were like a hive of hornets.
“Stand down,” roared Antonio. “The first head that pops up above the ladder will have a bullet through it.”
The mutineers held back.
“Who is the traitor?” cried the evil Finn. “’Tis you, Petersen! You! Have that!”
There was the sound of a horrid blow delivered with some blunt instrument, then for a moment all was still.
“Now,” continued Antonio, “I have to inform you that the tables are turned. Better go to sleep till eight bells. Then I’ll shoot a few of you, to encourage the others.”
. . . . . .
The sun rose soon. Every wave caught up its rosy light; and even far in the west, the clouds that erst were grey and purple, were now ablaze with crimson and fiery gold.
And now, with the assistance of two of the black men who had escaped death, the largest boat was got out and swung overboard, a bagful of biscuits and a small cask of water was placed in the bows, and the boat was then lowered to the sea.
An armed guard was next formed around the hatchway, and the battenings at once cast off.
“One at a time now, men. No arms of any sort. Not even a chunk of wood.”
“Archie and Barclay Stuart, you will see the men into the boats. Keep the pistol to their heads, and shoot the first man that even looks defiant.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” from the mate and our hero. But the mutineers were stupid, heavy-headed, and thoroughly cowed.
All but two came up, and were allowed to descend to the boat.
“Davie Drake,” said Antonio now, “you go aft and look after Miss Leona and Teenie. On no account let them come forward.”
“Now then, Shenkoff and Matteo” (this was the leader), “on deck, and be quick about it.”
They came slowly, fearfully up, and were immediately seized and bound.
A brief court-martial was held, and they were condemned to die.
The faces of these two villains, as they stood on the fo’c’s’le head, were pale and haggard.
Right well they knew their hour had come. There was no relenting in Antonio’s face, no mercy there, but justice—stern, determined.
“Busy yourselves now, lads,” the captain said to the two blacks.
They did; the fore-yard was squared, a block and tackle—a long rope with a noose on the end—was rigged at each point.
Then down came the blacks, and slipped the nooses over the necks of the condemned men.
“I will give you five minutes,” said Antonio, “to pray.”
Whether those murder-stained villains prayed or not may never be known. We do know, however, that the thief on the cross was forgiven, and that—