Hunting the Skipper: The Cruise of the «Seafowl» Sloop

Silence again, and Murray’s eyes were fixed, his breast thrilling, and a sensation ran through him as if some strange force were plucking at his nerves and making them vibrate throughout his frame.

For as the great bronze figure stood erect those who watched could see that the serpent was all in motion, gliding, twining and crawling all over the priest’s stalwart frame, while he too seemed to be working hard with his hands, trying to control the reptile’s movements, but only for it to go on gliding rapidly through his fingers; and as the midshipman watched, he kept on getting glimpses of an oval flattened head gliding over the negro’s breast, passing beneath his arms, reappearing again over his shoulders to pass round his neck, and always eluding the busy hands which tried to restrain it.

The scene was wonderful. Murray had watched the black snatch the reptile from the box which held it, and then it was as if he had snatched forth a dozen serpents which were ever after twining and intertwining in continuous motion and flashing the while in a wonderful quivering, endlessly moving flame of glistening scales which seemed to throw off a phosphorescent mist of light that enveloped both reptile and man.

As Murray gazed, fascinated by the weirdly strange scene before him, it seemed to him a dozen times over that a deadly struggle was going on between the two writhing creatures, and that every now and then, as the golden oval head darted out of the confusion of movement, it was only to gather force for a dart at the man and fix its fangs in the quivering flesh. But there was no cessation; the reptile was ever strong, and the man as vigorous as ever. Darting at the struggling figure about which it was twined, and then – perhaps it was the boy’s imagination – gaping wide to fix upon some part of the quivering flesh, breast, back, shoulder, or side, perhaps most often at the hands which kept on moving about as sharply as the flat head which played around with such wonderful rapidity. And the motion was ceaseless, always glistening and flashing with light, and watched by the hundreds upon hundreds of glowing opal eyes which reflected the cone of flame still going on spiralling upwards and burning more fiercely than ever.

What is going to be the end? Murray asked himself. Will the serpent conquer and the great black priest fall faint and powerless, strangled to death by the folds of the reptile, which were ever tightening round breast and neck? But they were ever loosening as well, and at one time the boy’s chest expanded with a glow of satisfaction, for it seemed to him that the man was gaining the mastery over his enemy, having succeeded in grasping the serpent’s neck with both hands, and begun to swing and whirl it round and round, whizzing through the air level with his neck. Murray could almost believe that it was whirled round so fast that he could even hear it hum and then snap and crack as if it were some mighty whip-lash with which the great black was flogging the golden darkness of the night.

The middy panted again, and there was a feeling of constriction about his chest, just as if the serpent or one of the many serpents that at times, it seemed, had thrown a fold about him – yes, and another had been cast about his neck, for in the struggle going on before his eyes the reptile seemed to be gaining the best of it once more, and the man was weakening rapidly.

He wondered too that the crowd eddying around remained so silent. It seemed to him only natural that they should give vent to their feelings with shouts of joy when the priest looked successful, and groanings when the serpent had him circled tightly in its toils.

But all the same the midshipman in his excitement realised that he was as silent as the rest, and stood there, with the perspiration trickling down from brow to cheek, watching and watching for the end which seemed as if it would never come.

It must be, he was sure, a struggle that could only end in one way – death for one of the combatants. And yet the lad felt doubt creep in, and he asked himself whether it might not end in death for both.

There were moments when, as he saw the great negro struggle and free himself partially from the serpent’s folds, he foresaw the reptile’s end in the glowing fire, which would become man’s colleague as well as servant, and he could almost see the monster writhing and curling up in the roaring flames to which it was apparently adding fresh fury.

But the next moment there was another phase of horror, for one fold of the many convolutions seemed to be tightened about the man’s arm, and he was evidently about to be dragged into the fire too, and, as he had before imagined, it was to be death for both.

But no; the serpent snatched itself away from the impending danger and tightened itself about the man, who was the next instant bound by the great living thong about and about his heaving body, and the struggle was resumed upon equal terms.

Was it never going to finish?

The end was at hand in a way that the watcher had never for a moment anticipated, for all at once, when the silence, save for the humming noise of the fire, was at its greatest depth, there arose the sudden hollow trumpet-like blast of a great conch shell, followed by a savage fiendish yell, and for one brief moment Murray saw the huge black, golden red in the fire’s glow, standing wiping, as it were so to speak, the folds of the great serpent from off his arms, then from his neck, and again from his breast, about which it heaved and twined, before it was gone, as it were, twisted up by the great knotted arms of the huge negro, and thrown into the long coffin-shaped chest, whose lid was slammed down with a noise like the report of a gun; and this was followed by a noise as of a great wind passing over the amphitheatre, and Murray looked to see the fire swept away and growing extinct before the force of what sounded like a storm.

But the fire blazed still, and dominating the rushing wind a voice arose from close at hand with the familiar cry of —

“Seafowls ahoy!”

Chapter Thirty Eight.

A Night in the Woods

The summons given in hearty English was responded to by a ragged volley of so many muskets, whose flashes came faintly from the edge of the amphitheatre, and wondering what it meant, Murray, as he looked round, was just in time to see the big black giant of a negro spring high in the air, come down with a crash upon the coffin-shaped chest, roll over, and writhe for a few moments before lying perfectly still.

As the big negro was seen to fall, the crowd of blacks who were hurrying here and there as if in dismay, uttered a series of shrieks and yells, and began to run in confusion towards the end of the woody amphitheatre farthest from the fire, but only to encounter another ragged volley of musketry which checked them and drove them back, leaving several of their number to fall struggling upon the ground, while Murray saw two more totter and go down as they ran shrieking, half mad with fear, towards another portion of the lit-up ring of light, for they avoided the little party of armed seamen as if they took them for one of the causes of the sudden attack.

“Stand fast, my lads,” cried the lieutenant. “Now then, forward!”

He placed himself at the head of his men, who followed him with their muskets shouldered, but at the end of a few yards their commander called —

“Halt – I’m not at all sure of our way, gentlemen,” he said, addressing the two midshipmen, “but I think we ought to take that end – yonder where the blacks are collecting.”

“No, sir, I don’t think that’s right,” cried Murray. “You see, every part of the circus-like place looks like the rest.”

“Yes, I see that, Murray, but surely there is the path yonder by which we came.”

But as he spoke, half-a-dozen more musket flashes came from the very spot to which he had pointed, and what might be called a wave of black figures came, dotting the earth with as many white cotton-clad wounded or dead unfortunates as shots had been fired.

“Bah! I’m wrong,” cried the lieutenant angrily. “This looks like a planned massacre of the poor creatures gathered at this meeting. If we could only find our guide we might have a chance to get out of the horrible confusion. Here, let’s try this way.”

“Yes, sir; that is the way, I am sure, for it is just opposite to that chest out of which that poor fellow took the snake.”

“You are right, sir,” cried the lieutenant; “and we must retreat in that direction, for it is of no use to try and make a stand against a hidden enemy.”

“Why don’t those poor wretches show fight, sir?” cried Murray excitedly, as the little party began their march.

“Because they have no one to lead them, my lad.”

“Can’t we, sir?”

“We could if they knew us, Murray; but we are strangers, and it would be madness to try and head such a confused mob.”

“I suppose so, sir,” said Murray sadly, as he marched on beside his commander, who now gave an order to the men he led, which was heard plainly above the shouting and yelling of the blacks, who in their fear and confusion had cast away the heavy machetes with which they had armed themselves.

“Make ready, my lads, in case the enemy has taken possession of our line of retreat.”

But all seemed perfectly still amongst the trees they approached, and their lit-up trunks and boughs offered shelter as well as a way of retreat, when at one and the same moment, just as Mr Anderson called out, “Forward, my lads! That is the right path,” Tom May shouted from the rear —

“Here’s that there Caesar, sir, coming after us full pelt.”

“Yes,” cried Roberts, “and he’s bringing all the blacks with him to this end.”

Then it was that a fresh burst of flashes came from the now plainly seen opening for which the Seafowls made, checking their advance and laying two of them low.

“Retreat!” shouted a voice which sounded father strange, and it was followed by a fierce roar from the lieutenant bidding the men reply.

In an instant a good steady volley was fired at the spots from which the last shots had come, and then obeying the order that followed, the whole party, cutlass in hand, with Tom May roaring “Go on, my lads – forrard!” charged into the heavily-beaten forest path, trampling over three fallen blacks who lay struggling, faintly seen, upon the earth.

“Why, we’re firing upon the wrong men,” cried Mr Anderson.

“No, massa,” said a familiar voice, hoarse with shouting. “All Massa Huggin men. Our boys no got gun.”

“Then we’re all right?”

“Yes, massa.”

“And who are these coming on here?”

“All pore boy run away. Massa Huggin men come out of trees long behind, massa listen.”

There was occasion to hearken, for above the murmurs, wails and shouts of the blacks who were flying from pursuit came the scattered firing of those who had been busy in the massacre that had been taking place.

“Guide us back along the path to Mr Allen’s house,” cried the lieutenant.

“No, massa; boy here do that. Caesar must stop fight.”

“Good! Brave fellow!” cried the lieutenant. “Here, I’ll give those who fired upon us a few shots first to clear the way.”

“No, massa; all gone,” cried the black; “all run away. Massa let poor black boy come ’long here. Make sailor man shoot Massa Huggin slave-catch-man. Hark! Um come ’long fast. Shoot, shoot!”

“Do you understand what he means, Mr Murray?” said the lieutenant, rather breathlessly.

“Yes, sir. He means let the poor wretches go by us and we hold the path till the enemy comes up, and give them a volley or two to check the advance.”

“Very good tactics if you are right,” said the lieutenant. “At any rate we’ll try it. But what does this mean?”

The light from the fire barely penetrated to where they stood, but there was enough to show that Caesar was in a confused fashion sorting the flying blacks into two parties, – those who were unarmed he hurried down the path in the way of retreat, while those who had maintained enough courage to keep their machetes, he ranged upon either side of the path, while, to Murray’s wonder and surprise, for they had been forgotten for the moment, four of the blacks came forward supporting two of the wounded man-o’-war’s men.

“Oh, my poor lads!” cried the lieutenant eagerly.

“You, Mr Roberts, and you, Seddon. Are you badly hurt?”

“No, sir,” cried the middy cheerily. “Only two Seafowls winged, sir!”

“Nay, sir, not me!” growled the seaman belonging to the second cutter. “I arn’t winged, sir; I’m hind-legged, and I should have had to hop if it warn’t for these niggers here.”

“Mr Murray, I can’t spare you. Tom May, you take Mr Murray’s place and help me cover the retreat with all the men. Mr Murray, do the best you can with the wounded, and then join us here.”

“No, no, sir,” cried Roberts. “I’ve got a handkerchief round my arm, sir; Seddon tied it, and he’s done his own leg up himself.”

“Bravo!” cried the lieutenant. “Keep together, my lads. Here, you Caesar, can’t you make some of your fellows fight?”

“Caesar try, massa; try berry hard. Much frighten of Massa Huggin.”

“Tell them to fight for their lives if they won’t for their liberty.”

“Yes, sah. Caesar try all he can;” and the black made a rush at one of his retreating companions whom he saw in the act of throwing away his rough cutlass; and catching him by the shoulder he gave him a heavy cuff on the ear and then forced him to pick up the weapon he had discarded and join a few compatriots who were making something of a stand.

“There’s no trusting them, sir,” said Murray, who was breathing hard with excitement.

“And no wonder, Murray; all the courage has been crushed out of them, poor wretches.”

As Mr Anderson spoke there was a burst of startled yells and cries, following directly upon the reports of several muskets, and what seemed to be quite a crowd of the retreating blacks came rushing along the path right upon where the Seafowl’s men were making a stand.

“Here, where are you coming to?” roared Tom May, in his deep-toned voice. “Keep back, or go round, or crawl, or do something, or we’ll give you a blessed good dose of butt-ending. – Who’s to fire, do you think,” continued the big sailor, “with you all coming in the way?”

At that moment Caesar made a rush in amongst the shivering retreating party, striking to right and left with the flat of his machete.

“Here, what are you up to, darkie?” cried the big sailor. “Them’s friends.”

“Yes, sah,” panted the black. “Caesar know. Make ’em fight.”

“Oh, that’s it, is it?” growled May, “but I don’t see as you will do any good. They won’t fight, and I don’t know as I want ’em to; but they might let us.”

“Do what you can to clear the way, man.”

There was the sound of more trampling feet, a burst of yells, more firing, and Tom May shouted in protest —

“Beg pardon, sir; what are we to do? Some more of our fellows will be down directly, and we can’t fire a shot for fear of hitting our friends. I never see such friends,” he growled; “they’re worse than enemies.”

“Look out, my lads,” shouted Murray excitedly. “Fire! Here they come! No, no – over their heads,” he cried. “These are more friends.”

In his excitement the middy struck up a couple of presented muskets with the cutlass he handled, his example being followed by the lieutenant, doubtless the saving of Caesar’s life, for the brave black had dashed in amongst his companions, thrusting them to the right and left in amongst the trees, just as several of the sailors fired, fully half of them firing in the air.

Fortunately the reports were as effective as a volley would have been aimed right into the advancing enemy, who pulled up short and then began to retire, giving the poor flying wretches an opportunity to recover themselves a little, and realise that there was some shelter to be obtained behind the sturdy English sailors, who stood firm, while Caesar worked hard at forming them up where they stood, and with such good effect that about forty of them grasped their rough cutlasses more firmly and showed some signs of using them against their foes now that these latter had ceased to advance.

“Well done, my lad,” cried the lieutenant; “if you can find a couple of score like yourself we’ll send these black fiends and their white leaders to the right-about.”

“Steady there!” cried Murray, the next minute, for the effect of the volley had died out, and the enemy advanced again, shouting, and fired once more.

“Fire!” cried the lieutenant, for there was no sign of the retreating blacks in front, and the levelled muskets of the sailors poured out a well-levelled volley, which was received by the slavers with a yell of surprise and the rush of feet in full retreat; and then once more there was silence.

“That has done its work, my lads,” cried the lieutenant, as the men reloaded rapidly, the sound of the thudding ramrods as they were driven down raising a low murmur of excitement through the black fugitives, among whom, as far as could be made out in the darkness, Caesar was busy at work, talking loudly, and ending after dragging and thrusting his compatriots, by getting them well together and then making his way to where the lieutenant and Murray stood some little distance in advance, listening and trying to make out when the planter’s men were coming on again.

“Boys say won’t run away any more, massa,” whispered the black breathlessly.

“Glad to hear it, my friend,” said the officer bitterly.

“Yes, massa; so Caesar. Not frighten now. Ready ’tan’ fast. Ready kill Massa Huggin sailor fellow.”

“But I can’t trust them, Caesar; can you?”

The black was silent for a few moments, and then he said sadly —

“Caesar do um bes’, massa.”

“So you have, my lad. But the next time the enemy come on your men shall try what they can do.”

“Here they come again, sir,” whispered Murray.

“Keep silence then,” said the lieutenant. “May, all of you wait and let them come on till you hear their leaders’ orders to fire, and let them have it first.”

Then turning to the black, the speaker bade him head his men, who now began to be pretty steady, and lead them along the path in the direction of the planter’s cottage.

“No, no, massa. Caesar make boys fight now.”

“You do as I tell you, sir,” replied the lieutenant sternly. “Go on back, collecting as many more of your men as you can, and my lads shall cover the retreat and check the slaves.”

“Massa want Caesar do this?” said the black sadly.

“Yes, and I want you to obey my orders.”

“Yes, massa,” said the black, with a sigh, “only Caesar feel like fight and die for massa now.”

Crash!

There was the sound of a volley, so many muskets going off together like one, while as the sound began to die away, it was mingled with loud yells and curses, and emphasised as it were by the rattling of the ramrods in the barrels of the muskets.

“I think that’s checked them, sir,” said Murray; but almost as he spoke there came three shots from some of the boldest of the enemy who had stopped short to snap off their vengeful retreating replies to the sailors’ volley.

“Waste of powder,” growled Tom May. “Hear ’em running through the trees, Mr Murray, sir?”

“Yes, and I should like to give them another volley.”

“So should I, sir,” panted the big sailor, as he drove down his ramrod till it nearly hopped out of the musket-barrel again; “but we can’t afford it.”

“Any one hurt there, May?” cried the lieutenant.

“Yes, sir; lots,” replied the big sailor, with a chuckle of satisfaction.

“What’s that?” cried the lieutenant, in anxious tones.

“Beg pardon, sir,” growled the sailor hastily. “I didn’t mean us.”

“Silence, sir!” cried the lieutenant sternly.

The next minute, in the midst of that which the officer had commanded, they heard him giving orders to the black.

“You’ll hear of this again, Mr Tom May,” said Murray.

“Yes, sir, I s’pose so,” said the big sailor grumpily. “That’s just like me. It’s just as an old mate of mine once said. ‘You’ve got a horkerd sort o’ mouth, Tommy, you have,’ he says. ‘You never opens it but you puts your foot in it.’”

“Hist! What does that mean, Tom?” whispered the middy.

“Means it’s so plaguey dark that you can’t see what’s going on.”

“Yes, but you can listen, sir.”

“Oh, Mr Murray, sir, don’t you come down upon me too. Just then it was Mister Tom May; and now it’s sir. I didn’t mean no harm, sir. It cheers a man up, to try and think a bit cheery, ’specially when you’re expecting a bullet every minute to come in for’ard and pass out astarn.”

“Don’t talk, man,” whispered Murray. “Can’t you hear the enemy?”

“Yes, sir: that’s them, sir, creeping up towards us through the bushes.”

The man spoke with his lips close to the middy’s ear.

The silence seemed to be terrible, and to Murray the feeling was that he could not breathe.

“Won’t you give us the order to let ’em have it again, sir, without waiting till the first luff comes back?” whispered the sailor.

“Isn’t he there, Tom?”

“No, sir, he’s gone off with them poor shivering niggers, sir, to try a bit o’ manoeuvring o’ some kind; but he won’t do no good, sir. They arn’t got a bit o’ fight in ’em. But what can you expect of a poor beggar as lives on yam and a chew o’ sugar-cane? It don’t give a man pluck, sir. If I had ’em fed up a bit on salt horse and weevly biscuit I’d make ’em something like in a few weeks. There, sir; hear that?”

“Yes,” whispered Murray. “Ah, they’re getting ready to fire. Make ready. Each man aim at where he thinks they’re coming on. Fire!”

A capital volley was the result, followed by the rush of feet of those who had been creeping up through the trees; and then above the crackling and breaking of leaf and twig, arose a furious yell and the groaning of human beings in intense pain.

“How horrible it sounds!” said Murray, as the thudding of ramrods arose.

“Does it, sir?” grunted Tom May. “Oh, I dunno, sir. Sounds to me black. Dessay it would ha’ seemed to me horrid if it had been white. There, sir; Mr Anderson don’t seem to think bad on it,” growled the man.

For at that moment the chief officer hurried up to where they stood, uttering a few quick enquiries and listening to the results.

“No one hurt then?” he said, with a sigh of satisfaction. “That’s good, Mr Murray. Oh, by the way, Thomas May, I shall want a word or two with you when this business is over. Mr Murray, you will bring up the rear. Keep together, and follow me as silently as you can. Mr Murray, the blacks are well together now, following the planter’s man, and we have to follow him, for I have to depend upon him to lead us back. I need not say that you must keep your ears well open, for in spite of the checks we have given them the enemy may come on again.”

“The first luff don’t seem to think it’s very horrible, Mr Murray, sir,” whispered the big sailor, as he trudged as silently as he could beside his companion of the rear-guard.

“No, Tom,” replied the middy; “but this fighting in the dark is very horrible all the same.”

“Well, I dunno, sir. ’Tarn’t nice, of course; but ’tarn’t our fault, and wherever we’ve left one o’ them black or white slaver chaps a bit sore on the nat’ral deck yonder you may say as he desarves all he’s got.”

Murray made no reply, for he had stopped short for a few moments to listen; and finding this, the big sailor followed his example.

“Hear ’em coming, sir?”

“No, Tom; I thought I did, but all seems quite still again. Here, I wish you’d listen. I don’t know how it is, but you seem to hear much more plainly than I can.”

Tom chuckled.

“Well, what is there to laugh at in what I said?”

“Oh, I dunno, sir, on’y it sounded rum to me.”

“What did, sir?”

“You saying you couldn’t hear so plain as I can.”

“Well, what is there rum, as you call it, in that?”

“Nowt, sir, only the reason why. I can hear sharp as sharp, sir, because I was always getting my ears boxed when I was a boy. I was sent to what they call a Dame school, and I s’pose I was a very tiresome boy, for she used to box my ears – both on ’em – with the book. Then when I got bigger and I was at the school where there was a master he used to give it my ears precious hot, I can tell you, sir; but it made ’em as sharp as sharp, and I used to be so quick with ’em that I could hear his hands coming when he was going to hit me; and then he used to miss, and instead of hitting ’em he used to warm my ears with words.”