CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.
TRADING WITH THE AMERICAN.
For a few brief moments Mark was ready to turn back and make sure of hisprize, but every stroke was carrying him nearer to the stranger, and inless time than it takes to describe it, he found out that he had alarmedhimself with his own bugbear.
For the Yankee skipper, apparently taken quite aback at the sight of thearmed boat's crew, began by ordering his men to stop, and then turnedand had himself rowed back as swiftly as possible, with the result thatthe boats reached the two sides of the second schooner nearly together.And as Mark scrambled up and over the stern, in spite of the menacinglooks of three men at the side, who, however, fell back before TomFillot and those who followed, the Yankee master stepped over thebulwarks too, and advanced to meet Mark.
"How are yew?" he said, coolly. "Didn't know yew was coming aboard.Can yew trade me a barrel or two o' good whites flour? I'm runningrayther short."
"Perhaps I can," said Mark, sharply, as he cast an eye over the deck."What ship's this?"
"Ef yew'd looked at her starnboard yew'd hev seen, mister. She's the_Mariar B Peasgood_, o' Charleston, South Carlinar, trading in notions.What's yourn?"
"Prize to her Britannic Majesty's ship _Nautilus_."
"Prize schooner, eh?" said the American, coolly, gazing over Mark'sshoulder at the graceful little vessel. "Wal, I am surprised. I saidas she looked a clipper as could sail a few."
"Your papers, please."
"Eh? Oh, suttunly. Air yew an officer?"
"Yes," replied Mark, shortly. "Your papers, please."
"Wall, I thowt _we_ was pretty smart, and made skippers of our boys inmighty good time, but you beat us. I give in. Ephrim, fetch up themthar papers outer my cabin."
A sour-looking fellow with a villainous grin slouched to the littlecabin-hatch; and by this time the whole of the boat's crew, includingthe two blacks, and saving the coxswain, who held on to the chains, wereaboard, Tom Fillot scanning the deck eagerly for some sign of thenefarious traffic, but none was visible.
"Guessed yew was pirates for a moment, mister," said the skipper. "Yewquite scarred me, and I kim back in a hurry, thinking yew meant robberyon the high seas. Hev a cigar?"
He held out a handful, which he had taken from his pocket, and all inthe coolest, most matter-of-fact way.
"Thanks, no," said Mark. "I don't smoke."
"He--he!" laughed the American; "yew needn't be shamed on it. Yewrcap'en don't like it, p'r'aps; but I see yew pulling away at a cigarthrew my glass."
Mark turned crimson.
"Needn't tell a cracker about it, squaire. Here we are," he continued,taking the papers from Ephraim--evidently his mate. "Hev a look at 'em,squaire; but I reckon if one of our officers was to board one of yourtraders, and ask for 'em, yewr folk'd make no end of a fizzle about it."
Mark felt uncomfortable as he took and glanced through the papers, whichwere all in the most correct style. There was not a point upon which hecould seize; and without some grounds he had no right to search thevessel, whose hold looked to be closely battened down, while there wasnot a sound to suggest that there were slaves on board.
"We've made a mistake," he thought, as the writing on the papers seemedto dance before his eyes; "and yet I could have sworn she was a slaver."
"Find 'em all right and squaire?" said the American, with his littlegrey eyes twinkling; and he held out his hand for the papers.
"Yes," said Mark, returning them reluctantly, and then glancing at TomElliot, whose countenance was a puzzle.
"That's right, squaire; that's right. Theer, I shan't cut up rusty,though I might, of course. It was yewr dewty, I s'pose."
"Yes, of course," said Mark.
"That's right, squaire. Allus dew yewr dewty. I ain't riled. Butyew'll trade that barl or tew o' whites flour with me, I reckon, andanything I've got you shall hev. What dew yew say to some Chicago pork?Rale good."
"I--a--thank--you, no," said Mark, looking wildly round in the hope offinding some excuse for ordering his men to search the vessel; "but youshall have the flour if I can find it."
"That's what I call real civil, mister," said the American, advancing,and backing Mark toward the side, for the lad gave way, feeling that hehad no excuse for staying. "Smart schooner that o' yewrn. Guess yewcould sail round my old tub. Won't take a cigar?"
"No, no: thanks," cried Mark, turning to Tom Fillot. "We can do nothingmore," he whispered.
"No, sir," said Tom, saluting. "He's too many for us. And yet I couldswear to it."
Disappointed, confused, and angry at his position, Mark felt that hemust give up, and that a far more experienced officer would have donethe same. Turning to his men, he gave orders for them to go down intothe boat, and then, telling the skipper to come on board the schooner,he gave another glance forward at the hatches, straining his ears tocatch the slightest sound, meaning, if he heard either groan or cry, toseize the vessel at once and search. Without such a sign or sound hedared not. It would have been overstepping his authority.
"Ready, mister? Guess I'll come in my own boat," said the American; andhe backed Mark farther to the side.
"Look at old Soup, sir," whispered Tom, excitedly. "Yes; and Taters hasgot it too."
"Here, hi!" shouted the American. "Whare air yew going?"
For Soup had taken a step or two forward, after looking wildly and in apuzzled way at Mark, as if wondering that he did not act, and thenthrowing back his head, he stood with his eyes rolling and his broadnostrils inflated, snuffling like a horse over some doubtful hay.
The next moment his fellow was following his example, and utteringsomething in a low, deep whisper in his own tongue.
"Guess them two niggers o' yewrn hev got the megrims, squaire. Get 'emboth aboard, lay 'em down, and hev 'em dowsed with buckets o' water."
"Stop!" cried Mark, excitedly, as he thrust back the American. "Here,my lads, what is it?"
The two blacks did not understand his words, but they did his gesture,and Soup made a bound forward to the main hatchway, uttered a low, deeproar, and stooped, pointing down.
"It ain't megrims; it's hyderyphoby," cried the American, quickly."He's dangerous. Get him aboard;" and as he spoke he drew a pistol fromhis breast, cocked it, and took aim at the black.
But with one motion Tom Fillot whipped out his cutlass, giving it sobroad a sweep that the flat of the weapon struck the American's wrist,and the pistol flew out of his hand.
At that moment, in answer to a loud cry from Soup, there came a wild,excited, smothered clamour from below the hatch; and with a cry of rage,the American stooped to pick up his pistol, while his men rushed toseize hatchet and capstan bar.
Mark's dirk was out now, and he presented it at the American skipper.
"Surrender, sir!" he cried; "the game's up. Draw, my lads, and cut themdown if they resist. Fillot, have off that hatch."
At a sign, the two blacks tore it open: and with the horrible vapourthat arose came a wild, piteous clamour from the imprisoned slavesbelow.
"Guess yew're right, curse you!" said the American, in an angry snarl."Drop it, boys; they're too many for us this time. We're done, and it'sof no use to be ugly."
"Hurray!" shouted Mark's little party, as they drove the crew below inthe forecastle; and after a guard was set, Tom Fillot came back to hisofficer, who stood talking to the American, while that worthy lithimself a cigar.
"This is some dollars out o' my pocket, mister," he said. "Guess I wishthat thar nigger had been drowned afore you brought him here. What airyew going to dew now?"
That was a question Mark was not prepared to answer, with two prizes onhis hands.
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