Hunting the Skipper: The Cruise of the «Seafowl» Sloop. Fenn George Manville

us false?”

      “No, sir, but that he has lost heart and is afraid to pilot us right to where the schooner lies.”

      “The scoundrel! If he has – ” began the captain, sharing now in his subordinate’s anxiety. “Oh, impossible! He must know better than we do. Ahoy, there!” he cried, speaking just loud enough for the lookout to hear. “Can you make out where the lugger is making for?”

      “Ay, ay, sir! Bit of a creek yonder, right inshore.”

      “That’s it, sir,” cried the lieutenant excitedly; “he has taken fright. We must run round that bend yonder, keeping to mid-stream.”

      “Or anchor,” exclaimed the captain sharply. “Why, confound it, man! The river forks here, and we are in a branch with a current running in another direction. Stand by there to lower the anchor!” he roared, “or we shall be ashore.”

      The order came too late, for as in obedience to order after order, the sloop’s course was altered and her sails began to shiver, there was a preliminary shock as if bottom had been lightly touched, then a shiver which seemed to communicate itself upward from the deck through Murray’s spine, and the next minute the Seafowl heeled over slightly as she seemed to cut her way onward into the soft mud, where she stuck fast with the fierce current into which they had run pressing hardly against her side as it raced swiftly by.

      “Trapped!” said a voice from close to Murray’s ear, and the young man turned swiftly from where he had been gazing over the side in the direction of the further shore, to encounter the first lieutenant’s angry eyes. “Well, Mr Murray,” he said bitterly, “where is that Yankee snake?”

      “Just gliding in yonder among the trees, sir,” cried the young man passionately. “I suspected him from the first.”

      “Well, Mr Anderson,” said the captain, hurrying up, and as coolly as if nothing whatever was wrong, “either you or I have placed the sloop in about as unpleasant a position as it was possible to get. Now then, how about getting out of it?”

      “We’re on soft mud, sir,” said the gentleman addressed.

      “And with a falling tide, I’m afraid. There, get to work man, and see what can be done with an anchor to haul her upon a level keel before the position is worse, for we shall board no slaver to-day.”

      “Beg pardon, sir.”

      “What is it, Mr Murray?”

      The midshipman pointed right aft, where the faint mist was floating away from where it hung about a mile away over the distant shore.

      “Well, sir, why don’t you speak?” cried the captain, now speaking angrily. “Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr Murray; another mist was in my eyes. That must be the course of the other fork of the river. I see it plainly now. We have been lured up here and run upon this muddy shoal in the belief that we shall never get off; and there goes our prize with her load of black unfortunates. Do you see her, Mr Anderson?”

      “Too plainly, sir,” said the chief officer sadly.

      For it was now broad daylight and the swift-looking schooner was gliding along apparently through the trees which covered a narrow spit of land.

      “Hah!” said the captain quietly. “Yes, that’s it, Mr Anderson – our prize, and a beautiful morning for her to make her start for the West Indies. Bless that straightforward, timorous, modest American skipper! Do you know, Mr Anderson, I am strongly of opinion that he commands that craft and that he will find his way through some of the muddy creeks and channels of the mangrove forest back to where she will be waiting for him. Well, master, what do you think?” he continued, as that officer came up hurriedly. “Will the sloop lie over any further?”

      “No, sir; that is stopped; but we are wedged in fast.”

      “So I suppose. Well, Mr Thomson, it does not mean a wreck?”

      “No, no, sir, nor any damage as far as I can say.”

      “Damage, Mr Thomson,” said the captain, smiling at him pleasantly; “but it does, man; damage to our reputation – mine – Mr Anderson’s. But you were going to say something, to ask me some question.”

      “Yes, sir; about taking steps to get the sloop out of the bed in which she lies.”

      “Poor bird, yes; but you see no risk for the present?”

      “Not the slightest, sir. The mud is so soft.”

      “Mud generally is, Mr Thomson,” said the captain blandly. “Well, then, let her rest for a while. We are all tired after a long night’s work. Pass the word to Mr Dempsey, and let him pipe all hands for breakfast. I want mine badly.”

      There was a faint cheer at this, followed by another, and then by one which Murray said was a regular “roarer.”

      “I say,” he said to Roberts, “doesn’t he take it splendidly!”

      “Don’t you make any mistake,” replied that young gentleman. “He seems as cool as a cucumber, but he’s boiling with rage, and if he had that Yankee here he’d hang him from the yard-arm as sure as he’s his mother’s son.”

      “And serve him right,” said Murray bitterly.

      “What’s that, young gentlemen?” said the captain, turning upon them sharply, for he had noted what was going on and placed his own interpretation upon the conversation – “criticising your superiors?”

      “No, sir,” said Murray frankly; “we were talking about punishing the Yankee who tricked us into this.”

      “Gently, Mr Murray – gently, sir! You hot-blooded boys are in too great a hurry. Wait a bit. I dare say we shall have the pleasure of another interview with him; and, by the way, Mr Anderson, I think as we are so near, we might as well inspect the indiarubber plantations of our friend. We might see, too, if he has any more work-people of the same type as those who manned his galley.”

      “I’m afraid we should only find them on board the schooner, sir,” said the chief officer bitterly.

      “Exactly,” said the captain; “but I wonder at you young gentlemen,” he continued – “you with your sharp young brains allowing yourselves to be deceived as you were. Those fellows who formed the lugger’s crew ought not to have hoodwinked you.”

      “They did me, sir,” said Roberts, speaking out warmly, “but Murray, here, sir, was full of suspicion from the first.”

      Chapter Eight.

      Amongst the Horrors

      The crew of the Seafowl had a busy day’s work after a good refresher, during which officers and men had been discussing in low tones the way in which “the skipper,” as they called him, had let himself be tricked by the Yankee. The younger men wanted to know what he could have been about, while the elder shook their heads sagely.

      “Ah,” more than one said, “it has always been the same since the revolution; these Yankees have been too much for us. There’s something in the American air that sharpens their brains.”

      Then old Dempsey, the boatswain, who had heard pretty well all that the captain had said, chewed it over, digested it, and gave it voice as if it was something new, to first one knot of listeners and then another, ending with the two midshipmen.

      “You see, Mr Murray, and you too, Mr Roberts, it was like this. That schooner had just started for the West Injies with a full load of niggers, when she sighted the Seafowl and knowed she was a king’s ship looking after a prize.”

      “How could the Yankee skipper know that?” said Murray. “He could only get just a glimpse before we were hidden by the fog.”

      “Cut of the jib, sir – cut of the jib,” said the old man. “What else could he think? ’Sides, Yankee slaving skippers have got consciences, same as other men.”

      “Rubbish, Mr Dempsey!” said Roberts contemptuously.

      “Course they are, sir – worst of rubbish,