The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack. H. Bedford-Jones

fell forward in their arms. Well, they knew that it was the signal to flee with him to his one refuge—Tetuan, on the coast. The captain of the bodyguard came running in hastily.

      “There is mad tumult in the camp—by Allah! What has happened here?”

      “Disaster,” said Gholam Mahmoud coolly. “The armies at Oran and Ceuta destroyed, Mulai Ali alive and proclaimed sherif! The master says to flee to Tetuan at once. Take the ship.”

      “Listen!” shouted a renegade from the doorway. “Listen!”

      From the camp below came rising a great chorus of voices, while muskets banged. “Ras Ripperda!” clamored a shrill, deadly yell, and the name of Mulai Ali rose high.

      “They’ll have his head; sure enough.” Gholam Mahmoud gestured toward the unconscious Ripperda. “Get him away! You are cut off from the ship; you can’t gain it now. To horse!”

      “By Allah, that is the truth!” cried the captain of the guard. “We cannot reach the shore. Bring him out, comrades—to horse, to horse!”

      A rush of excited men. The tent emptied, save for the girl shrinking to one side—and Gholam Mahmoud. The latter brought a whistle to his lips, blew a shrill blast. The next moment a dozen men—his own men—were crowding into the pavilion. A mad tumult was rolling up from the camp.

      “Loot everything!” cried Gholam Mahmoud. “Get aboard Ripperda’s ship—take her and her treasures for ourselves. Quickly! Scatter and meet at the shore!”

      He turned upon Mistress Betty. One cry broke from her, but too late. A shawl was about her head, and he lifted her in his arms.

      A moment afterward the rush of maddened Berbers, yelling the name of Mulai Ali and shrieking for the head of Ripperda, burst over the group of tents. These were empty. Only a hard-riding group of horsemen under the starlight showed that some few men had been faithful to the fallen pasha—faithful enough to flee with him.

      CHAPTER XII

      “Now from the bow came a noise of humming, and the crafty Odysseus sailed as he heard it.”

      When that fateful evening cast its shadows over the bay, Spence and his score of fellow slaves were herded into their fish-shed, ironed as usual by wrist and ankle. But tonight they did not cast themselves down in hopeless despair on the piles of filthy nets. Instead there was a low murmur of talk in the shed. Spence eyed his companions eagerly.

      Three of them were from Newfoundland, the others were Boston men. Two over the score lay to one side, sorely wounded. All the officers of the Boston Lass had been calm at her taking, and now it was to Spence that these men looked for leadership. Nor did he fail them.

      “Fear not, lads,” he said quietly. “That Moor was no liar! He and a dozen more men stand ready to aid us, and he bears an order from Mulai Ali to free us. Once escaped, we are safe enough.”

      “And the lady, master?” spoke up lanky Cyrus Roberts, whom Spence had appointed to be his chief mate. “Be yon Moor a going to get her aboard the ship?”

      “So he promised me,” answered Spence. “Hark! Something has happened in the camp.”

      They fell silent, listening tensely. Something, indeed, had happened; the shallop had come to shore, bearing news of the disaster at Oran. Now, as the news spread through the camp, there arose a great tumult of cursing and shouting. Amid this clamor a dozen men stole into the shed, and their leader came to the side of Spence.

      “Make haste, capitán!” he cried in Spanish. “Disaster has befallen our army at Oran, and already my emissaries are spreading news of Mulai Ali. Presently the tribesmen will be crying for the head of Ripperda—here are robes and swords.”

      The Moor and his men were already unlocking the irons of the seamen. From somewhere close at hand boomed a musket, followed by a shrill yell: “Ras Ripperda!”

      “I must go!” exclaimed the Moor. “I shall see to the señorita and meet you at the boats. Take your time and move carefully, lest you be recognized. These men of mine will obey you. Order them in Castilian—farewell!”

      He was gone, running out into the clamor that now made an inferno of the camp.

      Spence, freed of his irons, rose and took charge. There was no further need of caution, for the Berber camp was now in tumultuous confusion, guns flashing and torches flaring on every hand. Spence’s voice commanded the seamen sharply, as he stood beside the pile of robes and arms which had been brought by the Moors.

      “Every man file past me and get a burnoose. Mr. Roberts! Take charge of these scimitars and deal them out, while I show the men how to get into the robes.”

      “Aye, aye, sir!” responded Roberts promptly.

      For any in the fever-hot camp to know that the Christian slaves were escaping, would provoke instant massacre, and Spence took no chances. He garbed each man in a burnoose, while Roberts handed out the swords and a few pistols which had been provided. Deep were the oaths of satisfaction which sounded as the men gripped the hilts and felt themselves once more free and about to strike a blow.

      “Nigh enough like cutlasses, lads,” sang out Roberts, “to make ’em swing well! All ready here, sir. Be they Moors goin’ with us?”

      Spence addressed the Moors, found that they were to help him capture the brigantine, and ordered them to lead the way. A last word to his men.

      “Not a word until we get under her side, lads, or we may lose everything! She is Ripperda’s own ship, and if he gets aboard her we may have stiff work of it. But she’s our only chance of getting home again—look alive! Follow the Moors.”

      It was the hope of Spence that he might not only capture the brigantine, but take Ripperda prisoner, for it was deemed certain that Ripperda would flee to his ship. Even Spence perceived, when he emerged from the shed, that this was an impossibility. From every side the Berbers were surrounding the little eminence on which stood Ripperda’s camp, and the pasha was quite cut off from shore.

      “Unless he gets away by land, he’s done for,” thought Spence, listening to the frenzied yells of the mob.

      Meantime, with his men, he was approaching the shore, where the fisher boats lay drawn up. Here, everything was darkness and confusion; several boats were creeping over the water between the shore and the anchored ships, and the Moors who were leading the party of white men came to a halt, counseling a wait for their leader.

      Spence controlled the eagerness of his men, anxiously awaiting news of Mistress Betty. Suddenly a growl broke from Roberts.

      “Master Spence! They’ve doused the lights on the brigantine—if they’re not a hauling of her out, then sink me for a Dutchman! Aye—can hear the clink o’ the pawls—kedging her, they are.”

      True enough. Spence, hearing that sound, imagining that he could see the vague shape of the brigantine already moving across the water, caught his breath sharply. He breathed a prayer as he stood there in agonized suspense. Freedom—slipping away in the darkness! Without that brigantine they were lost. He knew it, the others knew it. And they waited for a girl.

      Around him he could feel the tense straining and quivering of the seamen—their panting breaths, their awful agony of fear in that moment. From one bronzed throat came a stifled groan, then silence again. At length one man spoke up in terrorized accents.

      “Master Spence! ’Tis too much to bide here doing naught, waiting for a lady.”

      Somebody smote the man; there was the thud of a blow, then desperate silence. Spence felt a thrill as he sensed the quality of these seamen, sacrificing their hopes, jeopardizing their chances of escape for a girl they had never seen. He knew how bitter hard was that self-control.

      “Ready at the boats, men,” he said quietly. “Lay the wounded men aboard and stand by to launch.”

      A rustle of movement, a scrape of feet as they obeyed. All the while from