The Pirate Story Megapack. R.M. Ballantyne

for emergencies. I just found it.”

      “Pass it up.” Stevens’ voice was hoarse from eagerness.

      “No. Send down the water first, or I’ll smash the bottle.”

      “Don’t do that. I’ll bring the water.”

      “Let it down. Then you may come.”

      “If he comes into this cabin to start drinking,” said Jim in a tense whisper, “I’ll not answer for myself. I—”

      “Sh!” He felt her fingertips on his lips. “It will not matter. Trust me.”

      The water came down in a demijohn, lukewarm, cloudy stuff, but water. Jim unfastened it from the cord and took it to the cabin where Sanders and Walker lay. Moore, on the transom, was slowly beginning to come back to consciousness. The companion hatch slid back, letting in more light, and Stevens came running down.

      “No tricks now,” he said. “I trusted you. Where—? Ah, you’re a sport! This is the real stuff.”

      He tilted the bottle at his mouth and drank greedily.

      “Just the one bottle?” he asked between gulps.

      “There is some wine. I thought the men…” Kitty had purposely spoken loudly. Heads appeared above. “One of you can come down and get it,” she said. “Only one. You’ll have about a bottle apiece. Hurry.”

      An unshaven villain came clattering down and stacked up the wine in his arms, returning shouting to his comrades.

      “You’re a cunning little devil,” said Stevens, and his voice sounded drowsy. “Thought you said only one? Here’s to your bright eyes—to your red lips—to—”

      He pitched forward to the floor. On deck the men were shouting ribald toasts to each other. They heard nothing, suspected nothing.

      “Drugged?” whispered Jim.

      “Chloral in the brandy,” she answered. “I don’t know how much. I hope I’ve killed him,” she said with a fierceness Jim had never credited her with. “The wine has morphine in it. I crushed the pellets. Quick, get his gun. Newton, here’s the whisky. It is all right. Give some to the boys. Get it down Walker’s throat.” Newton went off with the bottle. Jim knelt to get the automatic and the belt with its holster and cartridges, buckling it about him.

      “You are wonderful,” he said to Kitty.

      “I think you have been too,” she said. And he knew that in the stress of danger and trouble all suggestions of caste and difference had been removed. Kitty and Lynda mixed water with permanganate crystals and bathed Walker’s head and Moore’s cuts and abrasions. The whisky had brought them back.

      “Where the divvle am I? Who’s singin’?” said Moore.

      The men were roaring snatches of songs. The morphine had lost virtue or was slow to act. Walker, revived, was still confused.

      “They busted in my nut,” he said. “Oh, Gawd, it’s split in ’arf.”

      “Buck up,” said Newton. “Have another swig of this.”

      Jim checked him.

      “Not too much,” he cautioned.

      “Then I will.” Already Newton’s breath smoked with the stuff and his speech was thick.

      “Take it away from him,” said Kitty. “You need some yourself.”

      “Not in this weather.”

      “Lynda and I are going to have a little, to make the water drinkable. Give me the bottle, Newton.”

      “Where’s the other? Hang it, Kitty, that stuff puts new life in you.”

      “You’ve had enough,” said Jim sternly. “We don’t want to pack you.” His disgust showed plainly. Newton muttered and subsided. The diluted drink that Kitty mixed ran through their veins with swift reaction that cheered them. Above the singing had died down.

      “I’m going on deck,” said Jim, “To get their weapons. We’ll tie them up.”

      “If they’re alive. Do you suppose I’ve really killed them? It is murder. I was desperate. Stevens, the beast, was different. I’m not sorry for him if he is dead. But—”

      “I’ll see,” said Jim. “I don’t think you need reproach yourself.” He saw she was shaking with revulsion. Lynda took her in her arms. “You haven’t killed Stevens, anyway,” Jim added. “Chloral is the same as knockout drops. He’s breathing all right. He’ll come out of it after a few hours. I’ll get him out of here, if the rest are drugged. Newton, I’ll want your help. Step quietly.” Newton staggered a little, but braced himself and followed Jim up the companion ladder. On deck, in the queer twilight of the jungle they saw five men sprawled on the planks amid the wreckage and the vines, arms flung wide. One or two twitched in their stupor as they cautiously approached. They secured two pistols from the nearest with another cartridge belt. Jim had reached for a rifle leaning against the skylight when Newton gave a cry of warning, and a shot shattered the silence and a bullet sang by Jim’s head. A volley followed out of the bush through which men were crashing at top speed, aiming as they ran. Jim flung himself on deck with Newton to dodge the fusillade. Men were swarming up the bows of the ship, hidden by the screen of greenery and cordage, firing fast. The bullets whistled about them as they fled before the superior force. Swenson’s bellow sounded as he forced his way aft with at least ten men back of him.

      Jim and Newton heard him cursing as he surveyed his prostrate men while they slammed the hatch and returned to the alarmed women. Moore was on his feet, demanding a gun, Walker feebly struggling to get out of his bunk, Swenson’s thunderous oaths continued as he swore at his fallen men. He seemed to be kicking them and the emptied bottles. The others pounded at the hatch that had jammed again. Jim shouted up.

      “The first man that shows a head will be shot. We’ve got their guns and plenty of shells, Swenson.”

      There was silence then Swenson suddenly guffawed.

      “Tricked again!” he shouted and seemed to take delight in the fact. “Drugged! I bet the girl thought of that, Lyman. Have you got Stevens down there?”

      “What there is of him.”

      “The blighted fool. Damn me, but it was smartly done. Look here, I want to have a talk with you. I’ve a proposition to make. You’ve got guns. I’ll come down without any, I’ll trust you for a truce. What do you say? We’ll make a deal.”

      “Shall we?” asked Kitty in an undertone.

      “He can’t hurt any. Come on, Swenson. You shall have a drink of whisky. We’ve got plenty of stuff that isn’t drugged. Canned goods, too, for grub.”

      Kitty gave a start.

      “There may be, at that,” she whispered. “I know where they are stored. Right under our feet, above the bilge.”

      “Prepared for a siege, are you? How about water? But I’ll go you, providing you sample the liquor. Pete, you take charge here. Souse those drugged fools. Walk ’em up and down. Kick sense into ’em.”

      “Only you,” warned Jim.

      “All right, my fox. Lyman, you’re a wise one and you’ve a wiser head with you in that girl of yours. I’m coming.”

      They could barely see each other in the cabin as Swenson, with a great show of heartiness and good humor, took his drink without asking for a test.

      “Wouldn’t pay you to drug me, more ways than one,” he said. “Now, then, I’ve come back from that wild-goose chase. It ’ud take a month to search this island. I’m going to leave that to you. Your kanakas gave us the slip in the bush somewhere. They may come back after we’re gone.

      “We’re going, I reckon. I’ve struck a better idea than