The Golden Age of Pulp Fiction MEGAPACK ™, Vol. 1: George Allan England. George Allan England

have guessed was true—the careening of the ship had swung the boats far inboard against their davits, so that nothing short of half a dozen men could now have got them over the rail, even had not the falls been twisted into knots and tangles.

      He knew at once the prime futility of an attempt. Even to have got a life-raft over they must have rigged tackles, and time was now so short. A real fear shuddered through his veins. Too well he knew what manner of men the Guinea wreckers were. His hand slid, as by instinct, to the butt of his revolver. Before a single black should come nigh her he knew a better way.

      “Impossible?” asked Ethel almost coolly. “Perhaps there’s some­thing better at the stern.”

      They forced a way, sliding, slipping, and clinging to whatever handholds offered. Under the counter they heard the waves run hissing. The wind whipped them as they worked out from the shelter of the after-cabin; it blew the lantern out. And as they stopped, breathing heavily in the dark, they saw once more the dancing fire sparks, heaving and tossing with the waves, and drawing very nigh. They could even see that the sparks were torches, harried by the wind; and once, in a lull, they heard a wild-pitched, minor chant that wailed and mourned across the vacant reaches of the night, with throbbings of many cadent drums.

      The woman trembled at this sound, and Willard drew her close to him.

      “Don’t be afraid,” he soothed her. “They shall never get you.”

      “Swear to that.”

      “I needn’t. You know how true it is.”

      “No time, now?”

      “No time. We’ll have to hold the fort. They probably don’t know we’re here, so it’ll be a fine surprise party. Lots of arms on board. You can shoot?”

      “Try me.”

      Thus, on the instant, their campaign took form.

      V.

      “They’ll board us midships on the port side,” Willard planned. “They’re after loot, and—and—and—well—edibles. Now we, I take it—”

      “Can barricade the stern here?”

      “Yes—rake ’em down by dozens. Except for knives and assegais, they’re probably not armed.”

      “How many do you make them?”

      “A good thousand. See, there must be more than fifty of those big sea-going barracas. But what are a thousand naked blacks against magazine rifles? They can’t rush us all at once. Come, though,” he added hastily, “this won’t do. We’ve to get things ready for ’em—quick, at that.”

      He dragged up cordage, with her help; piled sail-cloth, debris, chains, anything that fell to hand in the port and starboard gangways. And thus they built a strong, entrenched position, whence they could sweep unmercifully the narrow approaches. By the vague light of the stars they toiled, and saw their work was good.

      “We’ll lie low now,” panted the doctor. “If they don’t see us, well and good. Otherwise a finish fight. In case they drive us, there’s the aft companion to the upper deck. We can make a mighty fine killing from up there before they ever get us.”

      Without another word he drew from his pockets box on box of cartridges, broke the seals, and poured them out upon the deck. He set to loading all his arsenal, then laid part at the starboard barricade, the rest to port. Then, where some sail­cloth touched the wooden cabin, he drenched the place with lantern oil.

      “Now, let the guests arrive,” said he. “Refreshment’s ready.”

      “They’re almost here,” she whispered presently. “See there?”

      Cautiously they peeked over the solid iron bulwark, and started with surprise. The Guinea men had loomed up almost in a moment from the night. The bulks of their long canoes were adumbrated by the guttering torches at each prow, surging upward, dipping, sliding over the hungry, lapping tongues of sea. Swarming they came. Everywhere flicked a swash of paddle-blades, everywhere swung innumerable black bodies in rhythm with the crooning plunder-song. The drums were silent, all save one that pulsed incessantly.

      With a flesh-tingling wail of dissonance, the Guinea blacks teemed up about the Sutherland. A hum and murmur of barbaric voices filled the night. The acrid smoke from the torches stung the watchers’ nostrils as they crouched, gripping their rifles.

      “See,” whispered Willard. “They’re boarding now.”

      A sullen glow blurred up behind the port-rail midships. Then a blotch of flame wounded the shadows, and by this raw, wind-lashed beacon they saw the wreckers scramble in herds across the rail, their black, muscular bodies gleaming with sweat. Lights glinted from steel blades and spearheads.

      “Armed for bloody work!” thought Willard, but he held his peace.

      They clotted in a shifting mass, with cries like beasts; cracked, wild laughter; gibberish. And still they came, and came, and came.

      “Heavens, what an onslaught!” Willard groaned. “It seems a shame to wait.”

      “Maybe they’ll never think of coming aft?” breathed the girl.

      “Heaven knows! They’re in the saloon now. Hark! They’re plundering—looking for the dead!”

      Lights gleamed from the windows; noises rose within. The ship swarmed like a gigantic anthill, with this fetid crew. And now the watchers saw numberless black fellows crowding to the rail with loot, tossing it to waiting canoe-men. The whole scene blent and ran together like a nightmare. Ethel shut her eyes to it, bowed her head and waited.

      “Ready!”

      The doctor’s hissed command aroused her. With sudden paralyzing dread she looked. A mob of the cursed ghouls were scouting toward them up the gangway.

      Blear-faced and hideous they came, peering with brandished torches for what they might find. Ethel saw their little evil eyes; their red-dyed teeth as they grinned, jabbering; their shovel-headed spears.

      “Now!” yelled the doctor. Night split wide-open with the fire from their rifles; crackling echoes smashed back from the cabin. Ethel looked.

      She saw a struggling, screaming ruck that fled, a tangled heap jammed in the gangway—a heap that quivered.

      There was no time for looking. Into her hands the doctor thrust another rifle.

      “At the thick of ’em!” he shouted, and again death spouted from the barricade. Up to the sky shrilled a chorus of mad fear, so poignant, so unspeakable that they knew the rout was utter.

      The wreckers made no stand. They lunged off in ripe clusters from the rail, swam for their dear black lives, and lost full many. Some reached their fellows in the boats; cries, howls, demoniac execrations dwindled as the barracas foamed away.

      The doctor wiped his face with a torn sleeve and stood erect.

      “They’ll be back soon,” said he. “Stay here; I’m going to investigate. If I whistle, look alive for orders.”

      He pressed a revolver into her hand, clambered the barricade and was gone. The darkness swallowed him.

      She crouched behind the barricade, waiting, wondering, thrill­ing with the first imperative command which ever, as a woman, had been given her. The mastery of it steadied her, and was sweet. It almost made her forget the aching shoulder where the rifle-butt had plunged, and the dizzy swimming of her head.

      The moments lagged eternal. What if some evil chance should fall and he should never come? She trembled at the thought. Suddenly and for the first time in her whole life she realized what manner of thing the comradeship of man may be, how very needful, very dear.

      “Come back! Come back!” her lips formed the words there in the night—words which she dared not bring to utterance.

      She heard a sudden wild noise on the sea. “They’re coming back!” she