Part 50 (1/2)
Bothwell, the Flemings, and perhaps half a dozen dark-skinned sailors were crouching behind the bulwarks, raising their heads above the rail only to shoot.
A constant crackling of small arms filled the air. The boats had crept nearer and were pouring a very steady fire upon the defenders.
The forward movement was only a diversion under cover of which we might have a chance to escape, but it was being executed with so much briskness and spirit that Bothwell could not guess its harmless nature.
At my signal the sailor led Evelyn quickly toward the p.o.o.p. With my eyes over my left shoulder I followed at their heels. We had all but reached the stern when I heard the smack of a fist and turned in time to see a Panama peon hit the deck full length.
He had been hurrying forward and had caught sight of us. His mouth was open to shout an alarm at the time the Irishman's fist had landed against the double row of s.h.i.+ning teeth.
The fellow rolled over and was up like an acrobat. But my revolver, pointing straight at his stomach, steadied him in an instant.
”Don't move or shout,” I warned.
From the bushes Alderson had been waiting for us and his boat was in place. He flung up a rope ladder with grappling hooks on the end.
Gallagher fixed them to the rail and helped Evelyn down.
”You next,” I ordered.
”Yes, sir.”
”Your turn now, Sambo,” I told the peon after the sailor had gone.
The fellow rolled his eyes wildly toward the stem of the vessel but found no hope from that quarter. He clambered over the rail like a monkey and went down hand after hand. I followed him.
We were huddled promiscuously in the little boat so that it rocked to the very lip. For a half a minute I was afraid we were going down, but a s.h.i.+ft in position by Gallagher steadied the sh.e.l.l.
Meanwhile Alderson had thrown his muscles into the oars and we drew away steadily; fifty strokes, and the shadows had swallowed us.
Alderson pulled across the river and let the boat drift down the opposite bank. The outgoing tide carried us swiftly. We slipped past the schooner un.o.bserved. Gallagher blew twice on a whistle and the two boats commanded by Blythe and Yeager at once drew back into safety.
Some three hundred yards farther down stream they caught up with us.
”All right, Jack?” Blythe called across to me.
”All right, Sam.”
”Miss Wallace is with you, of course?”
”Yes, and one other pa.s.senger who nearly swamped us. Can you take our prisoner?”
His boat pulled up beside us and relieved us of one very frightened Panama peon. We were very glad to be rid of him, for a dozen times the waves had nearly swamped our overloaded skiff and I had been bailing every second.
A few minutes later we reached the _Argos_.
From Blythe I learned that Gallagher had been responsible for the plan by means of which he had rescued us. Moreover, he had insisted on taking the stellar role in carrying it out, dangerous as the part had been. It was his way of wiping out his share in the mutiny.
CHAPTER XXVI
THE LAST BRUSH