Part 57 (2/2)
”And Democrates's despatches are hid in the cabin,” added Hiram, chattering. ”If they do not go overboard, our deaths will be terrible.”
”Hear, King Moloch!” called Hasdrubal, lifting his swarthy arms to heaven, then striking them with his sword till the blood gushed down, ”suffer us to escape this calamity and I vow thee even my daughter Tibat,-a child in her tenth year,-she shall die in thy holy furnace a sacrifice.”
”Hear, Baal! Hear, Moloch!” chorussed the crew; and gathering courage from necessity seized boat-hooks, oars, dirks, and all other handy weapons for their attack.
But below the released prisoners had not been idle. Never-Glaucon knew it-had his brain been clearer, his invention more fertile than now, and Phormio was not too old to cease to be a valiant helper. The cabin was small. A few spears and swords stood in the rack about the mast. The athlete bolted the sliding hatch-cover, and tore down the weapons.
”Release your wife,” he ordered Phormio; ”yonder sea chest is strong. Drag it over to bar the hatch-ladder. Work as t.i.tans if you hope for another sun.”
”_Ai, ai, ai!_” screeched Lampaxo, who had released Lars's fingers only to resume her din, ”we all perish. They are hewing the hatch-cover with their axes. Hera preserve us! The wood splinters. We die.”
”We have no time to die,” called the athlete, ”but only to save h.e.l.las.”
A dozen blows beat the frail hatch-cover to splinters. A dark face with grinning teeth showed itself. A heavy ballast stone grazed the athlete's shoulder, but the intruder fell back with a gurgling in his throat, his hands clutching the empty air. Glaucon had sent a heavy spear clean through him.
More ballast stones, but the t.i.tanic Alcmaeonid had torn a mattress from a bunk, and held it as effective s.h.i.+eld. By main force the others dragged the chest across to the hatchway, making the entrance doubly narrow.
Vainly Hasdrubal stormed at his men to rush down boldly. They barely dared to fling stones and darts, so fast their adversary sped them back, and to the mark.
”A G.o.d! a G.o.d! We fight against Heaven!” bleated the seamen.
Their groans were answered by the screechings of Lampaxo through the port-hole and the taunts of Phormio.
”Sing, sing, pretty Pisinoe, sweetest of the sirens,” tossed the fishmonger, playing his part at Glaucon's side; ”lure that dear penteconter a little nearer. And you, brave, gentle sirs, don't try 'to flay a skinned dog' by thrusting down here. Your hands are just itching for the nails, I warrant!”
Hasdrubal redoubled his vows to Moloch. In place of his daughter he subst.i.tuted his son, though the lad was fourteen years old and the darling of his parents. But the G.o.d was not tempted even now. The attack on the cabin had called the sailors from the oars. The penteconter consequently had gained fast upon them. The trireme behind was manning her other banks and drawing down apace. Hiram cast a hopeless glance toward her.
”I know those 'eyes'-those red hawse-holes-the _Nausicaa_. Come what may, Themistocles must not read the packet in the cabin. There is one chance.”
He approached the splintered hatchway and outstretched his hands-weaponless.
”Ah, good and gracious Master Glaucon, and your honest friends, your G.o.ds of h.e.l.las are very great and have delivered us, your poor slaves, into your hands. Your friends approach. We will resist no longer. Come on deck; and when the s.h.i.+p is taken, entreat the navarch to be merciful and generous.”
”Bah!” spat Phormio, ”you write your promises in water, or better in oil, black-scaled viper. We know what time of day it is with us, and what for you.”
Hiram saw Glaucon's hand rise with a javelin, and shrank s.h.i.+vering.
”They won't hearken. All's lost,” he whimpered, his smile becoming ghastly.
”Another rush, men!” pleaded Hasdrubal.
”Lead the charge yourself, master!” retorted the seamen, sullenly.
The captain, swinging a cutla.s.s, leaped down the bloodstained hatch. One moment the desperate fury of his attack carried Glaucon backward. The two fought-sword against axe-in doubtful combat.
”Follow! follow!” called Hasdrubal, das.h.i.+ng Phormio aside with the flat of his blade. ”I have him at last!” But just as Hiram was leading down a dozen more, the athlete's axe swept past the sword, and fell like a millstone on the master's skull. He never screamed as he crashed upon the planks.
This was enough. The seamen were at the end of their valour. If they must die, they must die. What use resisting destiny?
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