Part 16 (1/2)

One by one the _Barang's_ seamen were taken to trees and fastened securely by tough vines. No distinction was made between seamen and the men from the post, since neither wore uniforms but were simply dressed in flimsy cotton pants and s.h.i.+rt. In a wide circle they were placed, and gradually it dawned upon Barry that he and Little were in the center of the circle.

Now the leader of the naval crew called his fellows, and they approached their white prisoners with ropes--vegetable vines. And with the leer of a devil, the officer leaned down and flung Barry over on his face.

Swiftly both captives were secured, and with no tyro hands. Then they were dragged apart a bit, and each lifted and carried by head and feet until they were fairly over two of those bare, brown humps of earth.

Here they were dropped, and a heavy stake at head and foot, driven into the ground, made tethering posts for their bonds.

”My G.o.d! Ants!” gasped Barry, struggling madly. A laugh above him chilled his blood, and a drawling voice replied: ”Yes, my brave gold washer. Ants. A fit amus.e.m.e.nt for such as you.”

Barry twisted his purple face to catch Little's eye. In the ex-salesman, so swiftly transferred from an atmosphere of peaceful trade to one of lurid tragedy, the skipper saw a pale, awed fear of the horrible; but not one trace of weakness was there: none of the coward. Little returned his friend's gaze and, bravely trying to conceal the effort it cost him, he winked slowly, whimsically, then wrinkled his nose in distaste.

”In case you may not be sufficiently amused, we will make sure of good quick action,” sneered the officer, and a man came forward with a pail of sticky native sugar. This he smeared over both the bound men, then laid trails of the mess in radiating lines to the edge of the ant hills to attract other vermin.

And when all was done, the Dutch party withdrew, and Little's soul surged with renewed hope. He called softly yet clearly to Barry:

”There's a chance yet! They'll go now. I sent a man to the s.h.i.+p!”

”It is just a chance,” returned Barry more hopefully. Then his heart sank again, and he groaned: ”Not a chance, Little, old scout. Look! The fiends are camping. They mean to watch us out!”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Aboard the _Barang_ Mr. Rolfe and happy Bill Blunt kept a wary watch upon the vessel moored astern. For an hour after the boat had departed, an air of stupendous readiness for anything that might turn up pervaded the old brigantine, and her remaining crew showed in their att.i.tudes their realization of the necessity for all these impressive measures.

Then, as the evening drew on, something about the schooner astern caused the mate to secretly regard his newly s.h.i.+pped watch and mate, and in turn made Bill Blunt make many a trip to the shelter of the galley whence he inspected his superior quizzically. At length, when the hands were getting their supper, eating on the forecastle head in order to maintain their att.i.tude of alertness, the mate joined Bill and remarked tentatively:

”Seems quiet aboard there, don't it?”

”Werry nice, sir, that it do,” rejoined Bill, masticating a colossal quid with enjoyment.

”Almost think she was--”

”Deserted, sir? Took it right outa my mouth, you did,” Bill filled in, and the two men peered into each other's faces questioningly.

The _Padang_ did look deserted. In fact, ever since the big launch left, and a few hands had been seen about the wharf busily adjusting the lines that apparently needed no adjustment, no life had been conspicuous aboard her. The villagers had long since gone to their homes, since there was no work for them at the dock after Houten's small parcel of trade goods had gone up to the post, and the two vessels lay as quiet and peaceful as if in some humdrum port of concrete wharves and steam cranes. But now, as if to answer the doubts of the brigantine's people, a gangway light shone out on the schooner, and another, dimmer and partly obscured, sent yellow rays from the half-open galley door.

”Somebody there, anyway,” muttered Rolfe, and satisfied once more that vigilance was necessary, if not quite as vital as before, he split the men into watches, sent one half to sleep, and partook of a final pipe with the old navy man before turning in himself.

And as the still, dark night enveloped them, and the river chill struck up, they made themselves more comfortable in the shelter of the deckhouse, one dozing on the lounge while the other remained awake, both ready for an instant call.

It was the same black, opaque night as Barry and his crew spent up the river, waiting for the moon; and the mysterious night noises from the sh.o.r.e were lulling and drowsy. Gradually the schooner blurred into a vague ma.s.s of shadow, out of which the two lights twinkled uncertainly.

And mingling with the chirp of insects and the fitful cries of dreaming monkeys came a gnawing and rasping of wood that seemed to echo throughout the silent _Barang_.

”What's that?” growled Blunt, sitting up and listening.

”Rats,” returned Rolfe sleepily. ”Th' darned old wagon's alive with 'em.”

”Them's proper rats, I bet,” rejoined Bill, snugging down again. ”Reglar bandicoots, sounds like.”

Silence again descended upon the brigantine, and darkness broken only by the paling lights on the schooner and the red glow of the mate's pipe.

Then out of the quiet came the sharp tw.a.n.g of a hawser, and the brigantine s.h.i.+vered. Both watchers started up and ran to the side, striving to penetrate the blackness. The lines ran down to their proper bollards, as usual, and the river sluiced swiftly alongside, swirling musically between the rotten piles of the ramshackle wharf.