Tarzan of the Apes
Toward noon they were within speaking distance of the British vessel,
but when Clayton had nearly decided to ask the captain to put them
aboard her, the obvious ridiculousness of such a request became
suddenly apparent. What reason could he give the officer commanding her
majesty’s ship for desiring to go back in the direction from which he
had just come!
What if he told them that two insubordinate seamen had been roughly
handled by their officers? They would but laugh in their sleeves and
attribute his reason for wishing to leave the ship to but one
thing—cowardice.
John Clayton, Lord Greystoke, did not ask to be transferred to the
British man-of-war. Late in the afternoon he saw her upper works fade
below the far horizon, but not before he learned that which confirmed
his greatest fears, and caused him to curse the false pride which had
restrained him from seeking safety for his young wife a few short hours
before, when safety was within reach—a safety which was now gone
forever.
It was mid-afternoon that brought the little old sailor, who had been
felled by the captain a few days before, to where Clayton and his wife
stood by the ship’s side watching the ever diminishing outlines of the
great battleship. The old fellow was polishing brasses, and as he came
edging along until close to Clayton he said, in an undertone:
“’Ell’s to pay, sir, on this ’ere craft, an’ mark my word for it, sir.
’Ell’s to pay.”
“What do you mean, my good fellow?” asked Clayton.
“Wy, hasn’t ye seen wats goin’ on? Hasn’t ye ’eard that devil’s spawn
of a capting an’ ’is mates knockin’ the bloomin’ lights outen ’arf the
crew?
“Two busted ’eads yeste’day, an’ three to-day. Black Michael’s as good
as new agin an’ ’e’s not the bully to stand fer it, not ’e; an’ mark my
word for it, sir.”
“You mean, my man, that the crew contemplates mutiny?” asked Clayton.
“Mutiny!” exclaimed the old fellow. “Mutiny! They means murder, sir,
an’ mark my word for it, sir.”
“When?”
“Hit’s comin’, sir; hit’s comin’ but I’m not a-sayin’ wen, an’ I’ve
said too damned much now, but ye was a good sort t’other day an’ I
thought it no more’n right to warn ye. But keep a still tongue in yer
’ead an’ when ye ’ear shootin’ git below an’ stay there.
“That’s all, only keep a still tongue in yer ’ead, or they’ll put a
pill between yer ribs, an’ mark my word for it, sir,” and the old
fellow went on with his polishing, which carried him away from where
the Claytons were standing.
“Deuced cheerful outlook, Alice,” said Clayton.
“You should warn the captain at once, John. Possibly the trouble may
yet be averted,” she said.
“I suppose I should, but yet from purely selfish motives I am almost
prompted to ‘keep a still tongue in my ’ead.’ Whatever they do now they
will spare us in recognition of my stand for this fellow Black Michael,
but should they find that I had betrayed them there would be no mercy
shown us, Alice.”
“You have but one duty, John, and that lies in the interest of vested
authority. If you do not warn the captain you are as much a party to
whatever follows as though you had helped to plot and carry it out with
your own head and hands.”
“You do not understand, dear,” replied Clayton. “It is of you I am
thinking—there lies my first duty. The captain has brought this
condition upon himself, so why then should I risk subjecting my wife to
unthinkable horrors in a probably futile attempt to save him from his
own brutal folly? You have no conception, dear, of what would follow
were this pack of cutthroats to gain control of the _Fuwalda_.”
“Duty is duty, John, and no amount of sophistries may change it. I
would be a poor wife for an English lord were I to be responsible for
his shirking a plain duty. I realize the danger which must follow, but
I can face it with you.”
“Have it as you will then, Alice,” he answered, smiling. “Maybe we are
borrowing trouble. While I do not like the looks of things on board
this ship, they may not be so bad after all, for it is possible that
the ‘Ancient Mariner’ was but voicing the desires of his wicked old
heart rather than speaking of real facts.
“Mutiny on the high sea may have been common a hundred years ago, but
in this good year 1888 it is the least likely of happenings.
“But there goes the captain to his cabin now. If I am going to warn him
I might as well get the beastly job over for I have little stomach to
talk with the brute at all.”
So saying he strolled carelessly in the direction of the companionway
through which the captain had passed, and a moment later was knocking
at his door.
“Come in,” growled the deep tones of that surly officer.
And when Clayton had entered, and closed the door behind him:
“Well?”
“I have come to report the gist of a conversation I heard to-day,
because I feel that, while there may be nothing to it, it is as well
that you be forearmed. In short, the men contemplate mutiny and
murder.”
“It’s a lie!” roared the captain. “And if you have been interfering
again with the discipline of this ship, or meddling in affairs that
don’t concern you you can take the consequences, and be damned. I don’t
care whether you are an English lord or not. I’m captain of this here
ship, and from now on you keep your meddling nose out of my business.”
The captain had worked himself up to such a frenzy of rage that he was
fairly purple of face, and he shrieked the last words at the top of his
voice, emphasizing his remarks by a loud thumping of the table with one
huge fist, and shaking the other in Clayton’s face.
Greystoke never turned a hair, but stood eyeing the excited man with
level gaze.
“Captain Billings,” he drawled finally, “if you will pardon my candor,
I might remark that you are something of an ass.”
Whereupon he turned and left the captain with the same indifferent ease
that was habitual with him, and which was more surely calculated to
raise the ire of a man of Billings’ class than a torrent of invective.
So, whereas the captain might easily have been brought to regret his
hasty speech had Clayton attempted to conciliate him, his temper was
now irrevocably set in the mold in which Clayton had left it, and the
last chance of their working together for their common good was gone.
“Well, Alice,” said Clayton, as he rejoined his wife, “I might have
saved my breath. The fellow proved most ungrateful. Fairly jumped at me
like a mad dog.
“He and his blasted old ship may hang, for aught I care; and until we
are safely off the thing I shall spend my energies in looking after our
own welfare. And I rather fancy the first step to that end should be to
go to our cabin and look over my revolvers. I am sorry now that we
packed the larger guns and the ammunition with the stuff below.”
They found their quarters in a bad state of disorder. Clothing from
their open boxes and bags strewed the little apartment, and even their
beds had been torn to pieces.
“Evidently someone was more anxious about our belongings than we,” said
Clayton. “Let’s have a look around, Alice, and see what’s missing.”
A thorough search revealed the fact that nothing had been taken but
Clayton’s two revolvers and the small supply of ammunition he had saved
out for them.
“Those are the very things I most wish they had left us,” said Clayton,
“and the fact that they wished for them and them alone is most
sinister.”
“What are we to do, John?” asked his wife. “Perhaps you were right in
that our best chance lies in maintaining a neutral position.
“If the officers are able to prevent a mutiny, we have nothing to fear,
while if the mutineers are victorious our one slim hope lies in not
having attempted to thwart or antagonize them.”
“Right you are, Alice. We’ll keep in the middle of the road.”
As they started to straighten up their cabin, Clayton and his wife
simultaneously noticed the corner of a piece of paper protruding from
beneath the door of their quarters. As Clayton stooped to reach for it
he was amazed to see it move further into the room, and then he
realized that it was being pushed inward by someone from without.
Quickly and silently he stepped toward the door, but, as he reached for
the knob to throw it open, his wife’s hand fell upon his wrist.
“No, John,” she whispered. “They do not wish to be seen, and so we
cannot afford to see them. Do not forget that we are keeping to the
middle of the road.”
Clayton smiled and dropped his hand to his side. Thus they stood
watching the little bit of white paper until it finally remained at
rest upon the floor just inside the door.
Then Clayton stooped and picked it up. It was a bit of grimy, white
paper roughly folded into a ragged square. Opening it they found a
crude message printed almost illegibly, and with many evidences of an
unaccustomed task.
Translated, it was a warning to the Claytons to refrain from reporting
the loss of the revolvers, or from repeating what the old sailor had
told them—to refrain on pain of death.
“I rather imagine we’ll be good,” said Clayton with a rueful smile.
“About all we can do is to sit tight and wait for whatever may come.”
CHAPTER II.
The Savage Home
Nor did they have long to wait, for the next morning as Clayton was
emerging on deck for his accustomed walk before breakfast, a shot rang
out, and then another, and another.
The sight which met his eyes confirmed his worst fears. Facing the
little knot of officers was the entire motley crew of the _Fuwalda_,
and at their head stood Black Michael.
At the first volley from the officers the men ran for shelter, and from
points of vantage behind masts, wheel-house and cabin they returned the
fire of the five men who represented the hated authority of the ship.
Two of their number had gone down before the captain’s revolver. They
lay where they had fallen between the combatants. But then the first
mate lunged forward upon his face, and at a cry of command from Black
Michael the mutineers charged the remaining four. The crew had been
able to muster but six firearms, so most of them were armed with boat
hooks, axes, hatchets and crowbars.
The captain had emptied his revolver and was reloading as the charge
was made. The second mate’s gun had jammed, and so there were but two
weapons opposed to the mutineers as they bore down upon the officers,
who now started to give back before the infuriated rush of their men.
Both sides were cursing and swearing in a frightful manner, which,
together with the reports of the firearms and the screams and groans of
the wounded, turned the deck of the _Fuwalda_ to the likeness of a
madhouse.
Before the officers had taken a dozen backward steps the men were upon
them. An ax in the hands of a burly Negro cleft the captain from
forehead to chin, and an instant later the others were down: dead or
wounded from dozens of blows and bullet wounds.
Short and grisly had been the work of the mutineers of the _Fuwalda_,
and through it all John Clayton had stood leaning carelessly beside the
companionway puffing meditatively upon his pipe as though he had been
but watching an indifferent cricket match.
As the last officer went down he thought it was time that he returned
to his wife lest some members of the crew find her alone below.
Though outwardly calm and indifferent, Clayton was inwardly
apprehensive and wrought up, for he feared for his wife’s safety at the
hands of these ignorant, half-brutes into whose hands fate had so
remorselessly thrown them.
As he turned to descend the ladder he was surprised to see his wife
standing on the steps almost at his side.
“How long have you been here, Alice?”
“Since the beginning,” she replied. “How awful, John. Oh, how awful!
What can we hope for at the hands of such as those?”