Down the Coast of Barbary/Chapter 12

HEN that fateful evening cast its shadows over the bay, Spence and his score of fellow slaves were herded into their fish-shed, ironed as usual by wrist and ankle. But tonight they did not cast themselves down in hopeless despair on the piles of filthy nets. Instead there was a low murmur of talk in the shed.

Spence eyed his companions eagerly. Three of them were from Newfoundland, the others were Boston men. Two over the score lay to one side, sorely wounded. All the officers of the Boston Lass had been calm at her taking, and now it was to Spence that these men looked for leadership. Nor did he fail them.

“Fear not, lads,” he said quietly. “That Moor was no liar! He and a dozen more men stand ready to aid us, and he bears an order from Mulai Ali to free us. Once escaped, we are safe enough.”

“And the lady, master?” spoke up lanky Cyrus Roberts, whom Spence had appointed to be his chief mate. “Be yon Moor a going to get her aboard the ship?”

“So he promised me,” answered Spence. “Hark! Something has happened in the camp.”

They fell silent, listening tensely. Something, indeed, had happened; the shallop had come to shore, bearing news of the disaster at Oran. Now, as the news spread through the camp, there arose a great tumult of cursing and shouting. Amid this clamor a dozen men stole into the shed, and their leader came to the side of Spence.

“Make haste, capitán!” he cried in Spanish. “Disaster has befallen our army at Oran, and already my emissaries are spreading news of Mulai Ali. Presently the tribesmen will be crying for the head of Ripperda—here are robes and swords.”

The Moor and his men were already unlocking the irons of the seamen. From somewhere close at hand boomed a musket, followed by a shrill yell: “Ras Ripperda!”

“I must go!” exclaimed the Moor. “I shall see to the señorita and meet you at the boats. Take your time and move carefully, lest you be recognized. These men of mine will obey you. Order them in Castilian—farewell!”

He was gone, running out into the clamor that now made an inferno of the camp.

Spence, freed of his irons, rose and took charge. There was no further need of caution, for the Berber camp was now in tumultuous confusion, guns flashing and torches flaring on every hand. Spence’s voice commanded the seamen sharply, as he stood beside the pile of robes and arms which had been brought by the Moors.

“Every man file past me and get a burnoose. Mr. Roberts! Take charge of these scimitars and deal them out, while I show the men how to get into the robes.”

“Aye, aye, sir!” responded Roberts promptly.

For any in the fever-hot camp to know that the Christian slaves were escaping, would provoke instant massacre, and Spence took no chances. He garbed each man in a burnoose, while Roberts handed out the swords and a few pistols which had been provided. Deep were the oaths of satisfaction which sounded as the men gripped the hilts and felt themselves once more free and about to strike a blow.

“Nigh enough like cutlasses, lads,” sang out Roberts, “to make ’em swing well! All ready here, sir. Be they Moors goin’ with us?”

Spence addressed the Moors, found that they were to help him capture the brigantine, and ordered them to lead the way. A last word to his men.

“Not a word until we get under her side, lads, or we may lose everything! She is Ripperda’s own ship, and if he gets aboard her we may have stiff work of it. But she’s our only chance of getting home again—look alive! Follow the Moors.”

It was the hope of Spence that he might not only capture the brigantine, but take Ripperda prisoner, for it was deemed certain that Ripperda would flee to his ship. Even Spence perceived, when he emerged from the shed, that this was an impossibility. From every side the Berbers were surrounding the little eminence on which stood Ripperda’s camp, and the pasha was quite cut off from shore.

“Unless he gets away by land, he’s done for,” thought Spence, listening to the frenzied yells of the mob.

Meantime, with his men, he was approaching the shore, where the fisher boats lay drawn up. Here, everything was darkness and confusion; several boats were creeping over the water between the shore and the anchored ships, and the Moors who were leading the party of white men came to a halt, counseling a wait for their leader.

Spence controlled the eagerness of his men, anxiously awaiting news of Mistress Betty. Suddenly a growl broke from Roberts.

“Master Spence! They’ve doused the lights on the brigantine—if they’re not a hauling of her out, then sink me for a Dutchman! Aye—can hear the clink o’ the pawls—kedging her, they are.”

True enough. Spence, hearing that sound, imagining that he could see the vague shape of the brigantine already moving across the water, caught his breath sharply. He breathed a prayer as he stood there in agonized suspense. Freedom—slipping away in the darkness! Without that brigantine they were lost. He knew it, the others knew it. And they waited for a girl.

Around him he could feel the tense straining and quivering of the seamen—their panting breaths, their awful agony of fear in that moment. From one bronzed throat came a stifled groan, then silence again. At length one man spoke up in terrorized accents.

“Master Spence! ’Tis too much to bide here doing naught, waiting for a lady.”

Somebody smote the man; there was the thud of a blow, then desperate silence. Spence felt a thrill as he sensed the quality of these seamen, sacrificing their hopes, jeopardizing their chances of escape for a girl they had never seen. He knew how bitter hard was that self-control.

“Ready at the boats, men,” he said quietly. “Lay the wounded men aboard and stand by to launch.”

A rustle of movement, a scrape of feet as they obeyed. All the while from the camp and the hill there was a flittering of torches and a continual outcry from the Berbers; the hapless servants of Ripperda were being slaughtered there.

Then a burst of running feet, and three men came hurtling out of the tumult. The foremost was the Moorish leader who had freed Spence, and from him came a sharp, terrible burst of words.

“She is gone! Gholam Mahmoud has seized her, taken her aboard Ripperda’s ship—he and his men have seized the ship.”

“Launch!” Like the snap of a taut cable came the word from Spence. “Run ’em out, lads—the lady is aboard the brigantine—after her!”

A growl of excited oaths, a heaving of bodies, and the cumbersome fisher boats were scraped over the shingle. The men tumbled aboard, seamen and Moors intermixed, and there was a moment of confusion.

Spence, with six seamen only in his craft, and the Moorish leader were the first to get away. The oars dipped and tugged, the boat drew out from shore.

“What of Ripperda?” murmured Spence. The Moor whispered an oath.

“Escaped, may Allah blast him! His bodyguard rode away with him. Gholam Mahmoud had a dozen men there; they seized the lady and Ripperda’s treasures, and got aboard his ship. I was detained.”

“How many of them aboard her?”

“Thirty, at least, all corsairs.”

Satisfied that the other boats were following, Spence drove ahead. The brigantine was moving along in tow of boats; she would catch the land breeze soon. Already sheaves were squeaking and canvas was slapping. A moment afterward it was evident that Gholam Mahmoud no longer feared those ashore. Lanterns flashed on the deck, and hoarse shouts echoed, in the bows of the brigantine a cresset broke out its smoky flare. Three boats towed her.

“At her, lads!” snapped Spence.

He steered for hanging lines in the ship’s waist, and the men gave way. For a space it seemed that they would lay her board unchallenged; then, from her poop, cracked out a voice—the voice of Gholam Mahmoud. It was followed by the crack of a pistol.

“Off with the robes, lads! All up—boarders away!”

The boat surged forward—the oars fell. Spence caught a line, the agile Moor another, and they were over the rail. From the poop and bulwarks came a rush of men. The Moor emptied a pistol into them, then leaped forward with his curved blade swinging. Spence, cooler of head, stood by the rail, and his steel dropped the first man to reach him.

Now his men began coming over the side, sword in teeth; with a shout to them, Spence threw himself forward to the rescue of the Moor embroiled amid a crowd.

“Hurray!”

The seamen streamed after him. A pistol cracked, and another; the Yankee rush burst the crowd asunder. The yell rose more shrill, as Spence’s other boats came up, and for a moment he thought they would take the ship at a blow. Only for a moment! Now from stem and stern came a rush of figures; steel flamed in the lantern light; the confusion and whirl of blades made an inextricable turmoil across the deck. From all this stood forth one terrible vision which was burned into Spence’s memory.

Himself engaged with a swarthy corsair, he saw Gholam Mahmoud cross blades with one of the Newfoundland men. A lantern lit them distinctly. He saw Gholam lean forward in a curious manner—saw his blade sweep out, then down and up—and with a scream the seaman died, ripped from abdomen to chin. It was the famous Mameluke stroke, the deadly and unavoidable cut which made the Mameluke swordsmen invincible throughout the east.

“Allah!” yelled the corsairs, and the Moors who fought for Spence responded in kind. Spence clove his way to the poop, and found the rail ahead of him. The waist was cleared. To bow and stern his men were driving the defenders. Then a rush changed the whole aspect. The seamen became bunched in the waist, fired on from poop and bow.

“Aft, lads!” shouted Spence, his voice rising over the din. “Aft! To the poop!”

He leaped up the ladder, gained the poop, and found himself assailed by a corsair, the rais of the ship. Spence fended his head with his blade, and the steel shivered. He reeled, saw the swarthy face whirl in upon him, and leaped barehanded. He jerked up the bearded head, caught the naked torso, threw all his power into the terrific wrench. The corsair shrieked once, then went limp as his neck twisted.

“Up with you, men!” shouted Spence, but they were already coming.

From the deck Spence caught up a sword and led the rush. Behind, from the bow, the corsairs were pursuing, but the seamen gained the poop and began to clear it. Now amid the turmoil, Spence caught a glimpse of a white figure by the starboard rail, dragging a lantern from its place. He stared, incredulous, at the face of Mistress Betty—then a streak of fire and a roar leaped forth from her hand. A little swivel gun, mounted there at the rail, had been emptied into the crowded ranks of the corsairs!

In the flames of that discharge darted forward the face of Gholam Mahmoud, contorted and infernal in its rage. Spence saw the flash of a weapon, heard the girl cry out, hurled forward. Of what passed around him he saw nothing—now he had Gholam Mahmoud before him, and he heard the voice of Mistress Betty in his ears, and was fighting like a madman.

It was fortunate that Spence had seen and noted that dreaded Mameluke stroke, for now he saw Gholam Mahmoud lean forward again in that same curious manner. Spence leaped back and the blade hurtled up—a miss! Gholam snarled as Spence pressed in again. No words passed; the two men fought back toward the stern—back and back, quartering the deck with blow after blow.

Once again came that Mameluke stroke, this time so close that the steel point drew blood from Spence’s chest. As the blow missed, almost before it had missed, Spence was in and struck fiercely, with all his strength.

He felt the blade go home—heard the sword of Gholam Mahmoud clatter down on the deck. Then, in a flash, the man leaped up to the rail—gained it! He stood there an instant, getting his balance for a spring to the water; in this instant came something like a streak of light that took him squarely between the shoulders.

A knife, it was—a long curved knife from the hand of a Moor.

Gholam Mahmoud threw out his arms, the knife haft standing from his back; then, convulsively, the body leaped. From below came a splash—no more.

Spence leaned on his sword, panting, out of breath, things swimming before his eyes. Nor could he move, even when Mistress Betty came to him; her voice seemed distant and far. Then he was dimly aware of Roberts exultantly addressing him.

“She’s ours, Master Spence. Four of our lads killed, all a bit hurt—but she’s ours!” “Make sail,” muttered Spence. “All hands—make sail!”