My! How those blacks did smell! We had worked well into the night, only stopping to eat supper, and, when we did go below to turn in, all tired out, the odour was something to remember. The wind being aft, the cabin was clear, but the forecastle was pretty bad, and we had only just started.

“It makes a fellow feel like goin’ out an’ getting rid o’ some o’ his crimes,” said Big Jones, sniffing and spitting upon the deck.

“Hif dirt’s a crime, you’d been hung long ago,” observed Jim. “Better turn in with hit.”

“Too hot,” said Bill. “It’s youst a little too hot fer me. I’ve sweated all the water out of me working, an’ I don’t want to sweat sleepin’. I’ll take the deck an’ let her go.”

“A man’s ’bout one-third water, anyways, according to some o’ them doctors’ sayings,” drawled Shannon, who lounged in his bunk.

“What’s the rest,--likker?” asked Jim, wofully.

And then the men split up, each seeking a spot for resting during his watch below, some on deck and some in the forecastle.

I followed Bill to the windlass, and we stretched out in my old favourite spot, with our heads upon a coil of the forestaysail-downhaul. Here we had the draught from under the foot of the sail blowing downward in our faces, and we instantly gave way to its soothing influence and fell asleep. Since Watkins had gone over the side, with a shot to each foot, sewed tightly in canvas, I had been a bit more free to sleep out on deck at night in the warm weather, and I now rested as only a tired and healthy sailor could. The barque held along steadily and the motion was slight, and there was silence on board save for the murmur coming from below. The first thing I knew of trouble was being suddenly aroused by a piercing scream. It was shrill and sharp and full of terror and pain.

Bill started up at the same time, and both of us asked each other what was the matter. I tried to put out my hand to steady myself from the roll of the barque and get to my feet, but something held it firmly to the other in front of me. The night was intensely black, as the moon had not yet risen, and for an instant I was blundering about, striving to free myself, until Bill blurted out that he was ironed. Then I realized that my hands were shackled fast in iron bracelets, and that there was little use to try to free them. Some one had slipped them upon our wrists while we slept, and we were as helpless as though paralyzed.

I tried to see the watch on deck, and strained my eyes through the gloom to catch sight of their forms in the waist, where they usually grouped to keep awake and tell yarns. There was not a soul in sight. Even the poop seemed vacant, but, while I looked, shadows appeared creeping up the gangways over the break, and in a moment a flash lit the darkness. Following the report, a perfect roar of voices burst forth, yelling and bawling, interspersed now and again with shouts and cries of wounded men. Then Martin’s hoarse yell arose above the uproar aft, and I began to realize what was happening.

“Break loose, Bill, for God’s sake,” I cried, tugging away at my irons. “Break loose, for that devil, Martin, is going amuck, and Shannon is in his wake.” Our legs were free, and I ran to the windlass-bitts, which were covered with metal. Raising my hands high above my head, I brought the bracelets down with all my force upon the iron tops.

The pain was awful. For some moments I could do nothing but gasp, for it seemed to me that I had broken both my wrists. They were numb and paralyzed with the shock.

“Let me try,” said Bill, and he brought his hands down with full force. The lock on his iron sprang open, and he gave a groan.

“Lay your wrists here,” he said, and I stretched the connecting link over the bitt-head. Bill seized a heavy chain-hook and smote again and again upon the chain link until it bent, buckled, and finally opened. I was free.

With my irons hanging to my wrists, we started aft, where the fracas was now in full sway. Forms were surging upon the break of the poop, and among them I recognized some of our men mixed with the naked black bodies of the Africans. We dived into the forward cabin door to get at the cutlass rack in the passage, where all the arms were hung. As we did so, Mr. Curtis thrust a pistol into my face and pulled the trigger. The damp, hot climate had evidently affected the priming of the weapon, for I heard the flint fall distinctly. Then I struck up the muzzle as it exploded, the charge going upward into the deck.

“Don’t shoot!” I bawled, as the report rang out. “Don’t shoot! can’t you see us? Give us the cutlasses, quick.”

Bill reached for the rack where they hung, and was about to take one, when a form swung out of the darkness, heaving some heavy weapon overhead. There was no time to explain matters, so I sprang upon the fellow and grasped him firmly before the blow fell upon Bill’s head, and together we went to the deck.

Instantly I recognized Jorg, the carpenter, as his axe fell clattering across the cabin, and the rascal gripped my throat with both hands. Before I could disengage his hands, two more bodies fell over me, scrambling, cursing, and struggling. A foot--I think it was Bill’s--gave Jorg a kick under the ear, and he slackened his hold on my throat.

“What the mischief are you doing?” I gasped. “Can’t you see we ain’t niggers? What’s the matter with you?”

Just then a lantern flashed, as the cabin door was thrown open, and Mr. Gull stood before us, pike in hand, ready for business. He seemed to hesitate a moment, and looked inquiringly at me and then at Bill, who had Curtis under him on the cabin deck, calling upon him to let him get away, and trying to disengage the Englishman’s hands, that had fastened themselves firmly around his neck. The noise overhead continued, and the rapid trampling of men and shuffling of feet told of a fierce encounter. Hawkson’s hoarse cry could be distinguished cheering the men on about him, and Martin’s wild yells and curses upon the ship, the crew, and everything about her. It was evident something worse than a rising of the blacks was taking place, and I hurriedly asked the second mate what had happened. He saw the manacles upon my wrists, where they still hung, and this showed him I had been a captive very recently. Then we knew the after-guard had taken no prisoners and would never give quarter.

“Put on in my sleep,” I said, quickly. “Bill and I both were ironed. Give us the weapons and let us help.”

“I believe you, Heywood. Take a cutlass and come along. The devil is loose to-night aboard here,” he said, and he grabbed Curtis’s hands at the same instant.

“Let him go,” he said to Curtis. “Let him go and get up. They’re all right.”

It was several moments before the Englishman realized what was wanted, and kept calling for Gull to run Bill through with his pike.

I grabbed a cutlass from the arm-rack just as Jorg sat up, dazed and dizzy. He evidently expected me to cut him down, and was much astonished when I helped raise him and handed him his axe.

“You’re youst a little bit too much in a hurry,” said Bill to Curtis, as they got up, the sailor red and angry at the choking he had received. But Gull pressed a cutlass into his hand, and called for us to follow, opening the door into the after-cabin. There was no time to lose. The incident had already cost us several minutes, and we might be too late.

“It’s Martin and the fellow Shannon,” said Gull, as we piled through. “They’ve got half the port watch an’ a dozen niggers with them. They’re the fighting devils of Cortelli’s guard shipped in, all ready to take a hand. Shannon and the Guinea stood in together to do the job. Come along, for God’s sake, come along!”