As the last word rang out there was a whistling as of a stick passing through the air, a tremendous thud, and the captain fell headlong upon the rocky ground.
Then there was utter silence as the young sailor placed one foot upon the prostrate man's chest, stamped upon it savagely, and strode on right away over the wild country bordering the sea.
The figure loomed up once in the moonlight, as the captain rose slowly upon one elbow, and gazed after it, to see that it seemed to be of supernatural proportions, and then he sank back again with a groan.
"It's a spirit," he said, "come back to her;" and then the poltroon fainted dead away.
CHAPTER ELEVEN.
IN THE PLANTATION.
Someone singing a West Country ditty.
"_His sloe-black eyes_..."
A pause in the singing, and the striking of several blows with a rough hoe, to the destruction of weeds in a coffee-plantation; while, as the chops of the hoe struck the clods of earth, the fetters worn by the striker gave forth faint clinks.
Then in a pleasant musical voice the singer went on with another line--
"_And his curly hair_..."
More chops with the hoe, and clinks of the fetters.
"_His pleasing voice_..."
A heavy thump with the back of the tool at an obstinate clod, which took several more strokes before it crumbled up; and all the time the fetters clinked and clanked loudly. Then the singer went on with the sweet old minor air with its childish words.
"_Did my heart ensnare_..."
_Chop! chop! clink! clink! clank_!
"_Genteel he was_..."
"But no rake like you."
"Oh, I say, Abel, mate; don't, lad, don't."
"Don't what?" said Abel Dell, resting upon his hoe, and looking up at big Bart Wrigley, clothed like himself, armed with a hoe, and also decorated with fetters, as he stood wiping the perspiration from his forehead.
"Don't sing that there old song. It do make me feel so unked."
"Unked, Bart! Well, what if it does? These are unked days."
"Ay; but each time you sings that I seem to see the rocks along by the shore at home, with the ivy hanging down, and the sheep feeding, and the sea rolling in, and the blue sky, with gulls a-flying; and it makes me feel like a boy again, and, big as I am, as if I should cry."
"Always were like a big boy, Bart. Hoe away, lad; the overseer's looking."
Bart went on chopping weeds, diligently following his friend's example, as a sour-looking, yellow-faced man came by, in company with a soldier loosely shouldering his musket. But they passed by without speaking, and Abel continued--
"There's sea here, and blue sky and sunshine."
"Ay," said Bart; "there's sunshine hot enough to fry a mack'rel. Place is right enough if you was free; but it ar'n't home, Abel, it ar'n't home."
"Home! no," said the young man, savagely. "But we have no home. She spoiled that."
There was an interval of weed-chopping and clod-breaking, the young men's chains clanking loudly as they worked now so energetically that the overseer noted their proceedings, and pointed them out as examples to an idle hand.
"Ah! you're a hard 'un, Abel," remarked Bart, after a time.
"Yes; and you're a soft 'un, Bart. She could always turn you round her little finger."
"Ay, bless her! and she didn't tell on us."
"Yes, she did," said Abel, sourly; and he turned his back upon his companion, and toiled away to hide the working of his face.
The sun shone down as hotly as it can shine in the West Indies, and the coarse shirts the young men wore showed patches of moisture where the perspiration came through, but they worked on, for the labour deadened the misery in their breasts.
And yet it was a very paradise, as far as nature was concerned. Man had spoiled it as far as he could, his cultivation being but a poor recompense for turning so lovely a spot into a plantation, worked by convicts--by men who fouled the ambient air each moment they opened their lips; while from time to time the earth was stained with blood.
In the distance shone the sea, and between the plantation and the silver coral sands lay patches of virgin forest, where the richest and most luxuriant of tropic growth revelled in the heat and moisture, while in the sunny patches brilliant flowers blossomed. Then came wild tangle, cane-brake, and in one place, where a creek indented the land, weird-looking mangroves spread their leafage over their muddy scaffolds of aerial roots.
"How long have we been here, mate?" said Bart, after a pause.
"Dunno," replied Abel, fiercely.
Here he began chopping more vigorously.
"How long will they keep us in this here place?" said Bart, after another interval, and he looked from the beautiful shore at the bottom of the slope on which they worked to the cluster of stone and wood-built buildings, which formed the prison and the station farm, with factory and mill, all worked by convict labour, while those in the neighbourhood were managed by blacks.
Abel did not answer, only scowled fiercely; and Bart sighed, and repeated his question.
"Till we die!" said Abel, savagely; "same as we've seen other fellows die--of fever, and hard work, and the lash. Curse the captain!
Curse--"
Bart clapped one hand over his companion's lips, and he held the other behind his head, dropping his hoe to leave full liberty to act.
"I never quarrels with you, Abel, lad," he said, shortly; "but if you says words again that poor gell, I'm going to fight--and that won't do.
Is it easy?"
Abel seemed disposed to struggle; but he gave in, nodded his head, and Bart loosed him and picked up his hoe, just as the overseer, who had come softly up behind, brought down the whip he carried with stinging violence across the shoulders of first one and then the other.
The young men sprang round savagely; but there was a sentry close behind, musket-armed and with bayonet fixed, and they knew that fifty soldiers were within call, and that if they struck their task-master down and made for the jungle they would be hunted out with dogs, be shot down like wild beasts, or die of starvation, as other unfortunates had died before them.
There was nothing for it but to resume their labour and hoe to the clanking of their fetters, while, after a promise of what was to follow, in the shape of tying up to the triangles, and the cat, if they quarrelled again, the overseer went on to see to the others of his flock.
"It's worse than a dog's life!" said Abel, bitterly. "A dog does get patted as well as kicked. Bart, lad, I'm sorry I got you that lash."