The Frontier, May 1926 — page 34: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

24 we could see them trooping toward the gangplank. “See der shoffels?” said the captain. “Dot means dreasure.” We made out fifteen men going aboard two gigs. With them were Gentry and his mate. All were heav- ily armed, and they stored a heavy load of shovels, picks, axes and ropes, with other supplies, aboard the gigs before shoving off. “Oh, t’under!” the captain muttered then. “Chentry’s boat pulls avay first. Steady now, men, Dey vill be sep- arated—ve fire on dot poat only. No misses, now. Mr. Pellew and I vill take Chentry; Johannsen, Fallon; Sam und der chudge, Erickson; O’Don- nell und Suggs, Dumphey; Killifer und Jack, take dot man Buzzle. Dot’s for der first shot. Der next—vot's left.” All of us, I think were fairly steady; at least all nodded to signify that they understood. Only the roll- ing whites of Sam’s eyes revealed the owner's excitement. Each man was well concealed, with an opening in the ground palms and vines before him ready for the insertion of his musket ; and beside him lay the second piece, ready primed and loaded. Pulling steadily, Gentry’s boat was two-thirds of the way toward the river’s mouth before Jenkins followed him with the other gig. Eight men were with Gentry; five with Jenkins. A few more strokes, and they were within fifty yards of us. It seemed to me that I could hear my own heart beating as I waited for the word. And I can never forget the picture made by that motley crew—Gentry in the stern, puffing tranquilly at a pipe, and the others, with their sleeves rolled high, swaying back and forth on the oars to Fallon’s steady chant. I particularly remember the red silk handkerchief in the breast pocket of Buzzel’s gray shirt, revealed each time as he pulled back on his oar. “Dake aim!” said the captain then. I, for one, aimed as steadily as I could, fair at Buzzel’s shoulder. “Fire!” cried the skipper. The muskets roared in a volley that smote the air like a clap of thunder. Erickson pitched forward. Fallon flopped head down over the side of the gig. The man beside Dumphey sprang wp with a scream and fell into the water, where he sank in a foam of blood. Buzzell yelled in agony, grasp- ing his hairy forearm; while Gentry, whirling on his seat, showed a cheek flooding blood. THE FRONTIER All this I saw as I picked up the other musket, and leaped up for a second shot. This time I aimed at Gentry; but as quick as winking he had scooped up the dead man, Fallon, holding him with his left arm before his breast, My bullet struck Fallon in the back. As for the others’ shots, at least three took effect, Buzzel being killed outright, and two others being wounded. Dumphey saved himself by following Gentry’s example. “Back to der cavern, my lats!” shouted the captain; for the men aboard ship, cursing like madmen, were uncovering a long nine. There was an uproar in the second gig as we ran; they gave over rowing and fired a few ragged shots at us; but their aim was hurried, and none of us was hit. “Steady, now, men!” the skipper panted when we had run some dis- tance. “Slow down to a valk. See? Der odders row to Chentry’s poat.” We were glad enough of the respite, for all were puffing heavily. And as we walked on, at a good pace, to be sure, we gleefully checked up obser- vations. Most of us were agreed— and this turned out to be correct— that Dumphey was the only man to escape injury. We were sure that at least four were dead, and that four more, including Gentry, had been more or less seriously wounded. We reasoned that seven at least were no longer to be counted as fit combatants ; and this reduced their numbers to six- teen effectives. We were counting them over, and more than elated over the success of the skipper’s move, when suddenly a long nine roared on board ship. At the same time the trees and leaves about us were spattered with a shower of leaden slugs. It might never have happened again; indeed, it was an ap- parently silly shot, fired in our general direction in a fit of rage; but poor Sam, the negro slave, was struck fair in the middle of the back. He fell to the ground and expired without a sound. “Ah, by the gods, I’d sooner it had been me!” cried my uncle, in a broken voice, “Vell,” said the skipper, “td’s too padt, but some losses haf to be. Ve must hurry along, und brebare for boarters.” My uncle slung his musket behind him and picked up his dead servant; and then, quite sobered by this loss, we went on toward the cave. CHAPTER XII THE MUTINEERS ATTACK L 7 IVING poor Sam a , | hasty burial on the mikes sandy slope near the cave, we re- entered our {fort- ress, and after drinking deep of the cool refreshing spring water, reloaded all muskets in preparation for an attack, “Hundred to vun he gomes now,” said the skipper. “Anyvay, ve iss ready. Und if he makes it oudt to dry for der dreasure anyhow, ve go oudt und maype surbrise him some more.” He then gave orders for all of us to lie down and snatch what rest we could, while he kept watch at the bar- ricade. What with the chuckling bubble of the spring and the reaction from the morning’s excitement, I was soon fast asleep; nor did I arouse until, at about eight bells, a thunderous report brought me to my feet. The echoes were still rolling back and forth be-| tween the hills, and the birds were screaming raucously when I rushed to join the others at the barricade. All was clear at a glance. The steep fan-shaped clearing on the approach to our cave ran down almost to shore, and only a thin fringe of palm trees, just above high-tide mark, intervened between us and Drake’s Bay when looking direct to eastward. These were so widely separated that the view was unobstructed, for all practical purposes; and there, anchored broad- side on to shore, lay the Anthony Wayne. Gentry had brought her down to a position opposite the cave. The approach from the shore was lit- tle over one hundred yards long, and as she was anchored at a similar dis- tance from the beach, her starboard gtins were now trained on us at a range of some two hundred yards. “Back!” roared the skipper. “Dot vun vas short, but der next one, may- It was well we dodged back behind the thick rock walls at either side of the opening, for the next shot came shrieking through the mouth of the cave, barely clearing the barricade, and smashed against the rocks in the rear, Then a musket ball spatted viciously into the logs close by the skipper's head. “Plaze avay,” grunted the skipper. “A miss is chust so goot as a mile.” COmniclbooxks. com