Home > Authors Index > George Manville Fenn > King o' the Beach: A Tropic Tale > This page
King o' the Beach: A Tropic Tale, a fiction by George Manville Fenn |
||
Chapter 23 |
||
| < Previous |
Table of content |
Next > |
|
________________________________________________
_ CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. The proximity of the evil-smelling serpent to Carey's legs doubtless had something to do with the speed of his movements in quitting the canoe and climbing the side; and on reaching the gangway he looked round in vain for the doctor and Bostock, for they were not visible, neither was Mallam on the deck. "Where's the doctor?" he said to one of the blacks, but the man merely stared at him blankly. "Cookie?" cried Carey, and the man grinned and pointed towards the galley. But Carey did not go in that direction, turning aft towards the saloon entrance, where on reaching the top of the brass-bound stairs he stopped in alarm, for a hoarse groan ascended to his ears. A shiver of dread ran through the lad, for it was evident that something terrible had happened during his absence, and for a few moments he stood listening. Then, mastering the coward dread, he took a few steps down. "What's the matter?" he cried, excitedly, but there was only another groan, and he leaped down the remaining stairs to the saloon door, but only to find that it was shut and fastened, and that the startling sounds had not come from there, but from the lower cabin. The boy did not stop to question, but began to descend. He had not taken two steps, however, before there was the sharp report of a pistol, and a bullet whistled by his ear. Then there was another shot, which was better aimed, striking him in the chest, and he fell back against the bulkhead, to slide down in a half-sitting, half-lying position upon the stairs, struggling to get his breath, while a deathly feeling of sickness made his head swim and everything seemed to be turning black. It was some minutes before he came sufficiently to himself to realise that he was lying back there upon the stairs, unable to move, and a greater time elapsed before he fully recalled the cause and clearly knew that he had been shot at, the second shot having caused the dull, heavy pain in his breast, with the accompanying oppression. His first movement was to clap his hand to his chest, the act dislodging a bullet, which flew off and went rattling loudly down the brass-bound stairs. The next moment another shot was fired, and struck the wood-work above his head, while before a puff of evil-smelling smoke had risen far there was another shot, with the shivering of plate glass, which fell jangling down. There was a feeling as if a tiny hand were passing among the roots of Carey's hair and he tried to crouch lower, but it was impossible. Feeling though, that his life--if he were not already fatally injured-- depended upon his getting beyond reach of the person firing, he gave himself intense pain by trying to ascend the stairs. But at the first movement he could not restrain a sharp cry, and immediately there followed two more shots, which crashed into the wood-work overhead. Not daring to stir now, Carey clapped his hand once more to his breast, where the pain was most acute, shuddering meanwhile at the thought that his breast must be wet with blood. But no; his flannel felt dry enough, and plucking up courage as he recalled the fact that the first two shots stung by his head and breast, while the last four had flown high, he felt pretty sure that by crawling to the top he might reach there in safety. Besides, a revolver contained only six shots, and that number had been fired. Acting upon this, he turned quickly over upon his breast, and in spite of the sickening pain he felt, began to crawl up; but his hope that the last shot had been fired was damped on the instant, for the firing once more began, and he felt certain that his assailant must be Dan Mallam, since he always carried two revolvers. Carey was desperate now, and he kept on breathlessly, hearing three more shots fired, nine in all, before he sank down on the landing now by the saloon door, to faint dead away. How long he lay he could not tell, but it could not have been any great space of time before in a sickened drowsy way he found himself listening to the distant chattering of the blacks on deck. Carey's hand went to his breast again, where the heavy dull pain continued; but there was no trace of blood, and, satisfied on this point, he crouched there listening to a dull, moaning sound coming from the bottom of the stairs. What did it all mean, and where was Doctor Kingsmead? He knew that Bostock was forward in the galley, for the black had pointed there when he asked, and the thing to do now was to go and find him to hear the worst. Just then, like a flash, came the recollection of the two reports he had heard that morning when he was on the sands, and he began to wonder whether that was in any way connected with what had happened. And now he tried to rise and get up on deck, but at the first movement the sick feeling came back, and he leaned back to let it pass off. As he sat there, there was a burst of laughing from the blacks--a sound so full of careless, boyish merriment that it cheered him with the thought that perhaps, after all, nothing very serious was the matter. He made another effort, and stood up to take a step or two, with the sick feeling passing off as he once more listened to the laughter of the blacks. And now a fresh thought came to him; he must not let the blacks see that he was suffering, or they might look down upon him with contempt, so that he would perhaps lose the high position he had won in their estimation. This seemed to give him strength, and, setting his teeth hard he put on an air of stoical indifference as he stepped out on deck, feeling that he was growing firmer each moment. There was a strange sight before him as he walked aft, for the blacks were gathered round four of their party, who had evidently begun in the middle and worked away from thence towards head and tail, in pairs, skinning the great snake, to the great defilement of the clean deck. Black Jackum made way for the boy to see as he came up, grinning as was his wont. "Good eatum," he said, eagerly. "Cookum, good." "Yes," said Carey, quietly. "Where is Cookie?" "Cookie?" repeated the black, half-wonderingly, and he turned to one of the party who had stopped on board. "Baal. Cookie he." The man made some reply, and ran towards the forecastle to squat upon the deck and thump upon the hatch with his fists, saying something with great rapidity of speech, the only words Carey could grasp being Dan and mumkull. Black Jackum turned to the boy as soon as his companion had finished. "Cookie," cried Jackum, pointing down at the closed and fastened hatch. "Big Dan mumkull everybody open dat." "Big Dan says he'll kill everyone who opens that hatch?" cried Carey. "Issum," said the black, nodding a good deal, looking sharply from Carey towards the cabin entry and back. "Mumkull ebberbody. Shoot, bang." "Let him shoot me then if he dares," cried Carey, in a fit of desperation, and the two blacks looked at him with horror and admiration as the boy bent down over the hatch, pulled out an iron bolt thrust through the staple, and threw open the heavy lid of wood; but all was still below. "Bob! Are you there?" cried Carey, for there was a chilling silence below. "Ay, ay!" came in half-smothered tones, and this was followed by the sound of someone turning out of a bunk. The next minute Bostock's bloodstained face appeared, with a tremendous swelling on the brow, the result evidently of a blow given with marlin-spike or club. "Bob!" cried Carey, wildly, as he caught the old sailor's hand. "Master Carey!" cried the injured man, stumbling out as if giddy. "This is a good sight, dear boy." "Which of the blacks struck you that cowardly blow?" "Nay, nay, it warn't one of the black fellows, my lad, but Old King Cole himself." "But how? why--what for?" "Don't you puzzle a chap with too many questions at once, my lad, for my head's a bit swimming." "Oh, Bob, my poor fellow! Here, Jackum, a bucket of water to bathe his head." "Bucketum waterum? Iss!" cried the black, darting off, and Bostock seated himself on an upturned barrel. "Let's see," he said; "how was it? I forgot, sir." "Never mind that, then. Where's the doctor?" "The doctor, sir?" faltered the old fellow, to Carey's agony, "I dunno. Ah, I 'member now. Comes to me in the galley, he does." "The doctor?" "No, sir; Old King Cole. 'Come here,' he says, 'and get me something out o' the forecastle.' I goes with him, gets to the hatch, and he says, 'Fetch me up that noo axe as is down there.' 'Right, sir,' I says, and I'd got down three steps when I sees his shadder across me as if he was lifting something, and I turns sharply to see a club in his hand just lifted up. I shies and dodges, but I was too late; down it comes dump on my forrid, and I dropped down into the forecastle." "Bob!" cried Carey. "That's true enough, sir, and then I seemed to go to sleep with every idee knocked out o' me. I just recklect thinking I should be better in a bunk, and I lay there dreaming like till you calls me, and that woke me up. What's o'clock, sir?" "Time we bestirred ourselves, Bob, to find the doctor. Bob, he must have served poor Doctor Kingsmead the same." _ |
||