Tales of the Malayan Coast - LightNovelsOnl.com
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I stammered, "I can try, sir."
"Very well, get the musket there in the bow. It is loaded. Take good aim and shoot that big fellow in the stern. If you hit him, I'll make you master of a s.h.i.+p some day."
Tremblingly I raised the heavy musket as directed. The boat was unsteady, I hardly expected to hit the chief, but aimed low, hoping to hit one of the rowers at least. I aimed, closed my eyes, and fired. With the report of the musket the tall leader sprang into the air and then fell head fore-most amid his rowers. I could just detect the gleam of the moonlight on the jewelled handle of his kris as it sank into the waters. I had hit my man. The sailors sent up a hearty American cheer and a tiger, as they saw the prau come to a standstill.
Our boat sprang away into the darkness. We did not cease rowing until dawn,--then we lay back on our oars and stretched our tired backs and arms. I had taken my place at the oar during the night.
Away out on the northern horizon we saw a black speck; on the southern horizon another. The captain's gla.s.s revealed one to be the pirate prau with all sails set, for a wind had come up with the dawn. The other we welcomed with a cheer, for it was the Bangor. Enfeebled and nearly famis.h.i.+ng, we headed toward it and rowed for life. How we regretted having left our sails on the island. The prau had sighted us and was bearing down in full pursuit; we soon could distinguish its wide-spreading, rakish sails almost touching the water as it sped on. Then we made out the naked forms of the Illanums hanging to the ropes, far out over the water, and then we could hear their blood-curdling yell. It was too late; their yell was one of baffled rage. It was answered by the deep ba.s.s tones of the swivel on board the Bangor sending a ball skimming along over the waters, which, although it went wide of its mark, caused the natives on the ropes to throw themselves bodily across the prau, taking the great sail with them.
In another instant the red sail, the long, keen, black sh.e.l.l, the naked forms of the fierce Illanums, were mixed in one undefinable blot on the distant horizon.
And that was the skipper's yarn.
