In the dark a hand touched me and then I felt the muzzle of a pistol at my throat.
"No tricks, lad--no running for't if I loose ye--you'll bide here--come life, come death? Is't agreed?"
"It is!" I whispered. Whereupon and with no more ado, he freed me from my gyves, making scarcely any sound, despite the dark.
"I'll take these wi' me, friend and--my finger's on trigger."
"Resolution, how am I to die?"
"Black Pompey!" came the hissing whisper.
"Hath Joanna ordered this?"
"Never think it, mate--she's ashore and I swam aboard, having my suspicions."
"Resolution, a dying man thanks you heartily, purely never, after all, was there pirate the like o' you for holiness. Could I but find some weapon to my defence now--a knife, say." In the dark came a griping hand that found mine and was gone again, but in my grasp was a stout, broad-bladed knife.
"'Let the heathen rage,' saith Holy Writ, so rage it is, says I, only smite first, brother and smite--hard. And 'ware the starboard scuttle!" Hereafter was the rustle of his stealthy departure, the soft noise of bolts, and silence.
And now in this pitchy gloom, wondering what and where this scuttle might be, I crouched, a very wild and desperate creature, peering into the gloom and starting at every sound; thus presently I heard the scrape of a viol somewhere beyond the bulkheads that shut me in and therewith a voice that sang, the words very clear and distinct: "Oh, Moll she lives in Deptford town, In Deptford town lives she; Let maid be white or black or brown. Still Moll's the lass for me; Sweet Moll as lives in Deptford town, Yo-ho, shipmates, for Deptford town, Tis there as I would be."
Mingled with this singing I thought to hear the heavy thud of an unshod foot on the planking above my head, and setting my teeth I gripped my knife in sweating palm.
But now (and to my despair) came the singing again to drown all else, hearken how I would: "Come whistle, messmates all. For a breeze, for a breeze Come pipe up, messmates all, For a breeze. When to Deptford town we've rolled Wi' our pockets full o' gold; Then our lasses we will hold On our knees, on our knees."
Somewhere in the dark was the sudden, thin complaint of a rusty and unwilling bolt, though if this were to my right or left, above or below me, I could not discover and my passionate listening was once more vain by reason of this accursed rant: "Who will not drink a glass, Let him drown, let him drown; Who will not drink a glass, Let him drown. Who will not drink a glass For to toast a pretty lass, Is no more than fool and ass; So let him drown, let him drown!"