the sailor on watch.
Nevertheless, they thought their presence was going to be detected. Probably, a slight lapping reached the ears of the sailor whose steps they heard along the railing. The outline of his silhouette emerged for a moment on the poop deck; then, leaning over the guardrail, he turned his head from right to left, like a man trying to see …
Harry Markel and the others lay down on the benches of the rowboat. Surely, even if the sailor could not see them, he might notice the rowboat, and would then call his mates to the bridge to tie up a boat adrift. They would try to grab it as it went by, and it would no longer be possible to take the ship by surprise.
Well, even in that case, Harry Markel would not abandon his plan. To seize the Alert was for him and his companions a question of life or death. Therefore they would not consider turning away.
They would dash onto the bridge, they would fight with their knives, and since it would be they who would strike the first blows, they would probably have all the advantage.
Besides, the circumstances were going to favor them. After having stopped for a few minutes on the poop deck, the sailor went back to his post in the bow.
They did not hear him call out. He had not even seen the rowboat that was gliding in the darkness.
One minute later, the rowboat drew up to the side of the ship and stopped by the beam of the mainmast, where climbing up on deck would be easy by using the chain-wales.
For the rest, the Alert’s deck was only six feet above its waterline, which barely passed the copper sheathing of its hull. With two leaps, climbing with hands and feet, Harry Markel and his men would soon find themselves on the bridge.
As soon as the rowboat was tied, so that the waves could not push it back into the bay, the knives were strapped on their waists—knives that the fugitives had been able to steal after their escape. Corty was the first to clear the handrail. His mates followed him with such skill and caution that the guard neither heard nor saw them.
Creeping along the gangway, they sneaked up to the forecastle. The sailor was sitting there, leaning against the capstan, almost asleep already.
It was John Carpenter, the first to close with him, who plunged his knife into the middle of his chest.
The poor devil did not make a sound. His heart pierced, he fell onto the bridge, where, after a few convulsions, he exhaled his last breath.
As for Harry Markel and the other two, Corty and Ranyah Cogh, they had reached the poop deck, and Corty said in a low voice:
“Let’s find the captain.”
Captain Paxton’s cabin occupied the portside angle on the deck. There was access to it through a door that opened onto the corner of the wardroom.
A window facing the bridge provided light, and, through that window, outfitted with a curtain, light from a lamp suspended by double rings filtered through.
At that hour, Captain Paxton was not yet in bed. He was organizing the navigation charts in preparation for departure as soon as the morning tide came in, after the passengers’ arrival.
Abruptly, the door to his cabin opened, and, before he could react, he was under Harry Markel’s knife, shouting:
“Help! Help!”
As soon as his cries reached the crew’s posts, five or six sailors burst out of the hatch. Corty and the others were waiting for them at the entrance and, as they came out, they were struck down, without being able to defend themselves.
In a few moments, six sailors were lying on the bridge, mortally wounded, some of them screaming with fear and pain. But these cries, who would have heard them, and how would help have arrived inside this cove where the Alert was alone in anchorage, in the midst of this deep darkness of night?
Six men and the captain were not the whole crew. Three or four had to be below decks, not daring to come out.
But the pirates forced them out, despite their resistance, and soon the bridge was red with the blood of eleven corpses.
“Bodies into the sea!” yelled Corty, getting ready to throw the cadavers overboard.
“Hold on!” Harry Markel said to him. “The tide will bring them back toward the port. Let’s wait for the low tide, and it will take them out to sea.”
Harry Markel and his companions were now masters on board the Alert.5
6 Masters of the Ship
The coup had succeeded. This first part of the drama had been accomplished in all its horror and under conditions of extraordinary audacity.
After the Halifax, Harry Markel was now the master of the Alert. No one could suspect anything about the drama that had just taken place. No one would be able to denounce the crime committed in one of the most frequented ports of the United Kingdom, at the entry of Cork Harbor, host to numerous ships sailing between Europe and America.
At present, these criminals no longer needed to fear the English police. The latter would not track them down on board the Alert. They would now be able easily to take up once again their old habits of piracy in the far regions of the Pacific. They had only to weigh anchor and sail for the open sea. In a few hours, they would be outside Saint George’s Channel.
To be sure, when the students from the Antillean School arrived to embark on the Alert early the next morning, the ship would no longer be at its anchorage, and they would look for it in vain in Cork Harbor or in the port at Queenstown.
And then, once this disappearance was recognized, what explanation would they imagine to account for it? What hypothesis would come to mind? Had Captain Paxton and his crew been forced to set sail, without even waiting for their passengers? But for what reason? It was not bad weather that had forced the ship to leave Farmar Cove. The breeze from the open sea was barely noticeable as it reached the bay. The sailboats were still. For the past forty-eight hours, only a few steamers had been able to go in or out. The night before, the Alert had been seen at that spot, and, to suppose that, during the night, it had been boarded or that it perished in an accident from which remained not a single piece of wreckage—this all seemed far too implausible.
It seemed that the truth would not be known very soon, that it might never be known, perhaps, unless one of the cadavers, found on one of the shores, happened to reveal the mystery of this horrible massacre.
But it was important for Harry Markel to abandon the anchorage of Farmar Cove as soon as possible so that the Alert would no longer be there at sunrise.
If conditions were favorable when leaving Saint George’s Channel, instead of steering southwest in the direction of the Antilles, the Alert would steer to the south.
Harry Markel would be careful to remain out of sight from land, to stay away from the regular nautical routes taken by the ships that descend toward the equator. Under these conditions, leaving quickly would prevent him from being caught again, in case an aviso1 was sent to look for him.
Besides, nothing would lead anyone to believe that Captain Paxton and his crew were not on board the ship chartered by Mrs. Seymour. For what reasons it had taken to the sea, one could not know, and it would be best to wait at least a few days.
Thus, Harry Markel had all the luck in his side. His nine men would suffice amply to maneuver the Alert. They were, as stated before, very good sailors, and they had an absolute trust in their captain, which he had earned.
Accordingly, everything was falling into place to assure the success of this enterprise. A few days from now, the ship having not reappeared in Cork Harbor, the authorities would be inclined to think that, after having taken to the sea for reasons unknown, it had perished with all hands in the middle of the Atlantic. It would never occur to anyone that the escapees from the Queenstown prison had seized it. The police would continue their inquests and would extend them to the