“You take heem along, Monsieur?” It was Broussard’s voice.  “Zat vat you mean?”

“Certainly—­why not?  There’s plenty of work for another hand on board.  Trust me to break him in.  Come, hustle the lad along, boys.  I ’ll be with you in a minute.”

They drove me forward roughly enough, the German marching phlegmatically ahead, still silently puffing at his pipe, and leading the way along a narrow footpath through the weeds.  This wound about in such crazy fashion that I lost all sense of both direction and distance, yet finally we emerged into an open space, from which I saw the chimneys of the old house far away to our left.  The path led onward into another weed patch beyond, down a steep ravine, and then before us stretched the lonely waters of the bayou.  Hidden under the drooping foliage of the bank was a small boat, a negro peacefully sleeping in the stern, with head pillowed on his arm.  Herman awoke him with a German oath, and the way the fellow sprang up, his eyes popping open, was evidence of the treatment he was accustomed to.  A hasty application of an oar brought the boat’s nose to the bank, and I was thrust in unceremoniously, the three others following, each man shipping an oar into the rowlocks.  Herman alone remained on shore, scattering the embers of a small fire, and staring back toward the house.  A few moments we waited in silence, then the slender figure of the one who seemed the leading spirit, emerged from out the cane.  He glanced at the motionless figures in the boat, spoke a few words to Herman, and then the two joined us, the latter taking the tiller, the former pushing off, and springing alertly into the bow.

Lying between the thwarts, face turned upward, all I could see distinctly was the black oarsman, although occasionally, when he leaned forward, I caught glimpses of the fellow I believed to be the captain of the strange crew.  Our boat skirted the shore, keeping close within the concealing shadows, as evidenced by overhanging trees.  The only word spoken was a growling command by Herman at the rudder, and the oars were noiseless as though muffled.  Yet the men rowed with a will, and scarcely twenty minutes elapsed ere we were scraping along the side of a vessel of some size, and then came to a stop at foot of a boarding-ladder.

CHAPTER XXI

ON BOARD THE SEA GULL

The Captain—­for so I must call him—­went up first, after hailing the deck in French, and receiving some answer.  Then, under Herman’s orders, I was hustled roughly to my feet, and bundled aboard.  My head still reeled dizzily, and the two men gripping my arms, hurried me over the rail so swiftly my first impressions were extremely vague.  I knew the sides of the vessel were painted a dull gray, as nearly an invisible color as could be conceived; I recall the sharp sheer of her bow, the clearness of her lines, and the low sweep of her rail.  Less than a 1,000 tons burden, I thought, and then, as my eyes swept aloft, and along the decks, I knew her for either a private yacht, or tropic fruit steamer.