“We are escaping to get married,” I called out. They were beginning to
shout orders on the ship. “Oh, you’ve come to the wrong shop. A church
is what you want for _that_ trouble,” the voice called back brutally,
through the other cries of orders to square the yards.
I shouted again, but my voice must have been drowned in the creaking
of blocks and yards. They were alert enough for every chance of getting
away--for every flaw of wind. Already the ship was less distinct, as if
my eyes had grown dim. By the time a voice on board her cried, “Belay,”
faintly, she had gone from my sight. Then the puff of wind passed away,
too, and left us more alone than ever, with only the small disk of the
moon poised vertically above the mists.
“Listen,” said Tomas Castro, after what seemed an eternity of
crestfallen silence.
He need not have spoken; there could be no doubt that Manuel had lost
himself, and my belief is that the ship had sailed right into the midst
of the flotilla. There was an unmistakable character of surprise in the
distant tumult that arose suddenly, and as suddenly ceased for a space
of a breath or two. “Now, Castro,” I shouted. “Ha! _bueno!_”
We gave way with a vigour that seemed to lift the dinghy out of the
water. The uproar gathered volume and fierceness.
From the first it was a hand-to-hand contest, engaged in suddenly, as if
the assailants had at once managed to board in a body, and, as it were,
in one unanimous spring. No shots had been fired. Too far to hear the
blows, and seeing nothing as yet of the ship, we seemed to be hastening
towards a deadly struggle of voices, of shadows with leathern throats;
every cry heard in battle was there--rage, encouragement, fury, hate,
and pain. And those of pain were amazingly distinct. They were yells;
they were howls. And suddenly, as we approached the ship, but before we
could make out any sign of her, we came upon a boat. We had to swerve
to clear her. She seemed to have dropped out of the fight in utter
disarray; she lay with no oars out, and full of men who writhed and
tumbled over each other, shrieking as if they had been flayed. Above the
writhing figures in the middle of the boat, a tall man, upright in the
stern-sheets, raved awful imprecations and shook his fists above his
head.
The blunt dinghy foamed past that vision within an oar’s length, no
more, making straight for the clamour of the fight. The last puff of
wind must have thinned the fog in the ship’s track; for, standing up,
face forward to pull stroke, I saw her come out, stern-on to us, from
truck to water-line, mistily tall and motionless, but resounding with
the most fierce and desperate noises. A cluster of empty boats clung low
to her port side, raft-like and vague on the water.
We heard now, mingled with the fury and hate of shouts reverberating
from the placid sails, mighty thuds and crashes, as though it had been a
combat with clubs and battle-axes.
Evidently, in the surprise and haste of the unexpected coming together,
they had been obliged to board all on the same side. As I headed for the
other a big boat, full of men, with many oars, shot across our bows,
and vanished round the ship’s counter in the twinkling of an eye. The
defenders, engaged on the port side, were going to be taken in the rear.
We were then so close to the counter that the cries of “Death, death,”
rang over our heads. A voice on the poop said furiously in English,
“Stand fast, men.” Next moment, we, too, rounded the quarter only twenty
feet behind the big boat, but with a slightly wider sweep.
I said, “Have the pistols ready, Seraphina.” And she answered quite
steadily:
“They are ready, Juan.”
I could not have believed that any handiwork of man afloat could have
got so much way through the water. To this very day I am not rid of
the absurd impression that, at that particular moment, the dinghy was
travelling with us as fast as a cannon-ball. No sooner round than we
were upon them. We were upon them so fast that I had barely the time
to fling away my oar, and close my grip on the butt of the pistols
Seraphina pressed into my hand from behind. Castro, too, had dropped
his oar, and, turning as swift as a cat, crouched in the bows. I saw his
good arm darting out towards their boat.
They had cast a grapnel cleverly, and, swung abreast of the main chains,
were grimly busied in boarding the undefended side in silence. One had
already his leg over the ship’s rail, and below him three more were
clambering resolutely, one above the other. The rest of them, standing
up in a body with their faces to the ship, were so oblivious of
everything in their purpose, that they staggered all together to the
shock of the dinghy, heavily, as if the earth had reeled under them.
Castro knew what he was doing. I saw his only hand hop along the
gunwale, dragging our cockle-shell forward very swiftly. The tottering
Spaniards turned their heads, and for a moment we looked at each other
in silence.
I was too excited to shout; the surprise seemed to have deprived them
of their senses, and they all had the same grin of teeth closed upon
the naked blades of their knives, the same stupid stare fastened upon my
eyes. I pulled the trigger in the nearest face, and the terrific din of
the fight going on above us was overpowered by the report of the pistol,
as if by a clap of thunder. The man’s gaping mouth dropped the knife,
and he stood stiffly long enough for the thought, “I’ve missed him,” to
flash through my mind before he tumbled clean out of the boat without
touching anything, like a wooden dummy tipped by the heels. His headlong
fall sent the water flying high over the stern of the dinghy. With the
second barrel I took a long shot at the man sitting amazed, astride of
the rail above. I saw him double up suddenly, and fall inboard sideways,
but the fellow following him made a convulsive effort, and leapt out of
sight on to the deck of the ship. I dropped the discharged weapon, and
fired the first barrel of the other at the upper of the two men clinging
halfway up the ship’s side. To that one shot they both vanished as if
by enchantment, the fellow I had hit knocking off his friend below. The
crash of their fall was followed by a great yell.
These had been all nearly point-blank shots, and, anyhow, I had had a
good deal of pistol practice. Macdonald had a little gallery at Horton
Pen. The _Lugareños_, huddled together in the boat, were only able to
moan with terror. They made soft, pitiful, complaining noises. Two or
three took headers overboard, like so many frogs, and then one began to
squeak exactly like a rat.
By that time, Castro, with his fixed blade, had cut their grapnel rope
close to the ring. As the ship kept forging ahead all the time, the
boat of the pirate bumped away lightly from between the vessel and our
dinghy, and we remained alongside, holding to the end of the severed
line. I sent my fourth shot after them and got in exchange a scream and
a howl of “Mercy! mercy! we surrender!” She swung clear of the quarter,
all hushed, and faded into the mist and moonlight, with the head and
arms of a motionless man hanging grotesquely over the bows.
Leaving Seraphina with Castro, and sticking the remaining pair of
pistols in my belt, I swarmed up the rope. The moon, the lights of
several lanthorns, the glare from the open doors, mingled violently in
the steamy fog between the high bulwarks of the ship. But the character
of the contest was changing, even as I paused on the rail to get my
bearings. The fellow who had leapt on board to escape my shot had bolted
across the deck to his friends on the other side, yelling:
“Fly, fly! The heretics are coming, shooting from the sea. All is lost.
Fly, oh fly!”
He had jumped straight overboard, but the infection of his panic was
already visible. The cries of “_Muerte, muerte!_ Death, death!” had
ceased, and the Englishmen were cheering ferociously. In a moment, under
my eyes, the seamen, who had been holding their own with difficulty in
a shower of defensive blows, began to dart forward, striking out with
their fists, catching with their hands. I jumped upon the main hatch,
and found myself in the skirt ef the final rush.
A tall _Lugareño_ had possessed himself of one of the ship’s capstan
bars, and, less craven than the others, was flourishing it on high,
aiming at the head of a sailor engaged in throttling a negro whom he
held at the full length of his immense arms. I fired, and the _Lugareño_
tumbled down with all the appearance of having knocked himself over with
the bar he had that moment uplifted. It rested across his neck as he lay
stretched at my feet.
I was not able to effect anything more after this, because the sailor,
after rushing his limp antagonist overboard with terrific force, turned
raging for more, caught sight of me--an evident stranger--and flew at
my throat. He was English, but as he squeezed my windpipe so hard that
I couldn’t utter a word I brought the butt of my pistol upon his thick
skull without the slightest compunction, for, indeed, I had to deal with
a powerful man, well able to strangle me with his bare hands, and very
determined to achieve the feat. He grunted under the blow, reeled away
a few steps, then, charging back at once, gripped me round the body, and
tried to lift me off my feet. We fell together into a warm puddle.
I had no idea spilt blood kept its warmth so much. And the quantity
of it was appalling; the deck seemed to swim with gore, and we simply
weltered in it. We rolled rapidly along the reeking scuppers, amongst
the feet of a lot of men who were hopping about us in the greatest
excitement, the hearty thuds of blows, aimed with all sorts of weapons,
just missing my head. The pistol was kicked out of my hand.
The horror of my position was very great. Must I kill the man? must I
die myself in this miserable and senseless manner? I tried to shout,
“Drag this maniac off me.”
He was pinning my arms to my body. I saw the furious faces bending over
me, the many hands murderously uplifted. They, of course, couldn’t tell
that I wasn’t one of the men who had boarded them, and my life had never
been in such jeopardy. I felt all the fury of rage and mortification.
Was I to die like this, villainously trodden underfoot, on the threshold
of safety, of liberty, of love? And, in those moments of violent
struggle I saw, as one sees in moments of wisdom and meditation, my
soul--all life, lying under the shadow of a perfidious destiny. And
Seraphina was there in the boat, waiting for me. The sea! The boat! They
were in another land, and I, I should no more.... never any more....
A sharp voice called, “Back there, men. Steady. Take him alive.” They
dragged me up.
I needn’t relate by what steps, from being terribly handled as a
captive, I was promoted to having my arms shaken off in the character of
a saviour. But I got any amount of praise at last, though I was
terribly out of breath--at the very last gasp, as you might say. A man,
smooth-faced, well-knit, very elated and buoyant, began talking to me
endlessly. He was mighty happy, and anyhow he could talk to me, because
I was past doing anything but taking a moment’s rest. He said I had come
in the nick of time, and was quite the best of fellows.
“If you had a fancy to be called the Archbishop of Canterbury, we’d
‘your Grace’ you. I am the mate, Sebright. The captain’s gone in to
show himself to the missus; she wouldn’t like to have him too much
chipped.... Wonderful is the love of woman. She sat up a bit later
to-night with her fancy-sewing to see what might turn up. I told her at
tea-time she had better go in early and shut her stateroom door, because
if any of the Dagos chanced to come aboard, I couldn’t be responsible
for the language of my crowd. We are supposed to keep clear of profanity
this trip, she being a niece of Mr. Perkins of Bristol, our owner, and
a Methodist. But, hang it all, there’s reason in all things. You can’t
have a ship like a chapel--though _she_ would. Oh, bless you, she would,
even when we’re beating off these picaroons.”