THE FIGHT ON DECK
Gull led the way through the cabin, and, as we neared the companionway,
a stateroom door was thrust open, and Miss Allen stood before us. She
held a pistol in her hand, and her eyes were bright and sparkling. She
seemed most beautiful to me, as she stood there confronting five armed
men.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, “I’m glad it’s you. I thought--” But she left her
sentence unfinished. We knew what she meant, and the pistol was not a
weapon for offence. It was her last defence, and the thought of the girl
waiting with it in her hand gave me a turn. We hurried up the ladder
while she called after us, asking if her father was all right.
The blackness on the poop was lit up by Gull’s lantern, and we saw a
sight that made us grip our weapons. A confused mass of men were closed
in desperate combat, cutting, thrusting, hacking, and clutching at each
other in the darkness. Guided by Hawkson’s voice, we soon made out the
mate, surrounded by a crowd of the black devils from the beach and
several of our own men. By his side was Hicks and the sailor, Ernest,
all hewing away at the press about them. Several bodies lay beneath
Hawkson’s feet, telling of the old fighter’s desperate sword-play.
A little farther on, with his back against the mizzen, stood Howard, his
bare poll shining in the light of Gull’s lantern, showing the
perspiration pouring down over his face, his eyes steady and shining
like glass beads, his cutlass dripping in his right hand, and an empty
pistol in his left. He was hard at it with Martin and Shannon, both of
whom pressed him sorely, in spite of Yankee Dan’s help.
Henry was engaging Anderson and Gus at his side, and the forms of two
men lying between the old captain and Martin told of the Scot’s and
Shannon’s deadly work. Shannon had cut down one and Martin had put a man
out of the way as we rushed up.
The fight now waxed hotter. The barque, being without any one at the
wheel, luffed slowly into the breeze until her foreyards were aback and
she gathered sternway. The cracking of the slatting canvas added to the
noise of the yelling men, and for a time there was chaos on the poop.
Instinctively Gull and myself rushed to Howard’s side. The old fellow
was wary and quick, warding off the furious onslaughts of the long
skipper with a skill and strength that was amazing. He had his old
cutlass ahead of him, sword fashion, and he hopped about that deck like
some horrible old monkey, laughing now and again in his high, cackling
voice, as he lunged and stabbed with a catlike quickness. Even the long
skipper’s giant strength was powerless to force his guard for a few
moments, but, as we fell upon the long rascal, we were met by Martin,
who came in furiously, yelling like a demon.
“Hoot, ye dogs! Stand out an’ die! Stand out an’ die like true Christian
men!” he bawled, and as he did so he struck fiercely with a cutlass.
Jennings, Pat, and Holmberg had gone against us, and I caught a glimpse
of them in the crush about Hawkson, as I circled about Shannon, trying
to get within his guard, while he made long, full-arm sweeps as he
advanced that kept us busy getting out of his way. Only Howard seemed to
be able to stand and yet clear them.
Curtis, Jorg, and Bill had fallen upon the crowd pressing about the
mate, and now some of the black pirates left the press there and came to
Shannon’s aid. One of these sprang within the guard of the trader and
smote him heavily. Then he dodged back again as Gull pressed him,
cutting him again and again with lightning-like strokes, his
cutlass-blade glinting like a flash of flame in the light of the lantern
set upon the companion slide.
Shannon came steadily on. Yankee Dan reeled and struck out wildly. A
pistol flashed somewhere in the night, and he pitched forward under the
long man’s feet.
Everything now was mixed. A grinning black face showed before me, and I
cut at it with all my power. A hoarse scream from the Doctor told me
that the blow had hit hard, although there seemed little resistance to
the blade. The rascally cook had evidently joined the mutiny, and had
gotten his deserts. At the same time I did not stop to argue the
question of right or wrong. I had been gulled into joining the ship, and
had no reason to love her or her officers, yet, when it came to standing
by her, there was no thought of shirking.
Had Martin been a different kind of a rascal, he might have approached
me, but he had judged rightly that I had no use for him as a leader, and
he had ironed me for future consideration, not wishing to part with any
more men than necessary on the short-handed ship. He might have knifed
me and tossed me over the side just as easily.
The death of Yankee Dan appeared to madden Martin. He roared and cursed
and swung a vicious stroke at Gull. Then seeing me, his rage broke forth
in a torrent of oaths. He made a cut at me and missed. I stabbed him
savagely in the ribs, my point hitting him hard, for I had to jerk it
clear. He roared and rushed in upon me, followed by Shannon, and I was
beaten backward to the poop-rail. In vain did Howard and Gull cut and
lunge at the long villain. Shannon beat their weapons down, and came
upon me, with the wounded Scot at his side, now silent with pain and
with the weakness of his hurt. I fought with despairing energy, but
received a blow on my shoulder that almost made me drop my cutlass. The
long villain took a stride nearer to me, and Martin stabbed me in the
leg, as I frantically drove his point downward from my breast. I was
hard pressed, and for an instant it seemed that I could not escape. The
rail struck me in the small of the back, and I brought up against it. I
had reached the limit. Then Bill did a thing that makes me believe in
the honesty and nobility of men. It was not what might have been
expected from a member of that crew, but it was more than even the duty
of a friend, and we had once fought against each other.
Gull smote Jennings so sorely that he fell back and opened the way to
Martin. Like a flash the second mate sprang in just as the wounded, but
still wary, Scot stabbed me, and he struck him so savagely that he went
staggering to one side. Pat and a black fellow pressed Howard, and
Shannon whirled up his blade to make a finish of me when Bill sprang
between and closed.
Howard thrust the Irishman through the body, and, as his cackling laugh
broke out, the fellow fell heavily, striking Shannon’s legs behind at
the knee joints. The impact of Bill in front brought all three to the
deck, where they rolled into a struggling, kicking mass in the darkness.
As quickly as possible, Gull and myself sprang in to finish the long
skipper before Bill was done for, but it was too late. The tall
scoundrel arose almost instantly to his feet and sprang clear of our
thrusts, leaving Bill lying stark dead upon the deck. He had died to
save me, poor sailorman though he was, and, as I stepped over his
bleeding body, I could hardly repress a sob that rose in my throat.
John, Gilbert, Anderson, and Heligoland, with six of Cortelli’s black
scoundrels, had by this time pressed Hawkson, Ernest, and Hicks so hard
that even the aid of Curtis and Jorg availed them but little. In the
general mix-up, the carpenter had received a blow over the head with a
dull cutlass, which had rendered him insane for a time. I saw him
rushing forward, screaming, but gave him no other thought, while I went
for Shannon, determined to avenge poor Bill.
Nearly every one had received several wounds by this time, as the
fighting had been close and furious, but Shannon appeared to brighten up
and go in for a finish. He had fought silently up to the present moment,
but now he began to drawl out his oaths viciously at each stroke of his
cutlass.
“I’ll have ye in a minute, ye long caterman,” cried Howard, pressing
upon him.
“I wanter know, I wanter know, you bald-headed thief!” he roared in
reply, and he mixed things up so fast that his blade shone like a
thousand gems in the dim light of the lantern. Anderson came to Martin’s
aid and supported him, while the badly wounded, though still undaunted,
Scot bawled feebly for his enemies to come on. He seized the rail with
his left hand, and still showed the point of his cutlass ready for
business.
During this last rally, I had noticed the uproar below sounding like the
surf on the shore. I thought it was caused by the slaves in their fear,
hearing the sounds of the desperate fight on the deck above.
Suddenly the uproar swelled louder, and distinct cries came from the
main-deck. Forms flitted here and there and came bounding upon the poop.
I saw Hawkson make a desperate rally and cut down John and a black
giant, and, as they fell, Henry rushed in and finished them. Curtis
fell, badly wounded, but Hicks and Ernest drove the crowd back. Again
and again did Gull, Howard, and myself press Shannon, but the long
fellow, while not able to make any way against us, placed his back to
the poop-rail, and kept us a sword-length away with ease.
Martin, Shannon, Anderson, and their followers now crowded aft along the
rail, and we were unable to stop them. Hawkson swung clear of the press
about him, and Hicks followed.
At that instant a surging crowd of black forms came pouring up the
poop-ladders. They were naked and unarmed, save for whatever bars and
belaying-pins they had found in the darkness.
“Good God, the cargo’s loose!” cried Henry. “Get aft, it’s the only
chance.”