“Beggin’ yer pardon, sir,” put in one of the men, “but you’re forgettin’ ’tis a free islan’. It’s not belongin’ to us nor the bark, sir. And there’s no reason I seen yet, to put ’em off.”
“Raisin is ut!” fumed Mike. “Raisin! Shure thin do yez be afther thinkin’ ’tis honest worruk they’re afther comin’ here for? Look at thim! Howly Saint Pathrick! The dhirty thaves arre afther st’alin’ av the ’ile!”
Mike was right. The boats’ crews from the schooner were calmly rolling the oil-filled casks to the shore, evidently with the intention of loading them into their boats. And now that the hostile status of the brig was evident, the Hector’s men no longer hesitated. With set faces and grim determination they seized the nearest weapons,—blubber-spades, elephant clubs, irons, and with Mike shouting encouragement and brandishing a heavy club the five whalemen charged towards the brig’s boats. Outnumbering the whalemen three to one, the oil pirates stood their ground, drawing their sheath-knives and seizing their heavy oars in readiness to repel their attackers.
But neither sheath-knives nor oars are of much avail against long-handled, razor-edged, blubber-spades or whale-irons and as one of the Americans hurled an iron which buried itself in the thigh of one of the raiders, and the gleaming spades cut down another, the remaining ten men turned tail, dashed to their boats and with frantic strokes pulled from shore barely in time to escape the maddened whalemen. Had they delayed an instant longer, all would have been butchered without mercy, for the whalemen, already soured, surly and ugly from the destruction wrought by the storm, had gone murder-mad when they saw their hard-won, precious oil being boldly stolen from under their noses.
Even as it was, the Portuguese had not escaped unscathed. The one struck by the iron was screaming and struggling unable to move from the heavy iron-pole, while his comrade lay moaning in a pool of blood and with a great, gaping gash in his shoulder where the spade had struck him. Shaking weapons and fists at the rapidly retreating boats, and hurling sneers and insults after them, the victorious whalemen turned their attention to the wounded raiders.
“Shure, ’tis no desarvin’ o’ pity yez be!” Mike informed them. “But ’tis no haythens we arre. B’gorra, Oil bet yez’ll think twoice afore yez arre afther buttin’ in an’ staylin’ o’ Yankee sailormins’ ’ile ag’in!”
It was no easy matter to extricate the barbed iron from the fellow’s thigh and Mike was no gentle surgeon and the man’s agonized howls, as the bo’sun cut away the flesh and drew out the iron must have made shivers run down the spines of those on the brig. Carrying the two wounded raiders to the shack, Mike and his men rendered rough first aid and gave no heed to what was taking place on the brig until one of the boat steerers gave a warning shout. Leaving the wounded men, all rushed out to see three boats leaving the brig and heading towards the shore.
“Glory be!” cried Mike. “’Tis more av the same med’cine they do be afther wantin’! An’ b’gorra, ’tis thot same they’ll be afther gettin’. Come on, yez spalpeens. Shure it’ll take more than twenty av yez to bate foive Yanks!”
Considering that two of his men were Portuguese, Mike’s use of the term “Yankees” was rather amusing, but no one noticed it, and indeed, the New Bedford Portuguese considered themselves as much Americans as did Mike himself.
Again seizing their weapons, the whalemen prepared to greet the invaders with a warm reception. But as they approached the water-side two of the men in the forward boat dropped their oars, sprang to their feet and, seizing rifles, fired point-blank at the advancing whalemen. It was lucky for Mike and his men that the Portuguese were poor shots and that their sudden motions rocked the boat; but as it was, the bullets sang harmlessly over the defenders’ heads.