The two ships jolted together, and in response to wind and helm the Royal James swung broadside on against the Spaniard, our bowsprit becoming entangled in her mizzen rigging. A dozen grappling-irons clattered in air and ground their hooks into her bulwarks. There was a brisk popping of small-arms, an exchange of threats and shouts of defiance.
My great-uncle, regardless of the firing, mounted the breach of a cannon which elevated him above the bulwarks, and Peter and I climbed into the forerigging, whence we had a fair view of both decks. The larboard bulwarks of the Royal James were crowded with men. Stripped to the waist, their lowering faces smutted with powder-stains, their hairy chests barred with tattooing, their backs more often than not scarred by the cruel welts of the lash, they tussled for first place and clung with their bare toes wherever there was a bit of running gear or an inch of space, gripping cutlasses in their teeth to leave hands free for pistol work or to steady themselves as they waited an opportunity to leap the narrowing gap between the vessels.
My eyes strayed to the Spaniard's decks. Little knots of men ran about confusedly. A stolid-looking fellow aimed a pistol at me, and a ratline over my head fell apart. Officers were driving the sailors forward to meet us. A man in a laced coat and periwig was shouting orders from the poop, and my pulse quickened, for at his shoulder was the lanthorn-jawed face of Colonel O'Donnell—aye, and in rear of both a skirt fluttered in the midst of a huddle of raven-black figures, priests and nuns.
"Jump!" squeaked Peter in my ear.
We jumped together, but my great-uncle was ahead of us. He leaped all of ten feet, sword in hand, alighted on the Spaniard's bulwarks, poised himself a moment and dropped into the center of a ring of foes. Before he had recovered his balance he parried the slash of a cutlass and pinked an antagonist in the throat. And he beat down a leveled pistol as I gained the treasure-ship's deck, inclined his head to avoid a murderous blow, ran the man through and almost in the same breath stepped a pace to the right to engage a fourth opponent—and all this with the cool precision of a fencing-master, unhurried, a flush of obvious enjoyment on his pallid cheeks.
But I saw no more. My task was to fight my way aft and protect the O'Donnells, and Peter and I turned our backs upon the struggle amidships. One wave of the pirates stormed in Murray's wake; the rest followed Peter and me. They were as brave as they were vicious, and we made rapid progress and were nearly at the foot of the poop-ladder when Murray's whistle shrilled behind us. I realized too that both O'Donnell and the officer in the laced coat were shouting volubly, the one in English and the other in Spanish, trying to make themselves heard above the din.
"—asks parley," came in broken phrases from O'Donnell. "—can not understand—regrettable mistake——"
"Der Spaniard wants quarter," grunted Peter.
Indeed, those of the Santissima Trinidad's men who had been resisting us promptly flung down their arms, glad of the excuse to quit the fight; but the wolves of the James' crew were not schooled to show mercy, and they killed three poor fellows before Peter and I could knock up their cutlasses.
Murray's whistle blew a second time. There was a sudden hush, punctuated by the grinding of the two vessels, the thudding of unshod feet as more of the James' pirates dropped aboard the treasure-ship, the gagging cries of the wounded, the nasal singsong of a priest pattering Latin prayers.