Alas! Don Pedro, forgotten in the bustle, had been lying on the deck in his shirt, helplessly bound, exhausting that part of his vocabulary which related to the unseen world. Which most discourteous act seemed at first likely to be somewhat heavily avenged on Amyas; for as he spoke, a couple of caliver-shots, fired from under the poop, passed “ping” “ping” by his ears, and Cary clapped his hand to his side.
“Hurt, Will?”
“A pinch, old lad—Look out, or we are 'allen verloren' after all, as the Flemings say.”
And as he spoke, a rush forward on the poop drove two of their best men down the ladder into the waist, where Amyas stood.
“Killed?” asked he, as he picked one up, who had fallen head over heels.
“Sound as a bell, sir: but they Gentiles has got hold of the firearms, and set the captain free.”
And rubbing the back of his head for a minute, he jumped up the ladder again, shouting—
“Have at ye, idolatrous pagans! Have at ye, Satan's spawn!”
Amyas jumped up after him, shouting to all hands to follow; for there was no time to be lost.
Out of the windows of the poop, which looked on the main-deck, a galling fire had been opened, and he could not afford to lose men; for, as far as he knew, the Spaniards left on board might still far outnumber the English; so up he sprang on the poop, followed by a dozen men, and there began a very heavy fight between two parties of valiant warriors, who easily knew each other apart by the peculiar fashion of their armor. For the Spaniards fought in their shirts, and in no other garments: but the English in all other manner of garments, tag, rag, and bobtail; and yet had never a shirt between them.