Just as the latter got clear of the fire-junks, and while the attention of the garrison was drawn to their shipmates' peril, a party of "braves" succeeded in making a landing upon a small jetty or pier, which had been run out from the lower end of the island, and in a short time the cattle sheds and compradors' huts were wrapped in flames. Finding the live stock out of their reach, they advanced boldly towards the fort, and threw over the ramparts lighted balls composed of flax steeped in resin.
Wonderful to relate, instead of intimidating the imprisoned Fanquis, the braves found their flaming missiles come flying back upon them; and to add to their discomforture, a party, headed by the acting boatswain, sallied forth from a small gate, the existence of which was unknown to them, whereupon they threw down their arms, and made for the water, but were caught in the gap between the outside slope of the embankment and the palisades. The sailors showed no quarter, and made short work of the braves, who crouched down and allowed themselves to be killed in a calmly Oriental manner.
Having cleared the island of their enemies, the party were about to return, when one of them declared he heard some one in the water, and proceeded to fire his pistol in the direction from which the sound proceeded, when, to their astonishment, they heard a voice faintly cry, "Stop."
"It's one of our fellers," observed a boy.
"Nonsense! How can that be?"
"Hold hard! It's me, C—lare."
Thompson was shading his eyes, and looking towards the water, when he heard this; but in a moment after forced his way through the palisades, and waded towards Clare, crying.
"Just another stroke, Tom, old man, and you're safe; there's bottom all along here."
Hearing Jerry's voice, Clare dropped his feet, and found he could touch the mud, upon which he waded towards his friend, who advanced to meet him with outstretched hands.
"Tom, old chap, however did you come here?"