At this act of black treachery the small boarding party were ready to make a furious rush, but the sloop’s officers and men looked on themselves appalled, while a young fellow, quite a boy, flung himself on the officer’s body in a passion of grief, then suddenly springing up, drew his knife and advanced towards Juarez.
“Enough!” said Webster sternly.
“Kill the black-hearted dog!” screamed the Brazilian sailors, giving vent to their hate for their brutal commander, which no doubt had been long pent up.
“I see,” said Webster, with a grim smile; “we must get this fellow on board to save him from his friends.”
He signalled to the Swift, and when she came alongside, Juarez, who still breathed heavily, was lowered to her deck.
“What’s to be done with the sloop, sir?”
“Oh, leave her, if she can float, and think ourselves lucky to be free of a gang of prisoners.”
“She can reach Madeira by means of her sails.”
“Take a look round, then, and come aboard.”
Webster and Hume went aft, where all the damage done by the Swift’s guns had taken place, and there they found the bulwarks smashed to splinters, the two guns overturned, and the deck wet with blood from a dozen dead.