“Halloa! I say—All catching crabs together!” cried Prose.
“Caught something worse than a crab, sir,” replied the coxswain—“Wilson, are you much hurt?”
“The rascals have let daylight in, I’m afraid,” answered the man, faintly.
“Well, I do declare I’d no idea the poor fellows were wounded. Coxswain, take one of the oars, and I’ll steer the boat, or we shall never get alongside. I say, Mr Jolly, can’t you pull?”
“Yes, sir, upon a pinch,” answered the marine whom he addressed, laying his musket on the stern-sheets, and taking one of the unmanned oars.
“Well, there now, give way.”
But the delay occasioned by this mishap had left the cutter far astern of the other boats, who, paying no attention to her, had pulled alongside, and boarded the vessel. The conflict was short, from the superior numbers of the English, and the little difficulty in getting on board of a vessel with so low a gunwale. By the time that Prose came alongside in the cutter, the pirates were either killed or had been driven below. Prose jumped on the gunwale, flourishing his cutlass—from the gunwale he sprung on the deck, which was not composed of planks, as in vessels in general, but of long bamboos, running fore and aft, and lashed together with rattans; and as Prose descended upon the rounded surface, which happened where he alighted to be slippery with blood, his feet were thrown up, and he came down on the deck in a sitting posture.
“Capital jump, Mr Prose,” cried Courtenay; “but you have arrived too late to shed your blood in your country’s cause—very annoying, an’t it?”
“O Lord!—O Lord!—I do declare—oh—oh—oh!” roared Prose, attempting to recover his feet, and then falling down again.
“Good heavens, what’s the matter, Prose?” cried Seymour running to his assistance.