At the time that Cain quitted the schooner, it was difficult to say whether the men-of-war’s boats would succeed in intercepting any of the pirate’s boats. Both parties exerted themselves to their utmost; and when the first boat, with Francisco and Clara, landed, the headmost of the assailants was not much more than half a mile from them; but, shallow water intervening, there was a delay, which was favourable to the pirate. Hawkhurst landed in his boat as the launch of the Comus fired her eighteen-pound carronade. The last boat was yet two hundred yards from the beach, when another shot from the Comus’s launch, which had been unable hitherto to find a passage through the reef, struck her on the counter, and she filled and went down.
“He is gone!” exclaimed Francisco, who had led Clara to a cave, and stood at the mouth of it to protect her: “they have sunk his boat—no, he is swimming to the shore, and will be here soon, long before the English seamen can land.”
This was true. Cain was breasting the water manfully, making for a small cove nearer to where the boat was sunk than the one in which Francisco had landed with Clara and the wounded men, and divided from the other by a ridge of rocks which separated the sandy beach, and extended some way into the water before they were submerged. Francisco could easily distinguish the pirate-captain from the other men, who also were swimming for the beach; for Cain was far ahead of them, and as he gained nearer to the shore he was shut from Francisco’s sight by the ridge of rocks. Francisco, anxious for his safety, climbed up the rocks and was watching. Cain was within a few yards of the beach when there was the report of a musket; the pirate-captain was seen to raise his body convulsively half out of the water—he floundered—the clear blue wave was discoloured—he sank, and was seen no more.
Francisco darted forward from the rocks, and perceived Hawkhurst, standing beneath them with the musket in his hand, which he was recharging.
“Villain!” exclaimed Francisco, “you shall account for this.”
Hawkhurst had reprimed his musket and shut the pan.
“Not to you,” replied Hawkhurst, levelling his piece, and taking aim at Francisco.
The ball struck Francisco on the breast; he reeled back from his position, staggered across the sand, gained the cave, and fell at the feet of Clara.
“Oh, God!” exclaimed the poor girl, “are you hurt? who is there then, to protect me?”
“I hardly know,” replied Francisco, faintly; and, at intervals, “I feel no wound, I feel stronger;” and Francisco put his hand to his heart.