“Don’t—don’t fire,” cried Drew, who rushed forward, and none to soon; for the clicking of locks came out of the thin mist. “Friends! friends!”
A cheer rose at this; but it was answered by another yell, and the savages came on now at a run.
“Hurt, Lane, old chap?”
“Don’t talk: forward, all of you.”
Somehow or another the little party, hurt and unhurt, rose to their feet, and ran hard for the brig, fortunately only a short distance away, but their speed did not equal that of the arrows winged after them, and one of the deadly missiles struck Panton in the shoulder, making him utter an angry ejaculation, stop, turn, and discharge both barrels of his gun at the advancing enemy.
“Don’t; don’t stop to do that,” groaned Oliver. “To the brig, man—to the brig.”
He spoke in great pain, but the two shots had their effect, for they checked the advancing enemy for a few moments, and gave the flying party time to struggle to the side of the brig, but utterly worn out and exhausted. Then a terrible feeling of despair came over them as they looked up and saw that if the savages came on their case was hopeless, for the gangway was fastened up and sails had been rigged up along the bulwarks as a protection against an attacking foe, while to open out and let down steps would have taken many valuable minutes, and given the enemy time to seize or slay.
“Quick, my lads, throw them ropes. Hold on below, there; we’ll soon haul you up.”
Oliver saw that long before they could be dragged up it would be all over with them, and he placed his back to the vessel’s side, meaning to sell his life as dearly as he could, while the others followed his example, feeling completely shut out from the help they had sought.
“Fire over our heads, sir,” cried Drew, “we must not wait for ropes.”