The shouting, yelling, and struggling did not last five minutes. Man after man succeeded the fallen, and then it was all over, the boats floating back with the current until they were checked by those in command, who ordered the oars out and the men to row. But it was some little time before the confusion on board each could be mastered, and the disabled portions of the crew drawn aside.
“Well done, my lads!” cried the skipper. “Couldn’t be better!”
“Here,” shouted the mate, “a couple of you up aloft and tighten that net up to the stay. Two more of you get a bit of signal-line and lace up those holes.”
“Ay, ay, sir!” came readily enough, and the men rushed to their duty.
“Think that they have had enough of it?” said Fitz huskily.
“Not they,” replied Poole. “We shall hear directly what they have got to say.”
He had scarcely spoken before there was a fierce hail from one of the boats, whose commander shouted in Spanish to the skipper to surrender; and upon receiving a defiant reply in his own tongue, the officer roared—
“Surrender, you scum, or I’ll order my men to fire; and as soon as you are my prisoners I’ll hang you all, like the dogs you are.”
“Back with you to your ship, you idiot, before you get worse off,” cried the captain sternly. “Dogs can bite, and when English dogs do, they hold on.”
“Surrender!” roared the officer again, “or I fire.”