“Pistols? no,” cried the gunner. “Stick to your whingers, lads. It’s no use to fire a piece without you can take good aim, and you can’t do that in the dark—it’s only waste of powder. Now, then, are you ready?”
“Ay, ay,” was whispered back in the midst of the ominous silence that prevailed.
“Then look here,” cried the gunner, “I shall go in at ’em roosh; and if they downs me, don’t you mind, lads, but keep on; go over me at once and board the place.”
“Lookye here,” growled Tom Tully, “I’m ’bout as hard as iron; they won’t hurt me. Let me go fust, capten.”
As he spoke the great fellow spat in his hand before taking a tighter grip of his weapon, and making a step forward.
“Just you keep aft, will yer, Tom Tully, and obey orders?” said the gunner, seizing the great fellow by the tail and dragging him back. “I’m skipper here, and I’m going to lead. Now, lads, are you all ready?”
“Ay, ay,” was the reply.
“Then I ar’n’t,” said the gunner. “That crack pretty nigh split my shoulder. Now I am. Close up, and hit hard. We’re all right, my lads; they’re smugglers, and they hit us fust.”
The gunner made a dash forward, and, as they had expected, a concealed enemy struck a tremendous blow at him; but Billy Waters was a sailor, and accustomed to rapid action. By quickness of movement and ready wit he avoided the blow, which, robbed of a good deal of its force, struck Tom Tully full in the chest, stopping him for a moment, but only serving to infuriate him, as, recovering himself, he dashed on after the gunner.
A sharp fight ensued, for now, as the sailors forced their way on, they found plenty of antagonists. Most of them seemed to be armed with stout clubs like capstan-bars, with which they struck blow after blow of the most formidable character from where they kept guard at various turns of the narrow passage, while the sailors could not reach them with their short cutlasses.