“Now!” he whispered, “in with your oars.”
He was obeyed, and the men laid them in, but made a slight noise—a mere trifle of sound, but it was sufficient to alarm the man forward, who was keeping watch; and to Mark’s horror, he heard a quick movement, followed by a shout of alarm.
But it was just as the boat grazed up against the schooner’s side, glided along, and Tom Fillot gripped the chains, stopped her course, and made fast the painter.
“What’s the matter? Are they getting out?” cried the skipper, hurrying on deck, and of course upsetting the plan of keeping him and his men below.
But before he had quite finished his question, Mark’s voice rang out,—“Forward!” and he sprang up in the chains, followed by his men, leaped on deck, and directly after there was aflash and the report of a pistol, but the man who fired it was driven headlong down upon the deck, to roll over and over until stopped by the bulwark.
It was the skipper who fired, and then went down with a fierce cry of rage, for Tom Fillot had rushed at him, striking him in violent collision, the weight of the running sailor being sufficient to send him flying. But he struggled up in a moment, and using his pistol as a club, struck with it fiercely in all directions as he cheered on his men, and bravely resisted the attempt to drive him and his followers below.
It was still very dark; the schooner’s crew had rushed up at the first alarm, and as fast as they cleared the combings of the hatch, they dashed at their assailants, with the consequence that in a very few seconds the deck was a confusion of struggling, yelling, and cursing men, the two parties fighting hard for their different aims, to beat the defenders below—to drive the attacking party overboard into their boat or into the river—anywhere to clear the deck.
It was a wild and savage affair, the energy of desperation being fully developed on either side. Weapons were little used, for the two parties closed in a fierce struggle, or else struck out with their fists; and as the two parties were pretty well balanced for numbers, the fight was obstinate to a degree.
Cheering on his men, Mark had been one of the first to leap on deck, and, once there, he had dashed, dirk in hand, at the first sailor he encountered, and immediately found out that even if armed with a dirk, a middy of seventeen is no match for a sturdy, well-built fellow of thirty; and though he caught his adversary by the throat with one hand, and pointed his dirk with the other, as he bade the man surrender, matters went badly for him.
For the man, who knew that the capture of the vessel meant endless trouble and loss to him, had not the slightest intention of surrendering to a mere boy, and in two vigorous efforts he sent Mark’s dirk flying in one direction, and hurled him in another so violently that the lad fell heavily on his head and shoulder, and for the space of two minutes there was no one to hold the command.