But volley after volley was poured into them from the revolvers. Then a charge was made with swords.
Sandie had no fear now, and his good sword thrust more than one savage wounded to the water beneath. The fight was a terrible one while it lasted, and it really seemed that for every cannibal killed two more appeared.
If they should once gain a footing on board, then well those brave men knew that the brave barque would be at their mercy.
Every revolver was now empty, and there was no time to reload.
It was a case, therefore, of cut and thrust; but it soon became evident that the white men’s arms were getting tired battling against such terrible odds.
But now the captain’s voice was heard high over the din of battle and the yells of savage strife.
“Give ’em the hose, mate. Fetch it along. Be calm. Cheerily does it.”
Three or four blacks had already reached on board, and more than one white man fell stabbed to the heart.
But now the mate dashes forward with the hose.
How shall I describe the scene that followed, or the sickening yells of those now terror-stricken savages?