That they fought with determined courage cannot be gainsaid—gentlemen Arabs always do—but they have not the bull-dog pluck of our fellows. They cannot hang on, so to speak; they lack what is technically called “stay.” Nor were they fighting in a good cause, and they knew it.
They knew or felt that they could not, if killed, walk straight from that blood-slippery battle-deck into the paradise of Mahomed.
Add to this that their weapons were far inferior to ours. Their spears were easily shivered, and even their swords; while their pistols could scarcely be called arms of precision.
So after a brave but ineffectual attempt to stem the wild, stern rush of our British blue-jackets, they fell back towards the poop, so huddled together that the fire of our men riddled two at a time. They finally sought refuge in the poop saloon, and even down below among the remainder of those poor trembling slaves who had not been butchered or forced to walk the plank.
Many were driven overboard, or preferred the deadly plunge into the ocean to falling into the hands of the British.
The captain surrendered his sword, standing by the mainmast. He was a tall and somewhat swarthy Arab, and spoke good English.
“Slay me now, if so minded, you infidel dogs,” he shouted, “or keep me to satiate your revenge?”
Meanwhile, up rose the moon—a vermilion moon—a moon that seemed to stain all the waves with long quivering ribbons of blood, and the shadows of the two ships were cast darkling on the water far to the west.
A wretched half-caste Arab was found skulking under the poop, and dragged forth by one of the Bunting’s men. He had not been in the fight, yet he had a most terrible appearance.
He was very black and ferocious-looking, dressed only in one white cotton garment, with a rope for a girdle, from which dangled an ugly knife.