A volley was all the reply, and on came the blackbirders with a rush. They thought to carry the trench by storm.
The swivel gun was emptied into their very midst, and the slaughter was terrible: what had been a crowd of living men seemed now but a mangled mass of dead and dying. For even those unwounded threw themselves down and shouted for mercy.
It needed all the skill of the cannibal king to prevent his men from utterly wiping out the enemy. They were restrained, however, after a fashion, yet nearly all the wounded were speared.
Stransom and his men gathered round the rest and made them prisoners.
As the fight took place well out of sight of the few men left in charge of the barque, these had no idea what had occurred.
The leader of the raid was the captain of the ship himself. He was wounded, but had sufficient strength to sit up, and his eyes met those of Stransom. The man was Allison, first mate of the old Vulture.
“Allison, it is you!”
“It’s me, skipper. I deserve my fate. Let me now die in peace.”
“Die in peace, you shall,” answered Stransom, “but, my good fellow, had you not been wounded I should have hanged you!”
“Thank you,” sneered Allison.