“To me, Crawford!” rang out the stentorian voice.
Crawford, his task accomplished, now came back to the side of Deakin, while Moon’s men dared not lift a finger lest the knife bite their skipper. To be a company captain meant much; each captain was to his men as a little god, something a trifle more than human, whose slightest word was law ordained. Now, with his knife, Deakin slashed the bonds of Crawford.
“Weapons—then to the trees.”
Free, Crawford leaped at the men who gave back before him. From one he caught a hangar, from the gaping lieutenant a gold-decked rapier, perhaps brought out from London as a gift for Governor Bailey at Nelson. Then back to Deakin, now retreating slowly toward the trees, backing around the circle of intent redskins, snarling as he gripped his limp captive.
Then from the lieutenant burst horrified words.
“The cap’n—dead! At ’em—cut ’em off!”
Indeed, what had been Captain Moon was now a poor dead thing, head horribly askew in that fierce grip. Moses Deakin had defeated himself. The men’s stupefaction fled. A yell broke from them and they flooded forward. Deakin dropped his victim, seized the hangar from Crawford.
“Too late!” he snarled. “Another minute——”
Too late indeed; a pistol roared, and Deakin staggered as the ball hipped him. Crawford might have run for it, but that was not his way; a laugh broke on his lips and he halted. The Bostonnais, knife and cutlass in hand, stood like a bear at bay. Crawford made one desperate effort to stay the onrush.
“Hold, men! Your fleet’s destroyed—Nelson is captured—your only chance is——”