“It’s no good, sir,” answered Gowland. “We can’t get within twenty yards of dry ground for the mud, which is too stiff to permit of our forcing the boat through it, but not stiff enough to support a man. I made the attempt, and went in up to my arm-pits before they could get hold of me to pull me out.”
Meanwhile, a hot fire of grape and musketry—the latter from all four of the craft—was being maintained upon us; our men were falling fast; and the matter to my mind began to look very serious. Still, those who were not hurt, or whose hurts were not very severe, worked away manfully in an endeavour to break the boom; but it was clear—to me at least—that our only hope lay in the pinnace’s gun. If that failed, it seemed probable that every man of us would be placed hors de combat before we could force a passage through.
Our nine-pounder was soon ready again; and then—Gowland and I having meanwhile stationed our respective boats one on each side of the pinnace, and by the united efforts of our crews succeeded in rolling the logs so far over as to bring the remaining pair of coupling chains out of the water—a second effort was made to divide the boom. The shot was a successful one, both chains being completely cut through. Another ringing cheer proclaimed the good news just as the gig rejoined us with a similar piece of intelligence to that already brought by Gowland, as to the impossibility of landing and getting at the shore-fasts of the boom. That obstacle was now, however, happily severed, and drawing his sword, the skipper waved it over his head as he shouted—
“Out oars, men, and give way for your lives! Follow me, the rest of the boats. We will tackle the big fellow first, and bring the other three to their senses afterwards with the aid of her guns.”
The words were scarcely out of his mouth when another broadside of grape hurtled in among us, now once more huddled closely together about the breach in that deadly boom, and from the dreadful outcry that immediately arose, the tossing of arms aloft, and the dropping of oars, it was evident that fearful havoc had been wrought by it among our already seriously diminished company. And, to make matters worse, it was instantly followed by a louder, deeper report, and a crash on board the pinnace as an eighteen-pound shot struck her gun fair upon its starboard trunnion, dismounting the piece and sending it overboard, while a shower of splinters of wood and metal flew from the slide, wounding and maiming at least four more men. And then, as though that were not enough, the shot glanced and swept the boat fore and aft, crushing in the side of one poor fellow’s head like an egg-shell, smashing in the ribs of another, and whipping the captain’s sword out of his hand, with all four of his fingers, as it flew over his head into the darkness beyond.
In the teeth of this new disaster the pinnace forced her way through the now divided boom, closely followed by Ryan in the gig, then myself, with Gowland bringing up the rear. “Give way for your lives!” was now the word; and at racing pace—or as near it as we could get with our sadly diminished crews—we headed for the biggest craft of the four, which we now made out to be a large brig, very heavily rigged and with immensely square yards. We opened out a little to port and starboard as we went, in order that we might show as small a mark as possible for our antagonists to fire at, and, having already passed the heavy pinnace, I was fast creeping up into the leading position, when Ryan, who saw what I was after, sheered alongside and in sharp, terse language ordered me to change places with him. Of course I could but obey, and the fiery Irishman, finding himself in the best-manned boat of the lot, speedily passed ahead, despite the utmost efforts of the rest of us to keep pace with him. One more broadside of grape greeted us as we pushed somewhat heavily across the lagoon, and that put the poor unfortunate gig practically out of the combat, for it reduced her oarsmen to two, while she had already been so badly knocked about that it needed the utmost efforts of the least severely wounded of her crew to keep her afloat by baling. We kept on, however, in the wake of the other boats, and had at least a good view of the short, sharp fight that followed. The brig was lying with her starboard broadside presented to us, and as the boats advanced toward her they gradually passed out of the broad line of light cast by the still fiercely blazing fire that had been kindled on the shore. No sooner did this happen, however, than half-a-dozen men provided with port-fires sprang, three into her main and three into her fore port rigging, illumining the brig herself brilliantly, it is true, but at the same time revealing the whereabouts of our boats distinctly enough to enable her people to keep up a most galling pistol and musketry fire upon us, besides giving them the advantage that the light was at their backs, while it shone in the faces of our marines with such dazzling effect that they were able to reply but ineffectively to the fire with their own muskets.
The second lieutenant was first alongside, closely followed by Gowland, the pinnace making a bad third and ranging up under the bows of the brig, while the other boats attempted to board her in the waist. But the brig—and the three schooners as well for that matter—was well protected by boarding nettings triced up fore and aft, and as our men made a dash at her they were met by pikes thrust at them out through the ports, by the snapping of pistols in their faces, and the fierce lunge of cutlasses through the meshes of the netting. Nevertheless they persevered gallantly, hacking away at the netting with their cutlasses, and occasionally delivering a thrust through it at any one who happened to come within arm’s-length of them. But it was clearly a losing game; our losses had been so heavy during our attack upon the boom that we were already far out-numbered by the crew of the brig alone, and they possessed a further important advantage over us in that they fought upon a spacious level deck, while our lads were obliged to cling to the bulwarks as best they could with one hand while they wielded their weapons with the other; moreover, the slavers were able to make a tolerably effective use of their pikes and still keep beyond the reach of our cutlasses.
“If it were not for that diabolical netting,” thought I, “there would be some chance for us still.” And as we ranged laboriously up alongside, my eye travelled up the face of the obstruction to its upper edge, and I saw that it was suspended at four points only, two on the port and two on the starboard side, in the wake of the main and foremasts.
“A sharp knife,” thought I, “ought to divide each of those tricing-lines at a single stroke, when down would go the net upon the defenders’ heads and hamper their movements long enough to give our people a chance.” And then I remembered that only a day or two before I had sharpened my own stout clasp-knife—at that moment hung about my neck on a lanyard—to almost a razor edge, and that consequently I had in my possession just the weapon for the purpose.
As my meditations reached this point the gig touched the brig’s side, and whipping out my knife and opening it, I made one spring from the boat’s gunwale into the netting, up which I at once swarmed with all the agility I could muster—and I was fairly active in those days, let me tell you—a musket-shot knocking my cap off as my head rose above the level of the bulwarks, while a moment later a fellow made a lunge at me with his pike as I skipped up the meshes, and drove its head half through the calf of my left leg. I felt the wound, of course, but was at the moment much too excited and intent upon the task which I had set myself to give it a second thought, and in another instant, so it seemed to me, I had reached the tricing line, which I grasped tightly with one hand while I hacked away vigorously with the other. The rope parted at the third stroke of the knife, and down dropped the net, sagging so much in the wake of the main-rigging that our lads were easily able to surmount the obstacle, and I saw Ryan, with a wild, exultant “Hurroo!” half fall, half leap down to the brig’s deck, where he laid about him so ferociously with fist and cutlass that he at once cleared a space around himself for his followers.