With Drake on the Spanish Main

by Herbert Strang

Into the midst of this noise and confusion broke a shattering sound, the roar of a piece of ordnance. Then the din was redoubled, and with the astonished cries of some were mingled the shrieks and groans of wounded men. Still Dennis and his little band stood motionless amid the trees, but every man now held a lighted match. Another deep reverberating roar thundered forth, with more cries and yells in the camp. Amos and his comrades had disposed of the men guarding the guns, and had turned these upon the enemy.

"Now!" cried Dennis.

Then a mighty shout broke from the throats of the little company, and with the roar of lusty British seamen mingled the weird "Yo peho! yo peho!" of the maroons. A volley flashed from the muzzles of nineteen calivers, and nineteen men dashed forward towards the camp, shouting like a hundred. On they rushed through the trees into the clearing. "Yo peho! yo peho!" And with yells of panic fear the Spaniards, like a flock of sheep, ran and ran and ran, helter-skelter, flinging their arms away, tumbling over one another, falling, rising again, pelting headlong through the woodland towards the marsh.

Again the guns on the opposite cliff thundered, but the shots did not now come plunging into the camp. How were the Spaniards, scared out of their wits, to know that Turnpenny and Copstone were now firing into the gully, lest they should hit their comrades? But in a few moments there was no risk of this, for Dennis wheeled about and led his men at a mad scamper down by the way they had come, never stopping until, bathed in sweat, panting for breath, they stood on the sea-shore, at the place from which they had started.

And now Dennis looked again towards the sea, and strained his ears to catch a sound he expected. Would his expectation be fulfilled? Would Fortune favour him? Would the Spanish officers aboard the ship do as Copstone and Turnpenny in their place would have done—lower boats in all haste and come to the aid of their comrades in peril? None knew the anxiety that troubled Dennis in those minutes of waiting. If the Spaniards were poltroons, if they were scared by the sudden outbreak and feared to venture shorewards in the dark, his bold scheme would fail, and then what the end would be he hardly dared to think. It was with real agony of soul he listened, listened for the sweep of oars.

Hark! On the silence of the sea comes a thud, a measured beat, growing in loudness, drawing near. As yet he can see nothing, but his comrades hear the sound; their hearts leap at it; they can scarcely check a shout of joy. On comes the boat; they hear the splash of oars, and voices, and by and by the grating of a keel. They wait in panting silence. Men are wading through the water; arms clash; a loud voice gives an order; and now a score of dark forms can be seen running up the beach, making for the very path lately traversed by the nineteen. The men, lurking beneath the bank, hold their breath; Dennis feels as though his very heart-beats must be heard; but the Spaniards pass, and disappear, and are now hasting up towards the camp. The sound of their footsteps dies away; Dennis can scarcely bear to wait, so eager is he to pursue his scheme to the end. At last he gives the word, and eighteen men rush after him, noiselessly on the sand, towards the boat, a hundred yards away.

The two Spaniards left on guard catch sight of the running men when they are half way across the beach. Why should they suspect that these are not their comrades who lately parted from them? What has happened? They are nervous, unstrung. "What is it?" they cry; but the words are choked in their throats, for two men have sprung upon them, and next moment they lie stunned on the sand. Four men return and bring their wounded comrades with what haste they may. Then lusty arms shove the boat from the shoal; nineteen men leap in after the two; the oars are out, and the boat's head points towards the vessel lying at anchor.

But it pauses as it comes level with the shoulder of the cliff. The four bold fellows who have so manfully played their part beyond the gully are not forgotten. And but a few moments after the boat has stopped, four figures come swimming out with mighty strokes, and are hauled aboard, dripping wet, but exultant. Again the oars strike the water and the boat moves out to sea. A dark hull looms up in front. Dennis whispers an order; all the oars are shipped but two; and the boat goes slowly, with no sign of haste. A voice hails it from the deck. "All's well!" calls Juan. The boat is now under the vessel's quarter: a lamp is slung over the bulwark to guide the returning crew; a rope is thrown out to steady her; and Turnpenny begins to clamber up by the battens. Before Dennis reaches the deck he hears a cry, then a heavy thud, and as he springs aboard he sees Amos with a prostrate Spaniard between his legs. Up they go, all twenty-five; only a dozen of the vessel's crew are left on board; and the long pent-up excitement of maroons and British mariners bursts forth in a shout of triumph; the ship is theirs.

"Heave up the anchor, my hearts!" cried Turnpenny. "Loose the mainsail, Tom; the wind serves."

"Stay, Amos," said Dennis, "we must not forget the pinnace. We cannot return to Master Drake without her."