Clutching wildly and impotently at his aggressor, Hughes felt his strength failing. Soon his head was below the water again, he struggled to the surface, his senses were rapidly leaving him, and the fierce exulting shout of his enemy rang vaguely in his ears. Down came the sledge-hammer blows on his defenceless head, the man Gough fighting like a fiend, roaring in his fury, and biting like a wild beast at his foe, as he once more tore away his victim’s hold and pressed his head below the raft. The water gurgled in his ears, the savage shout mixed with the noise of the waves as he went down, when suddenly the grip on his throat ceased, his antagonist’s eyes rolled wildly; with a yell of agony, he seemed to leap half his height from out of the wave, and then all around it became reddened with his blood.
A violent struggle followed, making the sea boil for a moment, as a monstrous shark disappeared with its prey, and the strong arm of the carpenter seizing the drowning man by the collar, drew him from the ocean crimsoned with the blood of his antagonist, and cast him, stunned and senseless, on to the planking of the raft.
The Rescue.
Isabel, recovered from the state of insensibility into which she had fallen, on seeing all at once the quiet of the night turned into a scene of murder and of bloodshed, had taken refuge in the cabin. She paid no attention to what was going on around her, but sat on a pile of sails, rocking herself to and fro, and moaning as she did so. Several balls passed through the canvas screen, but she paid no attention to them. She had seen her husband, the last friend left her, stabbed as she believed to the heart, and thrown into the sea. What was the result of the fight now to her, and yet, as she saw even in her misery the helpless body drawn from the ocean, and cast on to the raft, she rose, and threw herself beside it, sobbing bitterly in her anguish of heart.
A few minutes’ pause had ensued after the fearful death scream of the mutineer, Smith, had rung forth on the night air, for the seamen consulted together, and the result was soon seen.
On they came with a fierce shout, but this time, taught by experience, they divided into two parties; one, attacking the captain and his men in front, received their fire and were soon beaten back, losing one of their number, the uncertain light alone saving them. The second, under cover of the diversion, dashed into the cabin, and rifled the arm-chest, which they broke open.
“Now, my lads, it’s our turn,” shouted one of the men as he loaded and fired, hitting the carpenter Morris, who fell uttering a deep groan.
Three of Captain Weber’s small party were hors de combat. The carpenter was fast bleeding to death. Hughes was lying senseless on the planking of the raft, while Adams, whose wound had broken out again, was in a helpless condition. The ultimate result of the struggle seemed no longer doubtful.
“It’s but a question of time, Lowe,” said the captain. “I’ve always been kind to the lubbers. Let the scoundrels have the gold—I’ll tell them so.”