Story 2—Chapter V.
Conquered, not Beaten!
The situation had assumed a new phase.
Inspirited by the proximity of the pirate craft, with their comrades on board, the Greek sailors in the rigging, abandoning their pursuit of the first mate and the lookout man—a brave fellow named Jack Bower—began to descend the ratlins rapidly, with the view of making an onslaught on the captain and the others that were in possession of the quarter-deck, Jack, however, following closely after them now without a trace of fear, resolving to aid his fellow-countrymen in making a stand, although he had given them leg-bail when he stood alone against them, as the first mate had abandoned him at the wheel the moment the Greeks rushed aft, and even now remained trembling in the mizzen-top, instead of backing up Jack, and taking the mutineers in the rear as they scrambled down the shrouds without looking behind them.
The courage of the latter, however, did not suffice to take them very far.
The foremost man had hardly descended two steps, when “crack!” went Captain Harding’s revolver; and, reeling backwards, his hands cleaving the air vainly for a hold, the Greek sailor toppled over into the sea with a splash, and sank like a stone to the bottom, dead as a herring!
Another would have followed suit, for the captain had recocked his pistol, and was in the act of taking aim, when a stern, commanding voice exclaimed, in accents that rang through the ship—
“Hold!”
Captain Harding, without lowering his weapon, looked hastily forward from whence this unexpected summons appeared to come; and there he saw a sight which might well make even a courageous man quail. The felucca had been run alongside the Muscadine forward, under cover of the mainsail, her bow right under the ship’s counter, and a crowd of fierce, bearded ruffians were pouring on board as fast as they could clamber up the side, led by a tall, athletic fellow, dressed rather better than themselves, with a crimson sash folded round his waist, who was so much in advance of his villainous crew that he was close upon the group on the quarter-deck before they were almost conscious of his presence. It was his voice, the voice and face of the man who had accosted Tom and Charley in the Turk Mohammed’s coffee-house at Beyrout, and whom they at once now recognised again, that had arrested the action of the captain—although only for an instant, as, undismayed by the numbers now opposed to him, and conscious that his little band and himself must be defeated in the long run, and meet their death in the struggle, he shifted his aim, and pointed his revolver without hesitation at the leader.
“Hold!” repeated the pirate chief again in warning accents, before the captain could fire. “Another shot, and I won’t answer for your lives!”