With the help of the other bluejackets who had come ashore with us in the second cutter, the ring which the signalman suggested was at once formed, our chaps artfully manoeuvring so as to shut out all the black and coloured gentry who instantly flocked to the scene of action, the news of the fight having got abroad in some mysterious way or other.
Before this had been done, however, Mick Donovan received and repulsed the mulatto’s first onslaught in a highly satisfactory manner for our side.
Lifting his left knee suddenly as the infuriated beggar rushed in upon him in catapult fashion, with his body doubled and his head bent low, Mick at the same time, with all the force of his good right arm, struck downwards at the darkey’s exposed ear, which was about the size of a small plate, catching him thus between his knee and fist like a piece of iron a blacksmith might be at work on at the forge beaten flat between hammer and anvil.
Result—down dropped the mulatto as if he were a felled ox!
“Hooray!” yelled out all the Actives; while there was a groan and a rush from the surrounding compatriots of Mick’s opponent to pick up their champion. “Give the bloomin’ nigger fits, me boy! You’ve pretty nearly done for him already.”
But, the mulatto was not by any means settled yet.
Encouraged by his sympathising backers, of whom we allowed some five or six to enter the ring, wishing to play fair and not to have it all to ourselves, the mulatto shook himself as if he had just come out of the water; and, standing up in a proper manner now, he faced Mick, who smilingly beckoned him to come on.
“Hit ’im in de eyeball, Bim!” cried one of the dark ladies, who indeed was the cause of the fray, as generally is the case, I have been told, when menfolk fall out. “Yah, yah! Mash um face fo’ um, de imperent man-o’-war buckra!”
“Go it, Mick!” cried we. “Land him one in his bloomin’ bread-basket!”