The boats were towed at the sides until the captain’s voice was heard—“Shove off and board,” he cried, in the same composed and stern manner. A loud cheer from the sailors in the boats, and their comrades on deck, echoed the order. The boats leapt over the long waves under the vigorous efforts of the men. They approached the ship. They stood up, pike in hand, ready to climb its sides.
“Pull, my men,” cried the officer in command, “we take her at once:” a flash was seen on the ship’s deck, a loud report was heard, and, as the smoke ascended, the shattered remnant of the first boat were seen floating here and there, and those who had been in it, and, a moment before, had longed so eagerly for battle, were scattered about on the water dead and horribly mutilated.
The discharge from the ship told with a fatal exactness: the gun, it would appear, had been loaded with pieces of old iron, nails, and everything destructive that could be found; and the charge swept away men and boat with a dreadful crash.
“Lay on your oars, my mates,” cried the officer of the second boat, fierce with anger at the destruction of his comrades: and in a few seconds she was alongside the ship.
“Board, board,”—quicker than thought the assailants climbed the sides of the merchantman, but not to land on deck: a dreadful conflict ensued. The men of the ship resisted valiantly, like those who knew they were fighting for their lives: the foremost assailants were dashed into the deep. They slashed at each other—attacking and attacked. The assailants handled their pikes with fierce and unbreathing vigour, but they seemed to make but little head against the men of the ship. Here and there a boarder was to be seen, to hang to the ship for a moment in his death-grasp, while blood and brain gushed from his cloven head to balance a moment in mid-air, and then fall heavily into the sea.
“Hurrah! hurrah!”—the cries of victory rose on board the British vessel, as assailant after assailant was precipitated into the deep, or sunk under the blows of the men on deck. Now the survivors rushed, for security, into the shrouds; now they clung to the ropes with teeth and feet, while, with their pikes, they kept at bay the opponents on deck. Like famished tigers, that would have their morsel or die, they fought, falling, dying, and almost dead: no shout, no word escaped them, but they did their work in terrible silence. On, on, the English sailors pressed. The shout of victory again rose; but three of the assistants remained—they were partly sheltered in the chains, and fierce as leopards at bay, they felled all that dared approach them; their companions were all cut down or driven over board; perspiration ran down their brawny breasts; blood and foam bubbled from their mouths; and, with eyes as dry and lurid as the famished Panther, they slashed at their hard pressing opponents. Suddenly a loud cheer was heard; it rang over the ocean like the roar of a distant cataract; the still resisting three heard it: a hoarse cry came from their parched and husky throats.
“The ‘Periagua,’”[1] one of them cried, and a long canoe-like boat was seen rapidly approaching from the schooner.
[1] See Appendix A.