"How much longer are we to stand this?" asked Touchstone, as he bound his wrist with a kerchief.
"Patience, man, patience!" was Captain Jeremy's only reply, as he calmly surveyed the scene of destruction--the blood-stained deck littered with the prone figures of seamen, whether they were dead, or wounded, or unhurt; and the tangle of shattered spars and cordage--and the smoke-enshrouded outlines of our ferocious attackers.
Ever and anon a shrill cry of pain or an exclamation of rage would be heard, as a mass of timber dislodged from aloft came hurtling through the air and struck some unfortunate man crouching near the guns; and another limp body would be borne below to add to the steadily growing numbers of our wounded. Yet discipline, iron discipline, prevailed, and were we to win the day we must receive hard knocks with the traditional fortitude of Englishmen.
Ashore our stockade, its seaward face hidden by a mask of bushes, also maintained a dignified silence, though in the case of its defenders, they were not put to the same temptation as ourselves.
All at once two men emerged from our main hatchway, dragging with them a great, hulking fellow, whose face was livid with terror.
"'Ere you are, Cap'n," said one of the men. "We found 'im skulking in t'hold."
"And 'e hasn't a scratch on 'im," added the other. "Shall us pitch 'im over the side?"
For the space of a full minute Captain Jeremy intently regarded the trembling man; then, as the cry arose, "Here they come!" he stepped to the weather bulwarks and looked in the direction of the enemy.
"Pass the word for the crew to stand to their arms," he said in a low tone to the master gunner; then, returning to where the abject creature still stood cowering, "There's your chance," he remarked quietly, pointing towards the buccaneering craft; "play the man!"