When a witch is young: a historical novel

by Philip Verrill Mighels

Rust was conscious of a few things about him in the confusion. He thought how cold the naked blades looked, slashing in the moonlight; he heard the yells and curses against the background of a slapping sail that was making a sound like a weird alarm; he felt the strength of the big rascal, who was cutting at him with that brute force and disregard for skill which is so deadly to engage. He thought the fellow would slice his saber in two. He lost no time in feinting. The brute of a buccaneer lurched forward to sweep his blade clean through Adam’s body and then suddenly a moonbeam seemed to cleave its way through the ruffian’s neck. He dropped his sword and spun around with his head lolling sideways and went down.

Adam rushed to the taff-rail. The pirate ship was straining at the ropes by which her hooks secured the two black hulks together. Smiting these taut ropes with mad fury, Rust saw the pirate drift away and the gulf of water widen between the two vessels, while the scoundrels aboard the robber-ship yelled a discordant chorus of curses.

Then back into the fray, the din of which was rising, as wounded men smarted and yelled and rushed upon one another anew, like snarling wolves, Adam darted, pistoling a creature who came running upon him and then heaving him overboard as the fellow writhed on the planks.

The sailors of the “Spencer” had somewhat the best of the conflict, which was a match in scuffling hotly all over the deck. Less than a dozen of the pirates had been able to leap aboard before the vessels were apart, and their bawlings for help to their ship had been rendered vain, for the moment, by Adam’s prompt action in cutting the lines. However, the sea-scoundrels were versed in fighting, where the sailors were merely rough-and-tumble sons of Cain whose rage was their principal accoutrement. They were at their adversaries, hammer and tongs. They were wrestling with some, hacking at others, swearing at all. It was a small pandemonium in which it was next to impossible to distinguish friend from foe.

Phipps, like the woodsman from Maine that he was, hewed his way from one group to another, shouting to his men, hoarsely. The beef-eaters, as inseparable as when they were dancing, chose but one man between them, and one such they peeled to a horrid core, as the demon rushed upon their sharpened weapons.

Adam stepped in a crawling line of gore, its head silver-tipped in the moonlight, and slipped till it wrenched him to hold his footing. He saw the sailors crowding three of the pirates to the rail and, joining them, battered the cutlasses from their fists and helped to hoist them bodily over and into the sea.

The din had hardly abated anything of its volume. The scene was one of the maddest activity. But the robbers not already done for, were now at bay against the masts, the capstan or the rail. One tripped backward over a coil of rope. The next instant he was screaming help and murder at the top of his lungs. This he continued even after a dreadful rattle and spluttering came in his voice.

Over the reddened decks one or two wounded creatures were crawling, one wiping gore from his face and flinging it off his fingers. Swords and pistols lay about. One dying human was lying on his side, with his arm extended and his index finger slowly crooked and straightened and crooked again, as if he beckoned to death to come more quickly.

The sail began to slap at the mast again, as the brig swung bow on in the wind and stopped in stays. The croaked curses of the pirates, on their ship, which was now again drawing swiftly toward the “Spencer,” made Adam and Phipps suddenly run to the brig’s brass gun, which was looking dumbly forth toward the pirate.

Rust had filled his pocket with loose powder. The cannon was already loaded. He poured a small pyramid of powder on the vent and he and Phipps, with the combined strength of two giants, slewed the piece around till a ball from the pirate could have been tossed into its yawning muzzle.