The man looked round at him. It was Red Bob.
"Not I," he answered. "But I can no longer lie and listen to the groans of my friends down there, nor to the booming of the guns, and think that, ill though I am, I have not yet fired a shot or drawn a weapon in defence of this good ship. A score of the sick men have already gone up to fight, Master Oglander, and 'tis my intention to join them, and do what little I can."
"May the good God put strength into your arm, then!" returned Gilbert, and, stepping upon the deck, he drew the man with him, and gave him a loaded pistol and a bag of powder and shot. Jacob Hartop encountered them as they moved aft.
"My good gun hath been dismounted at last," said he. "Yet 'tis of little account, methinks, for I do hear that the powder hath well-nigh given out." A cheer from the after-deck broke in upon his words. "Ah, here be work for us!" he added, snatching his sword from his side and limping towards the quarter-deck, followed by Gilbert and Red Bob.
A boat-load of Spanish soldiers had put out from the admiral's galleon, and had come alongside the Revenge. Fresh and eager they clambered up from her chains and over her broken bulwarks—two score of them at the least. Sir Richard Grenville and Captain Robinson rallied their men to their sides. They quickly drew together in a line, a gallant little company of twelve, not one of whom was without a wound, saving three who had come up from their hard beds on the ballast, and these were so weak that it was a labour even to raise their swords.
They met their foes with a rattle of pistol-shots and then with a clash of steel. Sir Richard Grenville closed with a tall Don, whose gay clothing and sparkling rings proclaimed him a man of consequence. Whatever Grenville may have been as a seamen, he was certainly no mean swordsman. He parried the Spaniard's fierce thrust, and with a quick movement of his strong wrist and an alert lunge forward sent the point of his weapon deep into the other's bare throat. The Spaniard fell, and Sir Richard stepped over his inert body to encounter the man who had taken his leader's place. Four Spaniards did he vanquish with his own hand within the few minutes during which this engagement on his quarter-deck lasted. And by his side—the least with the greatest—fought little Robin Redfern.
Robin, indeed, seemed to have abandoned all sense of fear or thought of danger, and he fought valiantly in his own boyish fashion. At one moment he rushed forward into the very midst of the Spaniards, and engaged hand to hand with one whom he seemed to have singled out. Gilbert, seeing him thus expose himself, pressed in to his rescue, caught him by the shoulder and dragged him back, parrying on his own blade the sword-thrust that must else have ended the boy's life. Gilbert now crossed swords with Robin's antagonist, and in the fading evening light caught sight of his face, recognizing it as the face of his own cousin, Philip. For a moment Gilbert drew back, appalled at the thought of fighting with one of his own flesh and blood. But Philip, with a scornful laugh on his lips, pressed him to the duel. It was thrust and cut and parry, parry and cut and thrust, for many moments. The two were equally matched in skill, albeit Gilbert had already been fighting for five hours without a rest, while his cousin was full fresh and active. Back and ever back, foot by foot, Gilbert was forced, and at last a fierce thrust delivered with all the strength in Philip's right arm, backed by all the weight in his body, brought Gilbert to his knees. The sword's point struck against his breast-plate, doing no real injury, but by its sheer force it disturbed his balance. He rolled over on the deck, and his own weapon fell from his hand.
