“You’re youst a little bit too much in a hurry,” said Bill to Curtis, as they got up, the sailor red and angry at the choking he had received. But Gull pressed a cutlass into his hand, and called for us to follow, opening the door into the after-cabin. There was no time to lose. The incident had already cost us several minutes, and we might be too late.
“It’s Martin and the fellow Shannon,” said Gull, as we piled through. “They’ve got half the port watch an’ a dozen niggers with them. They’re the fighting devils of Cortelli’s guard shipped in, all ready to take a hand. Shannon and the Guinea stood in together to do the job. Come along, for God’s sake, come along!”
CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE FIGHT ON DECK
Gull led the way through the cabin, and, as we neared the companionway, a stateroom door was thrust open, and Miss Allen stood before us. She held a pistol in her hand, and her eyes were bright and sparkling. She seemed most beautiful to me, as she stood there confronting five armed men.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, “I’m glad it’s you. I thought--” But she left her sentence unfinished. We knew what she meant, and the pistol was not a weapon for offence. It was her last defence, and the thought of the girl waiting with it in her hand gave me a turn. We hurried up the ladder while she called after us, asking if her father was all right.
The blackness on the poop was lit up by Gull’s lantern, and we saw a sight that made us grip our weapons. A confused mass of men were closed in desperate combat, cutting, thrusting, hacking, and clutching at each other in the darkness. Guided by Hawkson’s voice, we soon made out the mate, surrounded by a crowd of the black devils from the beach and several of our own men. By his side was Hicks and the sailor, Ernest, all hewing away at the press about them. Several bodies lay beneath Hawkson’s feet, telling of the old fighter’s desperate sword-play.
A little farther on, with his back against the mizzen, stood Howard, his bare poll shining in the light of Gull’s lantern, showing the perspiration pouring down over his face, his eyes steady and shining like glass beads, his cutlass dripping in his right hand, and an empty pistol in his left. He was hard at it with Martin and Shannon, both of whom pressed him sorely, in spite of Yankee Dan’s help.
Henry was engaging Anderson and Gus at his side, and the forms of two men lying between the old captain and Martin told of the Scot’s and Shannon’s deadly work. Shannon had cut down one and Martin had put a man out of the way as we rushed up.
The fight now waxed hotter. The barque, being without any one at the wheel, luffed slowly into the breeze until her foreyards were aback and she gathered sternway. The cracking of the slatting canvas added to the noise of the yelling men, and for a time there was chaos on the poop.
Instinctively Gull and myself rushed to Howard’s side. The old fellow was wary and quick, warding off the furious onslaughts of the long skipper with a skill and strength that was amazing. He had his old cutlass ahead of him, sword fashion, and he hopped about that deck like some horrible old monkey, laughing now and again in his high, cackling voice, as he lunged and stabbed with a catlike quickness. Even the long skipper’s giant strength was powerless to force his guard for a few moments, but, as we fell upon the long rascal, we were met by Martin, who came in furiously, yelling like a demon.