Nearly every one had received several wounds by this time, as the fighting had been close and furious, but Shannon appeared to brighten up and go in for a finish. He had fought silently up to the present moment, but now he began to drawl out his oaths viciously at each stroke of his cutlass.
“I’ll have ye in a minute, ye long caterman,” cried Howard, pressing upon him.
“I wanter know, I wanter know, you bald-headed thief!” he roared in reply, and he mixed things up so fast that his blade shone like a thousand gems in the dim light of the lantern. Anderson came to Martin’s aid and supported him, while the badly wounded, though[though] still undaunted, Scot bawled feebly for his enemies to come on. He seized the rail with his left hand, and still showed the point of his cutlass ready for business.
During this last rally, I had noticed the uproar below sounding like the surf on the shore. I thought it was caused by the slaves in their fear, hearing the sounds of the desperate fight on the deck above.
Suddenly the uproar swelled louder, and distinct cries came from the main-deck. Forms flitted here and there and came bounding upon the poop.
I saw Hawkson make a desperate rally and cut down John and a black giant, and, as they fell, Henry rushed in and finished them. Curtis fell, badly wounded, but Hicks and Ernest drove the crowd back. Again and again did Gull, Howard, and myself press Shannon, but the long fellow, while not able to make any way against us, placed his back to the poop-rail, and kept us a sword-length away with ease.
Martin, Shannon, Anderson, and their followers now crowded aft along the rail, and we were unable to stop them. Hawkson swung clear of the press about him, and Hicks followed.
At that instant a surging crowd of black forms came pouring up the poop-ladders. They were naked and unarmed, save for whatever bars and belaying-pins they had found in the darkness.
“Good God, the cargo’s loose!” cried Henry. “Get aft, it’s the only chance.”