The pouring torrent of black men flowed and swept between the mutineers and ourselves, and we were borne along before them like a chip on the crest of a wave. Their wild cries sounded above the curses and yells of the fighting men, blending into a wild, hoarse roar from three hundred deep chests. By sticking close together, we managed to make a retreat to the after-companionway, but it was desperate work.
The Africans hurled their naked bodies upon our weapons, regardless of cuts and thrusts that went home every time, and they struck at us savagely with the bars and staves they had collected.
Mr. Gull received a blow that stretched him senseless, and it was only after a desperate stand that we managed to haul him out from under the struggling men who pitched upon him. Curtis, being badly wounded, could not keep with us, and he was pulled back into the crowd and never seen again. Ernest, who bore himself so bravely, fell at the companion, and it was Hawkson who tore his way into a mass of mad blacks and hauled him over the ladder.
There were only a few of us left. Hawkson, Hicks, Henry, Howard, and myself could do duty, but we were all badly wounded.
The light from the cabin below shone in our faces, and we set our backs to the opening. I saw Howard’s eyes shining from his mask-like face like two bright, black beads. Blood poured down Hawkson’s cheeks from a cut on the forehead, and made him a grisly sight. Hicks was white as a sheet, but cool and steady. He had received a thrust in the breast that made him wheeze at each breath.
We made one desperate rally at the companion, and I looked below over my shoulder. As I did so, I saw a form staggering in from forward, and heard the clank of the heavy door in the bulkhead. I looked again, and saw Big Jones coming, with a pair of broken irons on each wrist, and a pistol in his left hand, while in his right he carried a shining cutlass.
“Stand clear, I’m a-comin’,” he said, and we made way for him as he mounted the steps.
The light on the top of the companion, where Gull had placed it, still burned. The slaves swarmed everywhere, except on the glass skylight.
By the dim flare, I could see what was taking place. Shannon had been carried along the port rail to the after end of the poop, and Martin had thrust with all his remaining strength, hobbling along, aided by Anderson. Over the heads of the black crowd, I could make out Shannon’s tall form, as he cut and slashed right and left, making a lane through the men, and leaving a pile of bodies to mark his course and ease the pressure upon him.
“Coom on, ye black divils!” cried Martin, faintly. “Coom on, an’ take the sailormen.”