In the open space cleared around the long skipper, the big black fellow stood and called upon the white man to pay the penalty of some past crime. Shannon had been on the coast before, and he certainly recognized the black. He had doubtless done him some wrong. He met him with a spirit worthy of a white man, and, in spite of his sins, he made a gallant stand to the end.
The black set upon him with terrific force, his blade rising and falling so fast that the eye could hardly follow it. Shannon, drawing himself to his full height, parried and returned stroke for stroke, his amazing vigour unimpaired by the action of the past half-hour. There was no retreating for either. The black wall of human bodies held them on all sides to the taffrail, and the nearest living men strained their utmost to keep clear of the whirling blades, while those behind pressed in and forced them closer.
Both men were desperately wounded in a few moments. Then Shannon, seeming to feel that his life was ebbing, rose to one mighty effort.
He slashed with great vigour for some moments, and then, without warning, sprang furiously forward, and, taking the black’s blade through the body, he drove his own into his black chest until I saw the glint of the metal in the rear. They swayed for a few seconds, and then went down, while the mob surged over them and flowed around to where we were holding the stairs.
“Get below and shut the doors,” said Jones. “I ken hold them fer a few minutes, that’s all.”
Hawkson looked at him, and I saw a ghost of an old smile flitting over his hard-lined face.
“You’ll do for a big one, Jones,” said he, and his teeth gleamed in the night.
“You stand on either side,” said Howard. “I’ll take the front.”
Hawkson was about to remonstrate, but the old pirate shut him off harshly.
“Who’s the captain here, me or you?” he cried.