A tall man in front of me flashed a pistol so close to my face that it almost blinded me and the powder burnt my cheek.
I took deliberate aim at him with my last cartridge and shot him dead. Then they closed in on all sides and bore me to the deck. I felt a knife point at my throat, but the next instant a hand dashed the blade aside and a powerful voice ordered that I be bound hand and foot.
Men crowded about me and upon me. In spite of my struggles, my empty revolver was wrenched from my grasp and a line quickly passed around my body, lashing my arms to my sides.
I saw O’Toole fighting like a demon. Twice a dozen or more men bore him by sheer weight to the deck. But he fought free, as a bulldog in a swarm of rats. Each time he went down, struggling fiercely, and instantly afterward arose, dragging the crowd of men to their feet along with him.
Cutlasses flashed, but there was no chance to use them in the crush. He struck out with both fists, the men clinging to him, and whether belaying-pin or knuckles landed, the man dropped who caught the blow.
It was inspiring to see the red-headed giant fling about him, and I found myself cheering him on.
“On, O’Toole, for ever!” I yelled, almost laughing as he knocked a man over, and he bawled out something in reply, at the same time struggling with renewed vigour.
It was too unequal a fight to last long. A tall man reached over his comrades’ heads and dealt the second mate a heavy blow over the ear with a handspike, and that ended the fight as far as that officer was concerned.
The firing continued on the poop for a few moments longer. Then Crojack’s hoarse cries ceased, and I knew what had happened aft.
A man came forward and gave an order in the deep, strong voice I had noticed before, and the next instant O’Toole and I were dragged aft along the deck and into the cabin. There we were bundled into a heap with Captain Crojack and Brown, both of the latter being wounded.