"What do you want of us?" was the inquiry of a short thick-set man in a beaver hat, who had mounted the rail.
"Can you take two passengers back with you to England?" I replied.
The man on the rail turned as if he were speaking to some one behind him, and giving no answer to this, jumped down out of sight.
"Look out for treachery," cried the carpenter, suddenly. And no sooner had he spoken than the forward gun, an 18-pound carronade, roared out, and the shot plumped through our mainsail.
"Below with you," I cried, dodging under the boom, and hastening Mr. Middleton toward the cabin with a push. "Below for your dear life," I cried to Mary as she followed him.
Without orders one of my men had fired the forward 6-pounder into the hull of the ship, and seeing that our only hope was to get so close that they could not depress their guns enough to hit us, I jammed down the tiller, and we shot up close under the vessel's side. Her three other guns were discharged over our heads, and away went our topmast, and the tip of our gaff with the colors on it. So close were we that a burning wad fell on our deck. The other 6-pounder was discharged, and ripped a great hole in the ship but a few feet above the water-line. And now we were in for it! With a slight jar we grazed along the ship's side, and the wounded gaff tangled, in her fore-shrouds.
"There's nothing for it but to board," I cried.
"Boarders away for the spar-deck!" roared Dugan, as he sprang for the chains, followed by all hands in a wild scramble.
Perhaps the cheer that we gave sounded as if there were many more of us. I saw Dugan's pistol flash as he threw his leg over the bulwark overhead. It was answered by a volley, and the poor fellow with a cry fell back into the arms of the next man below him. By almost pushing those ahead of me out of the way, I had managed to be among the foremost. Somebody gave me a leg up from behind, and I shot over the ship's rail on to the forecastle. But I was not alone. To a man the crew of the Bat were with me, and there before us, gathered in the waist, were a score or more of seamen who were scrambling forward to meet our onslaught. They outnumbered us, but we were better armed, and (if I say it, who should not) we were better fighters. I had felt a sharp twinge of pain go through my left shoulder when I had fallen forward, but, getting to my feet, I was soon in the midst of the cutting, shouting, and firing.
Before me stood a thick-set middle-aged man, who hurled a smoking pistol full at me. It grazed my head as I dodged, and my cutlass rang against the weapon he carried in his right hand, an old Scottish claymore with a basket hilt, and a blade some three inches longer than my own. With an oath he made a slash at me that would have brought me to my knees had I not turned it. At the same time, with a sidewise stroke I reached him beneath the armpit, and almost lifted the limb from his body. He fell backward with a howl. I had but noticed this when from the side some one caught me a clip over the head that severed my cocked hat like a pumpkin and sent my senses flying. I stumbled, for I could not for the life of me keep my feet, and down I went.