Some of them were on the poop, shouting. "A moi, mes camarades, à moi!" to those of their compatriots among the slaves. St. Just dashed up the companion leading to it. He was followed by Mahmoud and a Frenchman.
A huge Arab, one of the few who were armed with swords, rushed forward, raised his sword aloft and, putting all his strength into the blow, made a cut at St. Just's head, that, if it had found its mark, would have ended his career. But St. Just guarded himself and the blow fell on his sword. Such was its force, however, that he staggered under it, so that the Arab was the first to recover himself for another onset. He was on the point of delivering a second blow, when, once more Mahmoud saved his master's life. With the agility of a cat, he sprang on the fellow's back and twined his arms around his throat. The next instant St. Just's sword was through his adversary's heart; it even slightly wounded Mahmoud. The Arab fell forward with a groan.
Meantime others of the slaves had gained the poop and, with the help of those already there, they made short work of the remaining members of the crew in that part of the ship.
Then all went down again to the deck. Here the fight was nearly over, for, whenever one of Black Ali's men had fallen, his late adversary had gone to the assistance of a comrade; thus the odds against the ship's defenders kept increasing. Only three of these last now survived; they struggled bravely, desperately, striving not so much to defend themselves—for they knew that this was hopeless—as to inflict injuries on their assailants. But, faint from pain and loss of blood, their efforts were but feeble: one by one, they were struck down, until the last had fallen. Then a yell of frenzied triumph went up from the emancipated slaves.
The ship presented a fearful sight. More than twenty men were strewn about the blood-stained deck, all showing ghastly wounds; some with their skulls smashed in, others with their faces so slashed and bruised as to be unrecognizable; some with their bowels protruding from their bodies, all bleeding from numerous wounds, which showed how desperate had been their fight for life. Their faces were horrible to behold. All but a very few were dead, for, as each had fallen, his antagonists had plunged their swords into him, until he had ceased to move; or had beaten his brains out with the butt ends of their muskets. But some still breathed, and groaned and writhed in agony. Their sufferings would soon be ended. The cry went up, "Stop the music of those howling dogs." It was received with a roar of laughter and shouts of, "Yes, kill them, kill them every one, the man-hunting tigers."
The murderous work was quickly finished. The vessel ran with blood from stem to stern, and a loathsome smell went up, the sickening odor of the slaughter house.
Some of the mutineers had been wounded, in most cases only slightly, some seriously, but none had received fatal injuries. The opposing parties had been too unequally armed for that. Now that their enemies were disposed of, those who were uninjured lent their assistance to their wounded comrades, and bound up their hurts. St. Just was among those who had escaped without a scratch.
At last they had attained their freedom; but, hardly had they begun to congratulate themselves on their success, when a new danger threatened them.
"A boat, a boat!"
The cry came from a man who was leaning over the bows.