It was for this that Prat and Rouse had waited, each, through the long moments, commanding the other’s patience. They could not fire at the carack, fearing to hit friends, but the course of a separate landing-force had been purposely covered by their culverin. Here Vytal had stationed them for the final defence; here, apart from all their fellows, two men held no mean portion of a continent.
Seeing the Spaniards returning, Frazer sought to reassure them; but in the middle of his remonstrance St. Magil bade them reinforce their comrades on the Admiral.
They strove to obey, but could not. Their friends, retreating in disorder, fell back before the concerted attack of Vytal and Marlowe. Many, who at the first had been hemmed in, lay lifeless across the scuppers, weltering in a stream of blood that could find no outlet to the sea. Others, more fortunate, now stampeded back over the Spanish bulwark and formed a compact phalanx for defence.
The tide had turned. The English, reforming their ranks, were on the point of advancing with a rush. Frazer, however, had foreseen the issue. “Cut the grapples!” The ropes, now severed by fire, held in few places.
In a moment the Madre de Dios began to fall away. At this instant a small, stooping figure scurried like a rat from the Admiral’s forward hatches and sprang across the widening strip of water to the Spanish ship. Vytal saw the man. “Who is that?” And some one answered, “Ferdinando.”
Marlowe blanched. “My God! the powder in the hold—a dozen kegs of Benjamin! Is it possible that—”
But Vytal, wounded though he was and blinded with sweat, had already gained the hatches. With his sword he fought the last foe—a long, slow-burning fuse, whose spark shone like a glow-worm in the darkness. Severing the slow-match with a stroke of his weapon, he ground his heel into the spark and glanced about sharply to make sure of no further danger. Then, regaining the deck, he looked first at Dyonis Harvie, who was being lowered by Captain Pomp into a cock-boat, and next out across the water with haggard but victorious eyes. “It is well,” he said, in a low voice, for he could just distinguish the Madre de Dios, like a beaten hound, dragging herself away into the gloom.
Suddenly, as if life had ended with the necessity for action, he fell back senseless into Marlowe’s arms.