We keep ahead of the enemy, and gain the ship’s side. The falls are ready,—we hook on,—the boats are hoisted up, and we hasten to man the guns. There is a favourable breeze out of the harbour, the anchor is being hove up, the sails are loosed. The canoes gather round us; the savages begin to assail us with all their weapons, shouting and shrieking terribly. The ship gathers way; the savages, grown bold, are climbing up the sides.
“Depress your guns, lads,” says the captain. “Small-arm men, give it them.”
The shot goes crashing in among the canoes, knocking many to pieces. Not a native clinging to the sides escapes the small-arm men. Again and again we fire, leaving the natives terrified and amazed at the power of our arms. Our guns loaded with langrage commit great havoc among them. They lose courage,—the ship is clear of them.
“And so we bid you farewell,” says Phineas Golding, firing his musket at a chief with whom he had the day before been lodging. We sail out of the bay, firing shot on either side.
“We have a good supply of sandal-wood, however,” observes Phineas Golding. “But we had a narrow escape from the savages.”
Not a word does he say of his merciful preservation from death; and far be it from me to hint that by my promptness I had a second time saved him, and all with him, from destruction. Tony Hinks, however, when we are clear away at sea, comes up to me and says—
“We owe our lives to you, Mr Harvey. If you hadn’t come when you did, it’s my belief that not one of us would have escaped.”