Wild shrieks and cries and imprecations rose from the savage crew—from some as they fell into the boiling ocean below their feet, now swarming with sharks, called around by the scent of human blood; from the rest at their disappointment in missing their prey.
Glad as Paul would have been to make a prize, he saw that his opponent would prove worse than a barren trophy.
“Up with the helm, Harry!” he cried. “Cut, my lads—cut everything! Clear the wreck!”
The crew needed no second order. True Blue, axe in hand, had already cut away the lashings of the bowsprit. A few more cuts cleared the bowsprit shrouds and other ropes, by which the enemy still hung on, and in another instant the prize was going off before the gale, while her disabled opponent luffed up into the wind’s eye.
Down came the squall, darker and more furious than before. Not another shot was fired. Paul and his people had enough to do in shortening sail and getting their craft into a condition to meet the rising gale. Their strength, too, had been reduced in the action. The poor Dutchman was severely wounded, though, like a brave fellow, he insisted on keeping the deck, and so was one of the Gannet’s men.
With the next squall down came a thick pour of rain.
“Where is the enemy?” suddenly exclaimed True Blue, looking aft.
Paul turned his eyes in the same direction. “We cannot have run her out of sight in so short a time,” he answered gravely; “it’s my belief that she this instant has foundered, and all on board have become food for the sharks.”
“But ought we not to go about and see if any are afloat?” asked True Blue. “We might pick up some of the poor wretches.”
“Not the smallest use,” answered Paul firmly. “If she foundered, she went down too quickly to give any one a chance of escaping. We must just now look after ourselves; this craft is very cranky, I see.”