“Poor wretch!” observed the lieutenant. “He will not then have to answer to us for his misdeeds. And are you the officer in command?”
The man to whom he spoke bowed his head, and, advancing, presented his sword.
“Take his weapon,” said the lieutenant, turning to one of the men; “and disarm all the rest. I shall not receive the sword of a pirate, as if he were a naval officer.”
The whole of the party were quickly disarmed, and by the lieutenant’s orders our men then lashed their arms behind them. Peter Mudge with his boat’s crew had, in the meantime, made their way along the slippery deck forward, when he treated the men collected there in the same fashion. Mr Worthy then hailed the corvette, and begged that the surgeons might be sent on board to attend to the wounded; and those who appeared to be officers were lowered into the boat which brought them, to be conveyed to the ship for safe keeping.
While the surgeons were hurriedly binding up the limbs of the wounded men, we were engaged in collecting the dead bodies, that they might be hove overboard. On counting them, we found that five-and-twenty had been killed outright; and one by one, after the surgeon had examined them, they were thrown into the water through the ports.
“Here’s another fellow, sir, who seemed just now as dead as a door-nail; but as I was dragging him along the deck he began to sing out, and to swear by all the saints that he was alive and kicking; and, faith, that same he was, for I had a hard matter to keep hold of his legs. He’s quiet enough now, though; and for the life of me I can’t tell whether he was after speaking the truth or not.”
This address was made by Paddy Doyle, an Irish top-man, to the surgeon who was examining the bodies before they were hove overboard. The surgeon, thus appealed to, went to the man. “He seems to be unhurt, and is still breathing,” he remarked. “By his dress he appears to be an officer. Throw some water in his face; and keep a watch over him, Doyle, when he comes to, as I have no doubt that he soon will. I must look after the other wretches.”
The dead having been disposed of, and the unwounded prisoners placed under a guard, the wounded were carried into the large and handsome cabin—which, however, could not afford accommodation for all of them; the rest were therefore placed, with such spare bedding as could be found, on the upper slave-deck.
By the time these arrangements were made, it was nearly daylight. A prize crew of twenty men was left on board the Sea-Hawk, with the assistant-surgeon to look after the wounded, the second lieutenant coming on board to take command of them. I was thankful to be ordered to return to the corvette, for I was heartily sick of the scene I had witnessed.
Just as I was going over the side, I heard Paddy Doyle sing out,—“Arrah! my dead man’s come to life again! Bear a hand, and help me to haul him in;” and looking back, I saw that the Irishman’s prisoner had jumped up, and was endeavouring to spring through a port—having watched the moment that Paddy’s back was turned on him. Paddy had seized one of his legs, and was tugging away with might and main; while the Spaniard, with his other foot on the port-sill, had nearly effected his purpose, notwithstanding the Irishman’s desperate efforts to prevent his escape. “Arrah! now he’s done it!” exclaimed Doyle, holding up the Spaniard’s shoe and a piece of his trousers which had come away in his hand.