"Hidden in the bushes. Alderson is with it. Where is the lady, sir?"
In another minute Evelyn was free and standing with us in the passage. I noticed that the fire of the attackers had grown more rapid. The sound seemed closer. The demonstration was taking on the appearance of a real boarding expedition.
We climbed the forecastle ladder. I led the way, revolver in hand. From where I stood, a few steps from the top of the ladder, my eyes could sweep the forward deck.
Bothwell, the Flemings, and perhaps half a dozen dark-skinned sailors were crouching behind the bulwarks, raising their heads above the rail only to shoot.
A constant crackling of small arms filled the air. The boats had crept nearer and were pouring a very steady fire upon the defenders.
The forward movement was only a diversion under cover of which we might have a chance to escape, but it was being executed with so much briskness and spirit that Bothwell could not guess its harmless nature.
At my signal the sailor led Evelyn quickly toward the poop. With my eyes over my left shoulder I followed at their heels. We had all but reached the stern when I heard the smack of a fist and turned in time to see a Panama peon hit the deck full length.
He had been hurrying forward and had caught sight of us. His mouth was open to shout an alarm at the time the Irishman's fist had landed against the double row of shining teeth.
The fellow rolled over and was up like an acrobat. But my revolver, pointing straight at his stomach, steadied him in an instant.
"Don't move or shout," I warned.