I was silent, and made no answer to the cries of the Spaniards; every now and then there would come to my ears the hoarse shouts of Drake, as somewhere in the press he fought and struggled. But save that, I could hear no sound from my friends.
Among the many heads around me, I could see a steel cap with a white plume in it, which marked the chief who had led the enemy when they boarded the ship. As my eye caught sight of him, he made a last charge upon a little group nearby. Cutting down those who resisted, he turned and caught sight of the steel as the Spaniards rushed upon me, and I beat them back.
He made his way through the throng towards me, the men giving way before him. There seemed something familiar in his bearing as he came nearer to me, but I had no chance further to observe him, for with a yell the men whom I had hurled back temporarily were hammering at me as though determined to end the struggle.
One of the men at my back was dragged down and I saw him no more; but turning and thrusting at them, I kept on my feet. My breastplate stood me in good stead; if it had not been for its protection I would have been cut to pieces long before; but my body to the waist was hidden by the pile of dead that lay in front of me, and I had only to guard my head and shoulders and I was safe. A cry behind me, and I turned in time to see the last sailor fall. I was alone now.
The wall of the cabin was only a few feet away; if I could only reach that, with my back against it, I could hold them at bay for a few minutes longer. Slowly and painfully, inch by inch, my face to the foe, I made my way to it. My arm was weary with cutting; I was almost exhausted; several flesh wounds were bleeding freely, and it was only a few minutes until I would be overpowered by sheer force of numbers. It was only a few feet away now—would I never reach it? The seconds seemed like hours—days—as at a snail's pace I crept nearer to its protecting shelter. I had almost reached it now, nearer, nearer; at last, thank Heaven, my back was against it, and I faced them for the last act of the scene.
A moment thus we faced each other—the Spaniards yelling and shouting, I silent and still. They seemed to be in no hurry to meet the sword that had cut down so many of their fellows, but jostling and pushing they faced me, even as a pack of hounds, baying, gather around some grim old monarch of the forest, who, with antlers poised, stands ready to meet them.
A cry met my ears; a few feet from me the Spaniards were cutting and hacking at someone. A voice called "Sir Thomas!" With a shout I cut my way through them, as a she bear aroused by the cry of her cubs rushes upon the hunter, and with claws bared and flashing eyes, deals out destruction to those who dare to meet her. I knew the voice—it was Oliver's.
Raising my sword, I whirled it about my head with both hands, and cutting down the men who stood in my path, I made for the lad. Cutting and slashing all in my way, I cleared a path through them, the men giving back at the fury of my charge, until I stood above Oliver.
He lay in a pool of blood, the clotted gore all over his bonny gold curls. Stooping, I picked him up as though he had been a feather, and tucking him under my left arm, protecting him as best I could from the enemy's blows, my sword in my right hand, I began my journey back to the friendly shelter of the wall.
How I reached it I never knew. I was crazed with fury as I saw their angry faces, saw them cut at me, and slashed back right and left at them, the lad under my arm lying quiet and limp. I knew not whether he was alive or dead. Finally I stood once more against the wall, and dropping the boy on the floor behind me, I faced them again.