"Here is a new sort of camisado," quoth Cary."The last Spanish one I saw was at the sortie from Smerwick: but this is somewhat more prosperous than that.""Get the main and foresail up, Will!" said Amyas, "cut the cable;and we will plume the quarry as we fly."
"Spoken like a good falconer.Heaven grant that this big woodcock may carry a good trail inside!""I'll warrant her for that," said Jack Brimblecombe."She floats so low.""Much of your build, too, Jack.By the by, where is the commander?"Alas! Don Pedro, forgotten in the bustle, had been lying on the deck in his shirt, helplessly bound, exhausting that part of his vocabulary which related to the unseen world.Which most discourteous act seemed at first likely to be somewhat heavily avenged on Amyas; for as he spoke, a couple of caliver-shots, fired from under the poop, passed "ping" "ping" by his ears, and Cary clapped his hand to his side.
"Hurt, Will?"
"A pinch, old lad--Look out, or we are 'allen verloren' after all, as the Flemings say."And as he spoke, a rush forward on the poop drove two of their best men down the ladder into the waist, where Amyas stood.
"Killed?" asked he, as he picked one up, who had fallen head over heels.
"Sound as a bell, sir: but they Gentiles has got hold of the firearms, and set the captain free."And rubbing the back of his head for a minute, he jumped up the ladder again, shouting--"Have at ye, idolatrous pagans! Have at ye, Satan's spawn!"Amyas jumped up after him, shouting to all hands to follow; for there was no time to be lost.
Out of the windows of the poop, which looked on the main-deck, a galling fire had been opened, and he could not afford to lose men;for, as far as he knew, the Spaniards left on board might still far outnumber the English; so up he sprang on the poop, followed by a dozen men, and there began a very heavy fight between two parties of valiant warriors, who easily knew each other apart by the peculiar fashion of their armor.For the Spaniards fought in their shirts, and in no other garments: but the English in all other manner of garments, tag, rag, and bobtail; and yet had never a shirt between them.
The rest of the English made a rush, of course, to get upon the poop, seeing that the Spaniards could not shoot them through the deck; but the fire from the windows was so hot, that although they dodged behind masts, spars, and every possible shelter, one or two dropped; and Jack Brimblecombe and Yeo took on themselves to call a retreat, and with about a dozen men, got back, and held a council of war.
What was to be done? Their arquebuses were of little use; for the Spaniards were behind a strong bulkhead.There were cannon: but where was powder or shot? The boats, encouraged by the clamor on deck, were paddling alongside again.Yeo rushed round and round, probing every gun with his sword.
"Here's a patararo loaded! Now for a match, lads."Luckily one of the English had kept his match alight during the scuffle.
"Thanks be! Help me to unship the gun--the mast's in the way here."The patararo, or brass swivel, was unshipped.
"Steady, lads, and keep it level, or you'll shake out the priming.
Ship it here; turn out that one, and heave it into that boat, if they come alongside.Steady now--so! Rummage about, and find me a bolt or two, a marlin-spike, anything.Quick, or the captain will be over-mastered yet."Missiles were found--odds and ends--and crammed into the swivel up to the muzzle: and, in another minute, its "cargo of notions" was crashing into the poop-windows, silencing the fire from thence effectually enough for the time.
"Now, then, a rush forward, and right in along the deck!" shouted Yeo; and the whole party charged through the cabin-doors, which their shot had burst open, and hewed their way from room to room.
In the meanwhile, the Spaniards above had fought fiercely: but, in spite of superior numbers, they had gradually given back before the "demoniacal possession of those blasphemous heretics, who fought, not like men, but like furies from the pit." And by the time that Brimblecombe and Yeo shouted from the stern-gallery below that the quarter-deck was won, few on either side but had their shrewd scratch to show.
"Yield, senor!" shouted Amyas to the commander, who had been fighting like a lion, back to back with the captain of mariners.
"Never! You have bound me, and insulted me! Your blood or mine must wipe out the stain!"And he rushed on Amyas.There was a few moments' heavy fence between them; and then Amyas cut right at his head.But as he raised his arm, the Spaniard's blade slipped along his ribs, and snapped against the point of his shoulder-blade.An inch more to the left, and it would have been through his heart.The blow fell, nevertheless, and the commandant fell with it, stunned by the flat of the sword, but not wounded; for Amyas's hand had turned, as he winced from his wound.But the sea-captain, seeing Amyas stagger, sprang at him, and, seizing him by the wrist, ere he could raise his sword again, shortened his weapon to run him through.Amyas made a grasp at his wrist in return, but, between his faintness and the darkness, missed it.--Another moment, and all would have been over!
A bright blade flashed close past Amyas's ear; the sea-captain's grasp loosened, and he dropped a corpse; while over him, like an angry lioness above her prey, stood Ayacanora, her long hair floating in the wind, her dagger raised aloft, as she looked round, challenging all and every one to approach.
"Are you hurt?" panted she.
"A scratch, child.--What do you do here? Go back, go back."Ayacanora slipped back like a scolded child, and vanished in the darkness.
The battle was over.The Spaniards, seeing their commanders fall, laid down their arms, and cried for quarter.It was given; the poor fellows were tied together, two and two, and seated in a row on the deck; the commandant, sorely bruised, yielded himself perforce; and the galleon was taken.
