The pouring torrent of black men flowed and swept between the mutineers and ourselves, and we were borne along before them like a chip on the crest of a wave. Their wild cries sounded above the curses and yells of the fighting men, blending into a wild, hoarse roar from three hundred deep chests. By sticking close together, we managed to make a retreat to the after-companionway, but it was desperate work.

The Africans hurled their naked bodies upon our weapons, regardless of cuts and thrusts that went home every time, and they struck at us savagely with the bars and staves they had collected.

Mr. Gull received a blow that stretched him senseless, and it was only after a desperate stand that we managed to haul him out from under the struggling men who pitched upon him. Curtis, being badly wounded, could not keep with us, and he was pulled back into the crowd and never seen again. Ernest, who bore himself so bravely, fell at the 289companion, and it was Hawkson who tore his way into a mass of mad blacks and hauled him over the ladder.

There were only a few of us left. Hawkson, Hicks, Henry, Howard, and myself could do duty, but we were all badly wounded.

The light from the cabin below shone in our faces, and we set our backs to the opening. I saw Howard’s eyes shining from his mask-like face like two bright, black beads. Blood poured down Hawkson’s cheeks from a cut on the forehead, and made him a grisly sight. Hicks was white as a sheet, but cool and steady. He had received a thrust in the breast that made him wheeze at each breath.

We made one desperate rally at the companion, and I looked below over my shoulder. As I did so, I saw a form staggering in from forward, and heard the clank of the heavy door in the bulkhead. I looked again, and saw Big Jones coming, with a pair of broken irons on each wrist, and a pistol in his left hand, while in his right he carried a shining cutlass.

“Stand clear, I’m a-comin’,” he said, and we made way for him as he mounted the steps.

The light on the top of the companion, where Gull had placed it, still burned. The slaves swarmed everywhere, except on the glass skylight.

By the dim flare, I could see what was taking 290place. Shannon had been carried along the port rail to the after end of the poop, and Martin had thrust with all his remaining strength, hobbling along, aided by Anderson. Over the heads of the black crowd, I could make out Shannon’s tall form, as he cut and slashed right and left, making a lane through the men, and leaving a pile of bodies to mark his course and ease the pressure upon him.

“Coom on, ye black divils!” cried Martin, faintly. “Coom on, an’ take the sailormen.”

A huge black towered above him, wielding a hand-spike, and several more pressed Anderson back.

The Scotchman rose to his full height, and, seizing his cutlass in both hands, smote the African a blow that sank the blade down to his nose. Before he could wrench it clear, the fellow went headlong to the deck, carrying the blade with him, snapping it free from the hilt, and leaving Martin helpless. The mob surged upon him and he disappeared. We saw him no more.

Anderson had a similar fate. A dozen giants in ebony grasped his cutlass in their hands, regardless of the blade. It was wrenched from him, and he went down, followed by a dago named Guinea and a couple of the blacks from the slave-pen. Gus, Gilbert, and the rest of the mutineers had disappeared already, leaving only one black and Shannon of the entire crowd.

291The African, fighting against his fellows, lasted but a few moments. He was crowded to the rail. Throwing his cutlass into the mob, he sprang clear of the side and was gone in the darkness, and Shannon was left alone at the taffrail, where he made his last stand.

A great black fellow made his way aft, calling out in a clear, deep bass voice. He was apparently entirely naked, and his skin shone and glistened in the lantern’s light. He carried a cutlass in his hand, and thrust his followers aside, as he made his way to the long skipper, who fought gamely on.

“Ho! Benga Sam, I wanter know,” cried the sailor. And the black giant called out something in his clear tones.

It was evident that there was a score to settle, for the black man hurled his kind right and left to get in. Some of the nearest drew back at the sound of his deep voice, and pressed back the heavy weight of the mob behind, clearing a small space in front of Shannon. Into this the black giant forced his way.

All this happened in an incredibly short time, but the solid bank of human flesh before us was pressing closer, in spite of Hawkson’s desperate efforts.

Big Jones reached us, and, placing his pistol at the breast of t............