The Argosy, April 1912 — page 40: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

26 Indeed, the non-combatants were huddled like scared sheep in a group near the farther rail, watching the proceedings with help- less terror. I could make out Dorcas Errol’s pale face and great frightened eyes. And beside her was her father, striving to force his way to the front of the knot of spectators. Smith glanced quickly from one side to the other and noted our presence. “Thank you, Clyde,” he said to me un- der his breath, “you are a brave man. I knew I could count on you.” “Captain John Smith and you two others,” cried Crowley, “I call on you to lay down your arms. You three will but die uselessly. Surrender, and Clyde and the Indian shall be spared.” “Oh, cease gabbling and begin your at- tack,” snapped John Smith, “or do you want us to come out there and settle you? Ye are twenty. Weare three. Yet we three be men. And—” “No!” called a voice from one side of the mutineer group. “Ye are four, Captain John. I cast in my lot with you.” It was old Mark Errol. He had at last made his way through the non-combatants, and was shuffling rapidly across the deck toward us. He had almost reached our side before his defiant words called the mutineers’ notice to him. Then Jerry Crowley, who was nearest the old man, struck brutally at him with his sword. I heard Dorcas cry out, but I was in mid air when I heard. For I had sprung for- ward and caught the heavy, descending blow on my own blade, at the same time clutching Errol by the collar and throwing him bodily toward the doorway. Aquia caught the old man as he spun toward the threshold, and unceremoniously thrust Errol into the cabin behind him. Scarce had he done it when I was back, un- hurt, in my former place at Smith’s side. It was a daring thing I had done. But its very unexpectedness, coupled with its lightning speed, had made it possible. I verily believe that less than two seconds elapsed from the time I left the doorway to the moment I returned to it after rescuing Mark Errol. But the instant of action had been enough to snap the last thread of hesitancy on the part of our assailants. Instinctively, and waiting for no word of command, the whole mass of them flung themselves upon us. THE ARGOSY. Then, for a minute or so, ensued some of the hottest work of my life. There was no time nor room for clever fencing. There was naught possible save to elude or beat aside as well as possible the bristling sword- points that came toward my breast, and to thrust with ceaseless and wondrous rapid insistence at my oncoming assailants. I had no chance to note how my comrades were faring. It was all I could do to hold my own and to keep from going down uhder the onslaught. A sword-point pricked my shoulder, another my thigh. “Clyde,” shouted Smith above the clamor of battle, “stick to the point, lad. Never give ’em the edge. ’Tis the only chance.” “TIT am no novice,” I yelled in reply. “Save your breath for fighting.” For I was already observing the needful warning he had called to me. A swords- man trying to hold a doorway or other semi- protected position against two or more ad- versarles must ever thrust with the point of his sword, and never attempt to slash with its edge, for the latter motion leaves his guard open and takes up too much time. Every swordsman knows this, and it irked me that Smith should have deemed it need- ful to tell me; but, like many born leaders, he seldom gave others the credit for common ‘intelligence. After a minute the first rush slackened. Unable to force their way in the initial at- tack, our assailants gave back for a second and a more concerted onset. | As the pressure in front of me slackened ever so little, I glanced at Smith, who was using his blade as coolly and dextrously as if he were in a fencing-school. He plied his great sword with perfect ease. And I noted that, like my own, his weapon was red to the hilt. The Indian, Aquia, was equally calm. His arm was slashed by a sword blade, and another cut had laid open his cheek. But his stoical features gave no sign of pain. At our feet lay six men, dead or wound- ed. And more than one of the survivors carried marks of our handiwork. I hoped, for a2 moment, that the muti- neers would be scared off by this proof of or power to defend ourselves. But, rap- scallions as they were, they assuredly were not cowards. These were men who not only lived by their wits, but who for years had held death off by their powers and courage with the sword. cComicloool. CO