r
combatant was deprived of consciousness, in a moment we were both on
our feet. The Spanish felon, however, pressed his hand on his bowels,
and rushed forward exclaiming he was slain; but, in his descent to the
forecastle, he was stabbed in the shoulder with a bayonet by the
boatswain, whose vigorous blow drove the weapon with such tremendous
force that it could hardly be withdrawn from the scoundrel's carcass.

I said I was up in a minute; and, feeling my face with my hand, I
perceived a quantity of blood on my cheek, around which I hastily tied
a handkerchief, below my eyes. I then rushed to the arm-chest. At that
moment, the crack of a pistol, and a sharp, boyish cry, told me that
my pet was wounded beside me. I laid him behind the hatchway, and
returned to the charge. By this time I was blind with rage, and
fought, it seems, like a _madman_. I confess that I have no personal
recollection whatever of the following events, and only learned them
from the subsequent report of the cook and boatswain.

I stood, they said, over the arm-chest like one spell-bound. My eyes
were fixed on the forecastle; and, as head after head loomed out of
the darkness above the hatch, I discharged carabine after carabine at
the mark. Every thing that moved fell by my aim. As I fired the
weapons, I flung them away to grasp fresh ones: and, when the battle
was over, the cook aroused me from my mad stupor, still groping wildly
for arms in the emptied chest.

As the smoke cleared off, the fore part of our schooner seemed utterly
deserted: yet we found two men dead, one in mortal agony on the deck,
while the ringleader and a colleague were gasping in the forecastle.
Six pistols had been fired against us from forward; but, strange to
say, the only efficient ball was the one that struck my English boy's
leg.

When I came to my senses, my first quest was for the gallant
boatswain, who, being unarmed on the forecastle when the unexpected
discharge took place, and seeing no chance of escape from my murderous
carabines, took refuge over the bows.

Our cabin-boy was soon quieted. The mutineers needed but little care
for their hopeless wounds, while the felon chief, like all such
wretches, died in an agony of despicable fear, shrieking for pardon.
My shriving of his sins was a speedy rite!

Such was my _first_ night in Africa!

CHAPTER VII.

There are casual readers who may consider the scene described in the
last chapter unnatural.