Then I remembered those others--the unconscious sleepers on the deck
of the sloop; those blood-stained villains creeping toward them
through the black shadows of the night. The memory was like a dash of
water in the face. With the death-dealing knife still gripped in my
hand, I raced forward along the narrow strip of sand, reckless of what
I might encounter, eager only to arrive in time to give utterance to a
shout of warning. I could not have covered more than half the
distance when the first sound of attack reached me--far-off, gurgling
cry of agony, which pierced the darkness like the scream of a dying
soul. The heart leaped into my throat, yet I ran on, unhalted, unseen,
until the planks of the wharf were beneath my feet, the low side of
the sloop looming black before me. There was confusion aboard, the
sounds of struggle, mingled with curses and blows. With one upward
swing of my body I was safely aboard, knife still in hand, peering
eagerly forward. Through the gloom concealing the deck, I could
perceive only dim figures, a riot of men, battling furiously hand to
hand, yet out of the ruck loomed through the darkness in larger
outline than the others---Cochose, the negro. I leaped at the fellow,
and struck with the keen knife, missing the heart, but plunging the
blade deep into the flesh of the shoulder. The next instant I was in a
bear's grip, the very breath crushed out of me, yet, by some chance,
my one arm remained free, and I drove the sharp steel into him twice
before he forced the weapon from my fingers. Through a wrestler's
trick, although my wrist was as numb as if dead from his fierce grip,
I thrust an elbow beneath the brute's chin, and thus forced his head
back, until the neck cracked.

This respite served merely for the moment, yet sufficiently long to
win me a firm foot-hold on deck, and a breath of night air. He was too