“But they’ve got arms.”

“Only hand weapons,” broke in Carter contemptuously.  “We’re as good as they are—­thar ain’t no powder.”

“Sure of that?”

“Course I am.  I cleaned up that rack two days ago.  There’s ball in the bandoliers, but no powder.  I wus goin’ ter break open a cask, but Estada put me at another job.”

“Then that leaves us on even footing, lads, we ought to be equal to them with the cold steel—­can any of you see below?”

CHAPTER XXIV

IN CLASP OF THE SEA

The sound of voices, of moving bodies and bits of furniture overturned were plainly discernible, but the darkness was far too dense below to permit the eye perceiving what was taking place.  Yet I could picture the scene, the leaderless mob surging blindly forward, each man vocal in his own tongue, swaying with rage, many smarting with wounds, uncertain where we had disappeared, yet all alike crazed with a desire to attain the open deck.  The rattle of steel, the curses, told me some among them had reached the arm rack, and seized whatever weapons they found there.  In their struggle the rack was overturned, and suddenly, amid the din, a shrill, penetrating voice yelled something in Spanish, which seemed to hush the clamor.  There followed a shuffling of feet, and the crash of wood as though the butt of a gun had splintered a door panel.  Then the same voice again pierced the babel.  My mind gripped the meaning of it all; they had found a leader; they had released Manuel Estevan.  Now the real fight was on!

We stooped low, to escape as much as possible from the dim revealing light streaming through the glass at our backs, and waited, staring into the black depths of the cabin, and listening for every sound.  The release of Manuel, the very knowledge of his presence had changed the mob into dangerous fighters.  The roar of voices died away with the noise of confusion.  I could hear the fellow question those about him, seeking to learn the situation, but the delay was short, and no inkling of his quickly conceived plan of attack was revealed.  Yet he saw us and understood; his eyes, long trained to darkness, must have already marked our dim outlines, for his first order evidenced his purpose.

“Who have cutlasses?  So many! a dozen form with me.  Now bullies, they are on the stairs there, and that is the only way to the deck.  We’ll show those damned traitors what fighting means.  Now then—–­to hell with ’em!”

We met them, point to point, our advantage the narrow staircase and the higher position; theirs the faint glimmer of light at our backs.  The first rush was reckless and deadly, the infuriated devils not yet realizing what they faced, but counting on force of numbers to crush our defense.  Manuel led them yelling encouragement, and sweeping his cutlass, gripped with both hands, in desperate effort to break through.