The crew were all gathered there, staring out into the mist, whispering to each other.  Even they were indistinct, their faces unrecognizable, until I pressed my way in among them.  I brought up beside Harwood.

“Hear anything more?”

“Not yet, sir,” peering about to make sure of who spoke, “but there’s a boat out yonder; I’ll swear to that.”

“How far away when you heard them?”

“Not mor’n fifty fathoms, an’ maybe not that—­the voice sounded clearest.”

We may have been clinging there, a minute or two, breathlessly listening, our hands tensely gripping the rail.  My coming had silenced the others, and we waited motionless, the stillness so intense I could hear the lapping of waves against the side, and the slight creak of a rope aloft.  Then a voice spoke directly in front of me out from the dense fog, a peculiar, penetrating voice, carrying farther than the owner probably thought, and distinctly audible.

“Try the port oar, Pedro; we must have missed the damn ship.”

I straightened up as though struck, my eyes seeking those of Harwood, who stared back at me, his mouth wide open in astonishment.

“You heard that?” I whispered.  “Do you know who spoke?”

“By God, do I?  Dead, or alive, sir, it was Manuel Estevan.”

“Ay; no other, and alive enough no doubt.  Lads, come close to me, and listen—­they must not hear us out there.  By some devil’s trick the Namur has followed our course, or else yonder are a part of his crew cast away.  They clearly know of us—­perhaps had a glimpse through some rift in the cloud—­and are seeking to board with a boat party.  ’Tis not likely those devils know who we are; probably take us for a merchant ship becalmed in the fog, and liable to become an easy prey, if they can only slip up on us unseen.  How are you, bullies?  Ready to battle your old mates?”

“Those were no mates o’ ours, sir,” said Watkins indignantly.  “They are half-breed mongrels, and no sailors; Estevan is a hell-hound, an’ so far as my voice goes, I’d rather die on this deck than ever agin be a bloody pirate.  Is that the right word, lads?”

The others grumbled assent, but their muttered words had in them a ring of sincerity, and their faces exhibited no cowardice.  Harwood alone asked a question.

“I’m fer fightin’, sir,” he said grimly, “but what’ll we use?  Them lads ain’t comin’ aboard bare-handed, but damn if I’ve seed a weapon on this hooker.”

“Dar’s three knives, an’ a meat cleaver in der galley, sah,” chimed in Sam.

“We’ll do well enough; some of you have your sheath knives yet, and the rest can use belaying pins, and capstan bars.  The point is to not let them get aboard, and, if there is only one boat, we will be pretty even-handed.  Pick up what you can, and man this rail—­quietly now, hearties, and keep your eyes open.”