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 strong, too immense of stature.  Apparently unweakened by his wounds, the giant negro, thoroughly aroused, exerted his mighty muscles, and, despite my utmost effort at resistance, thrust me back against the stern rail, where the weight of his body pinned me helplessly.  With a roar of rage he drove his huge fist into my face, but happily was too close to give much force to the blow.  My own hands, gripping the neck-band of his coarse shirt, twisted it tight about the great throat, until, in desperation, panting for breath, the huge brute actually lifted me in his arms, and hurled me backward, headlong over the rail.  I struck something as I fell, yet rebounding from this, splashed into the deep water, and went down so nearly unconscious as to make not even the slightest struggle.  I had no strength left in me, no desire to save myself, and I sank like a stone.  And yet I came up once more to the surface, arising by sheer chance, directly beneath the small dory—­which my body must have struck as I fell—­towing by a painter astern of the sloop, and fortunately retained sense enough to cling desperately to this first thing my hands touched, and thus remained concealed.