“Ready!” cried the squire.

“Hold!” cried the captain, quick as an echo.

And he and Redruth backed with a great heave that sent her stern bodily under water.  The report fell in at the same instant of time.  This was the first that Jim heard, the sound of the squire’s shot not having reached him.  Where the ball passed, not one of us precisely knew, but I fancy it must have been over our heads and that the wind of it may have contributed to our disaster.

At any rate, the boat sank by the stern, quite gently, in three feet of water, leaving the captain and myself, facing each other, on our feet.  The other three took complete headers, and came up again drenched and bubbling.

So far there was no great harm.  No lives were lost, and we could wade ashore in safety.  But there were all our stores at the bottom, and to make things worse, only two guns out of five remained in a state for service.  Mine I had snatched from my knees and held over my head, by a sort of instinct.  As for the captain, he had carried his over his shoulder by a bandoleer, and like a wise man, lock uppermost.  The other three had gone down with the boat.

To add to our concern, we heard voices already drawing near us in the woods along shore, and we had not only the danger of being cut off from the stockade in our half-crippled state but the fear before us whether, if Hunter and Joyce were attacked by half a dozen, they would have the sense and conduct to stand firm.  Hunter was steady, that we knew; Joyce was a doubtful case—­a pleasant, polite man for a valet and to brush one’s clothes, but not entirely fitted for a man of war.

With all this in our minds, we waded ashore as fast as we could, leaving behind us the poor jolly-boat and a good half of all our powder and provisions.

18

Narrative Continued by the Doctor:  End of the First Day’s Fighting

We made our best speed across the strip of wood that now divided us from the stockade, and at every step we took the voices of the buccaneers rang nearer.  Soon we could hear their footfalls as they ran and the cracking of the branches as they breasted across a bit of thicket.

I began to see we should have a brush for it in earnest and looked to my priming.

“Captain,” said I, “Trelawney is the dead shot.  Give him your gun; his own is useless.”

They exchanged guns, and Trelawney, silent and cool as he had been since the beginning of the bustle, hung a moment on his heel to see that all was fit for service.  At the same time, observing Gray to be unarmed, I handed him my cutlass.  It did all our hearts good to see him spit in his hand, knit his brows, and make the blade sing through the air.  It was plain from every line of his body that our new hand was worth his salt.

Forty paces farther we came to the edge of the wood and saw the stockade in front of us.  We struck the enclosure about the middle of the south side, and almost at the same time, seven mutineers—­Job Anderson, the boatswain, at their head—­appeared in full cry at the southwestern corner.