All of the English sailors who had started to leave the Sovereign were now fighting with Chips, Johnson, and myself, making eight men as against six.  But the six were of the strongest and most determined rascals that ever trod a ship’s deck.

As every sailor carries a sheath-knife, the fight promised to be an interesting one if the men of the Sovereign’s crew saw fit to fight it out.  England, however, who was stronger than any two of our men, did not like going into the matter with the same spirit as Journegan, Daniels, and Andrews.  After he had received a severe cut and had cracked the skull of the sailor who had given it by knocking him over the head with an iron belaying-pin, he began to retreat along the deck.  Chips had planted his knife in Andrews’s thigh, and had cut Dalton and Journegan badly in the mix-up.

The Irishman was unharmed save for a few scratches, and being aided by Johnson, he soon had the men backing away toward the break of the poop, the third mate crying out shrilly to stop fighting.  The queer young man was defending Andrews mightily with a knife, and for this reason alone the scoundrel managed to get to his feet and retreat with the rest, backing away as they did to the mizzen and from there to the poop rail, where they were brought to bay.

Daniels, however, fared worse.  We had a struggle for some moments alone, and just as my knife was in a good position a man struck him from behind, throwing him off his guard and letting my blade penetrate his throat until it protruded three inches beyond the back of his neck.  Then the fight was over.

Chips stopped at my side with Andrews’s revolver in his hand.

“‘Tis a pity we’ve no cartridges fer th’ weepin,” he panted; “‘twould save th’ hangman a lot o’ trouble.  Now there’ll be a butcher’s shop aboard.”

“Come on,” I said.  “You get to starboard, and I’ll take the port side.  We’ll rush them and make a finish of it.  Here, Frank,” I called to a sailor, “lend me your knife.  Mine’s no good for this work.”

“My own is broken, sir,” said he.

“Hold on,” cried Journegan; “we’re not making any fight.”

I could see the five ruffians talking brokenly together while they recovered their breath.  Our third mate was holding forth in a piping tone, but too low for me to hear the words.

“We don’t want to press the outfly any further,” said England.  “We ain’t no pirates.  All we did was to defend ourselves.  One of your fellows cut me arm open and I hit him over the head, not meanin’ no more than to knock him out for the time bein’, as the sayin’ is.”

“Will you surrender and put down your knives?” I asked.