DeLasser caught its point with his blade while my cleaver missing him with its sharp edge, nevertheless dealt the fellow a blow which hurled him back into the arms of the man behind.  I saw nothing else in detail, the faint light barely revealing indistinct figures and gleam of steel.  It was a pandemonium of blows and yells, strange faces appearing and disappearing, as men leaped desperately at us up the steps, and we beat them remorselessly back.  I saw nothing more of Manuel in the fray, but his shrill voice urged on his followers.  It was strike and parry, cut and thrust.  Twice I kicked my legs free from hands that gripped me, and DeLasser fell, a pike thrust through him.  Who took his place I never knew, but a stout fighter the lad was, wielding his cutlass viciously, so that we held them, with dead men littering every step to the cabin deck.

But they were of a breed trained to such fighting, and the lash of Manuel’s tongue drove them into mad recklessness.  And there seemed no end of them, sweeping up out of those black shadows, with bearded or lean brown savage faces, charging over the dead bodies, hacking and gouging in vain effort to break through.  I struck until my arms ached, until my head reeled, scarcely conscious of physical action, yet aware of Manners shouts.

“Now you hell-hounds—­now! once more, and you have them.  Santa Maria! you’ve got to go through, bullies—–­there is no other way to the deck.  Think of the yellow boys below; they are all yours if you strike hard enough.  Rush ’em!  That’s the way!  Here you—­go in outside the rail!  Broth of hell!  Now you have him, Pedro!”

For an instant I believed it true; I saw Jim Carter seized and hurled sideways, his cutlass clashing as it fell, while a dozen hands dragged him headlong into the ruck beneath.  But it was only an instant.  Before the charging devils could pass me, a huge figure filled the vacant space, and the butt of a gun crashed into the mass.  It was the Dutchman, Schmitt, fighting like a demon, his strength that of an ox.  They gave way in terror before him, and we went down battering our way, until the stairs were clear to the deck, except for the dead under foot.  When we stopped, not a fighting man was left within the sweep of our arms.  They had scurried back into the darkness like so many rats, and we could only stare about blindly, cursing them, as we endeavored to recover breath.  Schmitt roared like a wild bull, and would have rushed on, but for my grip on his shirt.

“Get back, men!” I ordered sharply.  “There may be fifty of them yonder.  Our only chance is the stairs.  Do as I say, Schmitt, or fight me.  Back now!”