“A sugar-planter?” was the swift thought of Vince.

“Are you the captain of this ship?” he shouted.

“I am!” cried the other, and with a curse like bursting thunder the pirate came on and his blade crossed that of Captain Vince.

Forward and amidships surged the general fight:  men plunged, swords fell, blood flowed, feet slipped upon the deck, and roars of blasphemy and pain rose above the noise of battle.  But farther aft the two captains, in a space by themselves, cut, thrust, and trampled, whirling around each other, dashing from this side and that, ever with keen eyes firmly fixed, ever with strong arms whirling down and upward; now one man felt the keen cut of steel and now the other.  The blood ran upon rich uniform or stained rough cloth and leather.  It was a fight as if between a lioness and a tigress, their dead cubs near-by.

As most men in the navy knew, Captain Vince was a most dangerous swordsman.  In duel or in warfare, no man yet had been able to stand before him.  With skilled arm and eye and with every muscle of his body trained, his sword sought a vital spot in his opponent.  There was no thought now in the mind of Vince about disarming the pirate and taking him prisoner; this terrible wild beast, this hairy monster must be killed or he himself must die.  Through the whirl and clash and hot breath of battle he had been amazed that Kate Bonnet’s father should be a man like this.

The pirate, his eyes now shrunken into his head, where they glowed like coals, his breath steaming like a volcano, and his tremendous muscles supple and quick as those of a cat, met his antagonist at every point, and with every lunge and thrust and cut forced him to guard.

Now Vince shut himself in his armour of trained defence; this bounding lion must be killed, but the death-stroke must be cunningly delivered, and until, in his hot rage, the pirate should forget his guard Vince must shield himself.

Never had the great Blackbeard met so keen a swordsman; he howled with rage to see the English captain still vigorous, agile, warding every stroke.  Blackbeard was now a wild beast of the sea:  he fought to kill, for naught else, not even his own life.  With a yell he threw himself upon Captain Vince, whose sword passed quick as lightning through the brawny masses of his left shoulder.  With one quick step, the pirate pressed closer to Vince, thus holding the imprisoned blade, which stuck out behind his body, and with a tremendous blow of his right fist, in which he held the heavy brazen hilt of his sword, he dashed his enemy backward to the ground.  The fall drew the blade from the shoulder of Blackbeard, whose great right arm went up, whose sword hissed in the air and then came down upon the prostrate Vince.  Another stroke and the English captain lay insensible and still.

With the scream of a maddened Indian, Blackbeard sprung into the air, and when his feet touched the deck he danced.  He would have hewn his victim into pieces, he would have scattered him over the decks, but there was no time for such recreations.  Forward the battle raged with tremendous fury, and into the midst of it dashed Blackbeard.