Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (1786 page)

“For, I understand it well,” says she, cheerfully, without a shake in her voice.

“I am a soldier’s daughter and a sailor’s sister, and I understand it too,” says Miss Maryon, just in the same way.

Steady and busy behind where I stood, those two beautiful and delicate young women fell to handling the guns, hammering the flints, looking to the locks, and quietly directing others to pass up powder and bullets from hand to hand, as unflinching as the best of tried soldiers.

Sergeant Drooce had brought in word that the pirates were very strong in numbers — over a hundred was his estimate — and that they were not, even then, all landed; for, he had seen them in a very good position on the further side of the Signal Hill, evidently waiting for the rest of their men to come up.  In the present pause, the first we had had since the alarm, he was telling this over again to Mr. Macey, when Mr. Macey suddenly cried our: “The signal!  Nobody has thought of the signal!”

We knew of no signal, so we could not have thought of it.

“What signal may you mean, sir?” says Sergeant Drooce, looking sharp at him.

“There is a pile of wood upon the Signal Hill.  If it could be lighted — which never has been done yet — it would be a signal of distress to the mainland.”

Charker cries, directly: “Sergeant Drooce, dispatch me on that duty.  Give me the two men who were on guard with me to-night, and I’ll light the fire, if it can be done.”

“And if it can’t, Corporal — ” Mr. Macey strikes in.

“Look at these ladies and children, sir!” says Charker.  “I’d sooner
light myself
, than not try any chance to save them.”

We gave him a Hurrah! — it burst from us, come of it what might — and he got his two men, and was let out at the gate, and crept away.  I had no sooner come back to my place from being one of the party to handle the gate, than Miss Maryon said in a low voice behind me:

“Davis, will you look at this powder?  This is not right.”

I turned my head.  Christian George King again, and treachery again!  Sea-water had been conveyed into the magazine, and every grain of powder was spoiled!

“Stay a moment,” said Sergeant Drooce, when I had told him, without causing a movement in a muscle of his face: “look to your pouch, my lad.  You Tom Packer, look to your pouch, confound you!  Look to your pouches, all you Marines.”

The same artful savage had got at them, somehow or another, and the cartridges were all unserviceable.  “Hum!” says the Sergeant.  “Look to your loading, men.  You are right so far?”

Yes; we were right so far.

“Well, my lads, and gentlemen all,” says the Sergeant, “this will be a hand-to-hand affair, and so much the better.”

He treated himself to a pinch of snuff, and stood up, square-shouldered and broad-chested, in the light of the moon — which was now very bright — as cool as if he was waiting for a play to begin.  He stood quiet, and we all stood quiet, for a matter of something like half-an-hour.  I took notice from such whispered talk as there was, how little we that the silver did not belong to, thought about it, and how much the people that it did belong to, thought about it.  At the end of the half-hour, it was reported from the gate that Charker and the two were falling back on us, pursued by about a dozen.

“Sally!  Gate-party, under Gill Davis,” says the Sergeant, “and bring ‘em in!  Like men, now!”

We were not long about it, and we brought them in.  “Don’t take me,” says Charker, holding me round the neck, and stumbling down at my feet when the gate was fast, “don’t take me near the ladies or the children, Gill.  They had better not see Death, till it can’t be helped.  They’ll see it soon enough.”

“Harry!” I answered, holding up his head.  “Comrade!”

He was cut to pieces.  The signal had been secured by the first pirate party that landed; his hair was all singed off, and his face was blackened with the running pitch from a torch.

He made no complaint of pain, or of anything.  “Good-bye, old chap,” was all he said, with a smile.  “I’ve got my death.  And Death ain’t life.  Is it, Gill?”

Having helped to lay his poor body on one side, I went back to my post.  Sergeant Drooce looked at me, with his eyebrows a little lifted.  I nodded.  “Close up here men, and gentlemen all!” said the Sergeant.  “A place too many, in the line.”

The Pirates were so close upon us at this time, that the foremost of them were already before the gate.  More and more came up with a great noise, and shouting loudly.  When we believed from the sound that they were all there, we gave three English cheers.  The poor little children joined, and were so fully convinced of our being at play, that they enjoyed the noise, and were heard clapping their hands in the silence that followed.

Our disposition was this, beginning with the rear.  Mrs. Venning, holding her daughter’s child in her arms, sat on the steps of the little square trench surrounding the silver-house, encouraging and directing those women and children as she might have done in the happiest and easiest time of her life.  Then, there was an armed line, under Mr. Macey, across the width of the enclosure, facing that way and having their backs towards the gate, in order that they might watch the walls and prevent our being taken by surprise.  Then there was a space of eight or ten feet deep, in which the spare arms were, and in which Miss Maryon and Mrs. Fisher, their hands and dresses blackened with the spoilt gunpowder, worked on their knees, tying such things as knives, old bayonets, and spear-heads, to the muzzles of the useless muskets.  Then, there was a second armed line, under Sergeant Drooce, also across the width of the enclosure, but facing to the gate.  Then came the breastwork we had made, with a zigzag way through it for me and my little party to hold good in retreating, as long as we could, when we were driven from the gate.  We all knew that it was impossible to hold the place long, and that our only hope was in the timely discovery of the plot by the boats, and in their coming back.

I and my men were now thrown forward to the gate.  From a spy-hole, I could see the whole crowd of Pirates.  There were Malays among them, Dutch, Maltese, Greeks, Sambos, Negroes, and Convict Englishmen from the West India Islands; among the last, him with the one eye and the patch across the nose.  There were some Portuguese, too, and a few Spaniards.  The captain was a Portuguese; a little man with very large ear-rings under a very broad hat, and a great bright shawl twisted about his shoulders.  They were all strongly armed, but like a boarding party, with pikes, swords, cutlasses, and axes.  I noticed a good many pistols, but not a gun of any kind among them.  This gave me to understand that they had considered that a continued roll of musketry might perhaps have been heard on the mainland; also, that for the reason that fire would be seen from the mainland they would not set the Fort in flames and roast us alive; which was one of their favourite ways of carrying on.  I looked about for Christian George King, and if I had seen him I am much mistaken if he would not have received my one round of ball-cartridge in his head.  But, no Christian George King was visible.

A sort of a wild Portuguese demon, who seemed either fierce-mad or fierce-drunk — but, they all seemed one or the other — came forward with the black flag, and gave it a wave or two.  After that, the Portuguese captain called out in shrill English, “I say you!  English fools!  Open the gate!  Surrender!”

As we kept close and quiet, he said something to his men which I didn’t understand, and when he had said it, the one-eyed English rascal with the patch (who had stepped out when he began), said it again in English.  It was only this.  “Boys of the black flag, this is to be quickly done.  Take all the prisoners you can.  If they don’t yield, kill the children to make them.  Forward!”  Then, they all came on at the gate, and in another half-minute were smashing and splitting it in.

We struck at them through the gaps and shivers, and we dropped many of them, too; but, their very weight would have carried such a gate, if they had been unarmed.  I soon found Sergeant Drooce at my side, forming us six remaining marines in line — Tom Packer next to me — and ordering us to fall back three paces, and, as they broke in, to give them our one little volley at short distance.  “Then,” says he, “receive them behind your breastwork on the bayonet, and at least let every man of you pin one of the cursed cockchafers through the body.”

We checked them by our fire, slight as it was, and we checked them at the breastwork.  However, they broke over it like swarms of devils — they were, really and truly, more devils than men — and then it was hand to hand, indeed.

We clubbed our muskets and laid about us; even then, those two ladies — always behind me — were steady and ready with the arms.  I had a lot of Maltese and Malays upon me, and, but for a broadsword that Miss Maryon’s own hand put in mine, should have got my end from them.  But, was that all?  No.  I saw a heap of banded dark hair and a white dress come thrice between me and them, under my own raised right arm, which each time might have destroyed the wearer of the white dress; and each time one of the lot went down, struck dead.

Drooce was armed with a broadsword, too, and did such things with it, that there was a cry, in half-a-dozen languages, of “Kill that sergeant!” as I knew, by the cry being raised in English, and taken up in other tongues.  I had received a severe cut across the left arm a few moments before, and should have known nothing of it, except supposing that somebody had struck me a smart blow, if I had not felt weak, and seen myself covered with spouting blood, and, at the same instant of time, seen Miss Maryon tearing her dress and binding it with Mrs. Fisher’s help round the wound.  They called to Tom Packer, who was scouring by, to stop and guard me for one minute, while I was bound, or I should bleed to death in trying to defend myself.  Tom stopped directly, with a good sabre in his hand.

In that same moment — all things seem to happen in that same moment, at such a time — half-a-dozen had rushed howling at Sergeant Drooce.  The Sergeant, stepping back against the wall, stopped one howl for ever with such a terrible blow, and waited for the rest to come on, with such a wonderfully unmoved face, that they stopped and looked at him.

“See him now!” cried Tom Packer.  “Now, when I could cut him out!  Gill!  Did I tell you to mark my words?”

I implored Tom Packer in the Lord’s name, as well as I could in my faintness, to go to the Sergeant’s aid.

“I hate and detest him,” says Tom, moodily wavering.  “Still, he is a brave man.”  Then he calls out, “Sergeant Drooce, Sergeant Drooce!  Tell me you have driven me too hard, and are sorry for it.”

The Sergeant, without turning his eyes from his assailants, which would have been instant death to him, answers.

“No.  I won’t.”

“Sergeant Drooce!” cries Tom, in a kind of an agony.  “I have passed my word that I would never save you from Death, if I could, but would leave you to die.  Tell me you have driven me too hard and are sorry for it, and that shall go for nothing.”

One of the group laid the Sergeant’s bald bare head open.  The Sergeant laid him dead.

“I tell you,” says the Sergeant, breathing a little short, and waiting for the next attack, “no.  I won’t.  If you are not man enough to strike for a fellow-soldier because he wants help, and because of nothing else, I’ll go into the other world and look for a better man.”

Tom swept upon them, and cut him out.  Tom and he fought their way through another knot of them, and sent them flying, and came over to where I was beginning again to feel, with inexpressible joy, that I had got a sword in my hand.

They had hardly come to us, when I heard, above all the other noises, a tremendous cry of women’s voices.  I also saw Miss Maryon, with quite a new face, suddenly clap her two hands over Mrs. Fisher’s eyes.  I looked towards the silver-house, and saw Mrs. Venning — standing upright on the top of the steps of the trench, with her gray hair and her dark eyes — hide her daughter’s child behind her, among the folds of her dress, strike a pirate with her other hand, and fall, shot by his pistol.

The cry arose again, and there was a terrible and confusing rush of the women into the midst of the struggle.  In another moment, something came tumbling down upon me that I thought was the wall.  It was a heap of Sambos who had come over the wall; and of four men who clung to my legs like serpents, one who clung to my right leg was Christian George King.

“Yup, So-Jeer,” says he, “Christian George King sar berry glad So-Jeer a prisoner.  Christian George King been waiting for So-Jeer sech long time.  Yup, yup!”