Courtenay, who seemed to be everywhere at once, lighted torches which

were fastened to the empty davits in readiness for a night alarm. He

had used the last rocket on board, but the flares would burn for

fifteen minutes at least. By their light the defenders were able to

shoot or smash the skulls of several savages who climbed up roughly

contrived grapnells fashioned out of bent sticks and thongs of hide.

But there were only thirteen men to repel an attack which developed at

fifty points simultaneously. Ere the torches flickered in their

sockets the savages had swarmed over poop and bows. They were tearing

at the canvas shields and sweeping the hurricane deck with showers of

missiles. Tollemache was injured, and Walker. Courtenay had his

forehead cut open. Suarez fell insensible while he was bellowing

curses through the megaphone in the vain hope of frightening the

determined enemy. Two Chileans were down, one struck with a stone and

the other shot through the lungs.

So, at last, the Kansas was in the grip of a savage and implacable

foe. Courtenay, while hauling a steam hose to the weakest point, the

after part of the promenade deck, met Christobal. He clutched the

Spaniard in a way there could be no mistaking.

"Go below!" he muttered in a terrible voice. "I cannot leave the deck.

You must go. And, for God's sake, don't tell her! Let her die without

knowing!"




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