At last
there was a lull in that wild storm. No shot was heard from the
Spaniard's upper-deck.
Amyas leaped into the mizzen rigging and looked through the smoke.
Dead men he could descry through the blinding veil, rolled in heaps,
laid flat; dead men and dying; but no man upon his feet. The last
volley had swept the deck clear; one by one had dropped below to escape
that fiery shower: and alone at the helm, grinding his teeth with rage,
his mustachios curling up to his very eyes, stood the Spanish captain.
Now was the moment for a counter stroke. Amyas shouted for the
boarders, and in two minutes more he was over the side, and clutching
at the Spaniard's mizzen rigging.
What was this? The distance between him and the enemy's side was
widening. Was she sheering off? Yes--and rising, too, growing bodily
higher every moment, as if by magic. Amyas looked up in astonishment
and saw what it was. The Spaniard was heeling fast over to leeward
away from him. Her masts were all sloping forward, swifter and
swifter--the end was come, then!
"Back! in God's name back, men! She is sinking by the head!" And with
much ado some were dragged back, some leaped back--all but old Michael
Heard.
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