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!"