The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack. H. Bedford-Jones
there.
Then a burst of running feet, and three men came hurtling out of the tumult. The foremost was the Moorish leader who had freed Spence, and from him came a sharp, terrible burst of words.
“She is gone! Gholam Mahmoud has seized her, taken her aboard Ripperda’s ship—he and his men have seized the ship.”
“Launch!” Like the snap of a taut cable came the word from Spence. “Run ’em out, lads—the lady is aboard the brigantine—after her!”
A growl of excited oaths, a. heaving of bodies, and the cumbersome fisher boats were scraped over the shingle. The men tumbled aboard, seamen and Moors intermixed, and there was a moment of confusion.
Spence, with six seamen only in his craft, and the Moorish leader were the first to get away. The oars dipped and tugged, the boat drew out from shore.
“What of Ripperda?” murmured Spence. The Moor whispered an oath.
“Escaped, may Allah blast him! His bodyguard rode away with him. Gholam Mahmoud had a dozen men there; they seized the lady and Ripperda’s treasures, and got aboard his ship. I was detained.”
“How many of them aboard her?”
“Thirty, at least, all corsairs.”
Satisfied that the other boats were following, Spence drove ahead. The brigantine was moving along in tow of boats; she would catch the land breeze soon. Already sheaves were squeaking and canvas was slapping. A moment afterward it was evident that Gholam Mahmoud no longer feared those ashore. Lanterns flashed on the deck, and hoarse shouts echoed, in the bows of the brigantine a cresset broke out its smoky flare. Three boats towed her.
“At her, lads!” snapped Spence.
He steered for hanging lines in the ship’s waist, and the men gave way. For a space it seemed that they would lay her board unchallenged; then, from her poop, cracked out a voice—the voice of Gholam Mahmoud. It was followed by the crack of a pistol.
“Off with the robes, lads! All up—boarders away!”
The boat surged forward—the oars fell. Spence caught a line, the agile Moor another, and they were over the rail. From the poop and bulwarks came a rush of men. The Moor emptied a pistol into them, then leaped forward with his curved blade swinging. Spence, cooler of head, stood by the rail, and his steel dropped the first man to reach him.
Now his men began coming over the side, sword in teeth; with a shout to them, Spence threw himself forward to the rescue of the Moor embroiled amid a crowd. “Hurray!”
The seamen streamed after him. A pistol cracked, and another; the Yankee rush burst the crowd asunder. The yell rose more shrill, as Spence’s other boats came up, and for a moment he thought they would take the ship at a blow. Only for a moment! Now from stem and stern came a rush of figures; steel flamed in the lantern light; the confusion and whirl of blades made an inextricable turmoil across the deck. From all this stood forth one terrible vision which was burned into Spence’s memory.
Himself engaged with a swarthy corsair, he saw Gholam Mahmoud cross blades with one of the Newfoundland men. A lantern lit them distinctly. He saw Gholam lean forward in a curious manner—saw his blade sweep out, then down and up—and with a scream the seaman died, ripped from abdomen to chin. It was the famous Mameluke stroke, the deadly and unavoidable cut which made the Mameluke swordsmen invincible throughout the east.
“Allah!” yelled the corsairs, and the Moors who fought for Spence responded in kind. Spence clove his way to the poop, and found the rail ahead of him. The waist was cleared. To bow and stern his men were driving the defenders. Then a rush changed the whole aspect. The seamen became bunched in the waist, fired on from poop and bow.
“Aft, lads!” shouted Spence, his voice rising over the din. “Aft! To the poop!” He leaped up the ladder, gained the poop, and found himself assailed by a corsair, the rais of the ship. Spence fended his head with his blade, and the steel shivered. He reeled, saw the swarthy face whirl in upon him, and leaped barehanded. He jerked up the bearded head, caught the naked torso, threw all his power into the terrific wrench. The corsair shrieked once, then went limp as his neck twisted.
“Up with you, men!” shouted Spence, but they were already coming.
From the deck Spence caught up a sword and led the rush. Behind, from the bow, the corsairs were pursuing, but the seamen gained the poop and began to clear it. Now amid the turmoil, Spence caught a glimpse of a white figure by the starboard rail, dragging a lantern from its place. He stared, incredulous, at the face of Mistress Betty—then a streak of fire and a roar leaped forth from her hand. A little swivel gun, mounted there at the rail, had been emptied into the crowded ranks of the corsairs!
In the flames of that discharge darted forward the face of Gholam Mahmoud, contorted and infernal in its rage. Spence saw the flash of a weapon, heard the girl cry out, hurled forward. Of what passed around him he saw nothing—now he had Gholam Mahmoud before him, and he heard the voice of Mistress Betty in his ears, and was fighting like a madman.
It was fortunate that Spence had seen and noted that dreaded Mameluke stroke, for now he saw Gholam Mahmoud lean forward again in that same curious manner. Spence leaped back and the blade hurtled up—a miss! Gholam snarled as Spence pressed in again. No words passed; the two men fought back toward the stern—back and back, quartering the deck with blow after blow.
Once again came that Mameluke stroke, this time so close that the steel point drew blood from Spence’s chest. As the blow missed, almost before it had missed, Spence was in and struck fiercely, with all his strength.
He felt the blade go home—heard the sword of Gholam Mahmoud clatter down on the deck. Then, in a flash, the man leaped up to the rail—gained it! He stood there an instant, getting his balance for a spring to the water; in this instant came something like a streak of light that took him squarely between the shoulders.
A knife, it was—a long curved knife from the hand of a Moor.
Gholam Mahmoud threw out his arms, the knife haft standing from his back; then, convulsively, the body leaped. From below came a splash—no more.
Spence leaned on his sword, panting, out of breath, things swimming before his eyes. Nor could he move, even when Mistress Betty came to him; her voice seemed distant and far. Then he was dimly aware of Roberts exultantly addressing him.
“She’s ours, Master Spence. Four of our lads killed, all a bit hurt—but she’s ours!”
“Make sail,” muttered Spence. “All hands—make sail!”
CHAPTER XIII
“A randy, dandy, dandy-o,
A whet of ale and brandy-o,
With a rumbelow and a Westward-ho!
Heave, my mariners, all-o!”
Tetuan was passed, and the narrow way of Gib-al Taric, and off Tangier the brigantine spoke a small galley which had come from the port to meet her. The two craft lay side by side, for the sea was like glass.
Here Spence said farewell to the Moor who had freed him, and to the six men who remained of the Moor’s following.
From the lazaret of the brigantine was lifted a chest, one of several in which was laid away Ripperda’s ill-gotten gold. This chest, with certain other plunder, was swung aboard the galley as Mulai Ali’s share. Then Spence confided to the Moor that same water-stained leather box, which held in its care Ripperda’s great schemes.
“To Mulai Ali this is worth more than the gold,” he said. “Take it to him, with our thanks and good-will.”
So the Moor passed to his own ship, and the galley departed. Spence called the crew into the waist, and with Mistress Betty beside him, laid a choice before them.
“Say now, lads, which way we steer? Whether to the north and England, or out across the Atlantic to home again. Many of you are wounded, we are short-handed, our charts are poor, our