There was a volley
of oaths, a thud of falling bodies, a sharp command, and the shrill
pipe of a boatswain's whistle. Two men rushed forward, the first
disappearing behind the chart-house. The second encountered Broussard
stepping off the bridge ladder, and hurled the fellow to the deck with
one blow of a sledge-hammer fist. Scarcely pausing to see whether he
was alive or not, the assailant ran on toward the forecastle.
The whole affair was over in two minutes, the blue-jackets circling out
like a fan, and pressing their enemy into a helpless mass against the
rail. For a moment the fight was furious, every man for himself, then
the Lieutenant drove like a wedge into the bunch, and it was all over.
I struggled to my feet, still viewing all through a mist, and swaying
back and forward as I endeavored to steady myself on the rolling deck.
There was no one at the wheel, and the bow of the _Sea Gull_ was
swinging slowly about.
"On to the bridge there, Coates, and hold up her head," sang out the
officer. "Boatswain, take charge of these beauties, and run them into
the forecastle. Leave two men on guard, and take a squint into the
engine room. Report to me here."
He took off his coat, examined a long slit in its side where a vicious
knife had ripped it from shoulder to tail; then slipped it on again,
and watched his men drive their prisoners forward.
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