The pinnace and gig lay directly in the paths of the advancing boats; Captain Deering had given orders to cease rowing, and they lay silently upon the water, rising and falling with the slight swell. The others had not yet seen them, for they showed no lights, but kept swinging steadily along with their sweeps. The galley was first and the skipper passed the word, hoarsely: “We’ll have to give her a volley, after all. Ready, lads, and shoot low.” He had scarcely spoken the words when a marine in the bow of the approaching galley discovered them and gave the alarm. “Pull hard,” roared Captain Deering. The oarsmen obeyed, and the gig shot forward. The swamp-riders knelt or stood in the bow, their muskets ready. “Fire,” cried the skipper of the Defence. A shower of musket balls swept into the galley; the marines in her were too surprised to make a quick recovery; but their officers were shouting angry commands and hot words of reproof at them, and they at last succeeded in discharging their pieces in a half-hearted way; but before they could reload the gig of the Defence was alongside them, and cutlass and sabre were at their deadly work. Tom fought with desperation; the galley must be beaten off before he could hope to get alongside the British gig, which held the prisoners. But the marines had recovered from their surprise by this time and were battling determinedly. “We must end this,” Tom heard Captain Deering growl, “the gig is pulling away to save the prisoners.” The old sea-dog was slashing right and left with a cutlass as he spoke, with Tom and Cole at his side. Back and forth they swayed; the gunwales of the gig and galley ground together, the sword-blades flashed up and down; the pistols barked gruffly through the din of shouts and the clash of steel on steel. Cole had lost his sabre overboard, and, clutching his rifle-barrel with both hands, was doing frightful execution among the enemy with the brass-bound butt. At the words of Captain Deering, the giant slave’s eyes darted toward the British gig; its seamen were pulling lustily toward the frigate, its officers urging them to increased exertion with every stroke. Without a moment’s hesitation Cole sprang into the galley, clearing a space before him with his clubbed musket. Then once, twice, thrice the heavy butt of the weapon rose and fell; there was a splintering of wood, a sudden shout of rage and fear, and the galley, her bottom stove in, sank in the waters of the bay. As she went down Cole clutched at the stern of the gig and was hauled on board by Tom and the skipper. The latter, as cool and collected as though he sat on his own after-deck, gave the word. “Give way, lads; and pull hearty.”