Mark faced round in time to see that Taters had struck at one of the American sailors, but missed him, his cutlass coming in contact with the edge of the hatch, and the next moment there was a desperate struggle going on. The second schooner's crew were forcing their way up on deck, and as Mark called up the men from the boat to help quell the attempt, the American skipper took advantage of his being for the moment unwatched, and climbed on deck once more to make a rush to help his men. But quick as he was, Tom Fillot was quicker; and turning sharply round, he struck out with his double fist, catching the American right in the centre of his forehead, with the result mathematical that two moving bodies meeting fly off at a tangent. The American skipper's head flew off at a tangent, and then he rolled heavily on the deck, while in less than five minutes, with the help of Soup and Taters, who fought fiercely, the American crew were beaten back, and driven or tumbled down into the forecastle one after the other. "Hi! yew, don't shut down that there hatch," cried one of the men; "yew'll smother us." "And a good job too," panted Tom Fillot, as he banged down the square covering. "Here, you Taters, sit down on this, will you?" The black understood his sign, and squatted upon it, sitting upon his heels with a grin of satisfaction. While this struggle was going on, the freed slaves huddled together helplessly, seeming more bent on getting out of the way of the combatants than on joining in, though some of the men, warriors perhaps in their own country before they had been crushed down by conquest, imprisonment, and starvation, did once or twice evince a disposition to seek some weapon and strike a blow. But they soon subsided into an apathetic state, and watched. "Hurt much, Tom Fillot?" said Mark, as soon as excitement would let him speak. "Well, sir, tidy--tidy. I was just thinking about some of our chaps aboard the _Naughtylass_, growling and grumbling at her for being an unlucky ship, and no fighting to be had. They wouldn't find fault if they was out here, sir, eh?" "No, Tom; we're getting our share of it. I wouldn't mind if Mr Howlett was here to have his taste." "My! how you can crow over him, sir, when we get back, eh?" "Let's get back first, Tom." "Oh, we'll do that, sir, never you fear. That ain't what I'm scared about." "Then what is?" "Well, sir, I want to get back without killing anybody if I can, but when they come these games with us and hit hard as they do, it's 'most more than flesh and blood can bear to have a cutlash and not use it. I know I shall make someone bleed with a cut finger 'fore I've done." There was so much meaning in the sailor's words, and at the same time so droll a look in his eyes, that Mark could not forbear a smile. "If it's only a cut finger, Tom, I shan't mind," he said.