Courtenay at once picked up the governing cord of the mine which he was about to fire in the first instance. He felt that the Alaculof flotilla would act in future on the “once bitten twice shy” principle where those innocent-looking little poles showed above sea level, and he must strike fierce blows while the opportunity served. The nine canoes on the south were not clustered around the bomb in the same manner as the others, but they were near enough to sustain heavy loss, and their affrighted crews had ceased to ply their paddles. So he fired that shell also, and had the satisfaction of seeing two more of the frail craft capsize. He heard the crash of bullets against the ship’s sides; a volley of stones smashed several more panes of stout glass; many arrows were embedded in the woodwork: but he calmly pulled another cord, and blew a single loud blast on the siren. That was the agreed signal to warn those below that they must expect to be attacked from the fore part of the vessel. His shot-gun was lying on the table. He took it up, and faced forward again; several canoes were scurrying past and away from the ship as fast as the current and many arms could propel them. He fired both barrels at those within range on the port side. He reloaded, and the sharp snapping of revolver-shots told him that Tollemache and the Chilean were busy. But the Indians were demoralized by the complete failure of their scheme. They had ceased firing and stone-slinging; they were flying for their lives. Courtenay wheeled round on Suarez. “Now!” he cried, pointing to a speaking-trumpet. Suarez ran out on deck, put the megaphone to his mouth, and roared after the discomfited enemy a threat of worse things in store if they dared to come near the ship again. As he used the Alaculof language, the sounds he uttered were the most extraordinary that Courtenay had ever heard from a human throat—a compound of hoarse, guttural vowels, and consonants ending in a series of clicks—and the stentorian power of his lungs must have amazed the Indians. Courtenay saw that the two fleets were combining forces about five hundred yards to westward. They were close inshore, but none of the savages landed, nor did they head for the more remote Otter Creek. As he was anxious to keep them on the run, he resolved to try the siren again. He judged rightly, as it transpired, that they would fear the bellow of the fog-horn even more than the flying missiles which had dealt death and serious wounds so lavishly. He knew sufficient Spanish, eked out by signs, to bid Suarez hold the siren cord taut for a minute. While the _Kansas_ was still trumpeting forth her loud blare of defiance, he ran down the bridge companion. Mr. Boyle and the tiny garrison of the port promenade deck received him jubilantly; they had escaped without a bruise, and, owing to their position, were able to witness the Indians’ retreat.