"Half-cock your muskets. Wipe your pans. Handle your primers. Cast about to charge . . ." But time had run out. Two more longboats bracketed each side of the bow. And now Portuguese were piling aboard. "Damn the muskets," Hawksworth yelled. "Take your swords." The night air came alive with the sound of steel against steel, while each side taunted the other with unintelligible obscenities. The English were outnumbered many to one, and slowly they found themselves being driven to the stern of the pinnace. Still more Portuguese poured aboard now, as the pinnace groaned against the sand. Hawksworth kept to the front of his men, matching the poorly trained Portuguese infantry easily. Thank God there's no more foot room, he thought, we can almost stand them man for man . . . At that moment two Portuguese pinned Hawksworth's sword against the mast, allowing a third to gain footing and lunge. As Hawksworth swerved to avoid the thrust, his foot crashed through the thin planking covering the keel, bringing him down. Mackintosh yelled a warning and leaped forward, slashing the first soldier through the waist and sending him to the bottom of the pinnace, moaning. Then the quartermaster seized the other man by the throat and, lunging like a bull, whipped him against the mast, snapping his neck. Hawksworth groped blindly for his sword and watched as the third soldier poised for a mortal sweep. Where is it? Good God, he'll cut me in half. Suddenly he felt a cold metal object pressed against his hand, and above the din he caught Humphrey Spencer's high-pitched voice, urging. It was a pocket pistol. Did he prime it? Does he know how? As the Portuguese soldier began his swing, Hawksworth raised the pistol and squeezed. There was a dull snap, a hiss, and then a blaze that melted the soldier's face into red. He flung the pistol aside and seized the dying Portuguese's sword. He was armed again, but there was little advantage left. Slowly the English were crowded into a huddle of the stern. Cornered, abaft the mast, they no longer had room to parry. Hawksworth watched in horror as a burly Portuguese, his silver helmet askew, braced himself against the mast and drew back his sword to send a swath through the English. Hawksworth tried to set a parry, but his arms were pinned. He'll kill half the men. The bastard will . . . A bemused expression unexpectedly illuminated the soldier's face, a smile with no mirth. In an instant it transmuted to disbelief, while his raised sword clattered to the planking. As Hawksworth watched, the Portuguese's hand began to work mechanically at his chest. Then his helmet tumbled away, and he slumped forward, motionless but still erect. He stood limp, head cocked sideways, as though distracted during prayer. Why doesn't he move? Was this all some bizarre, senseless jest? Then Hawksworth saw the arrows. A neat row of thin bamboo shafts had pierced the soldier's Portuguese armor, riveting him to the mast.