Already the Prince and
his men had carried the poop, and from that high station they beat
back their swarming enemies. But crossbow darts pelted and
thudded among their ranks till a third of their number were
stretched upon the planks. Lined across the deck they could
hardly keep an unbroken front to the leaping, surging crowd who
pressed upon them. Another rush, or another after that, must
assuredly break them, for these dark men of Spain, hardened by an
endless struggle with the Moors, were fierce and stubborn
fighters. But hark to this sudden roar upon the farther side of
them--
"Saint George! Saint George! A Knolles to the rescue!" A small
craft had run alongside and sixty men had swarmed on the deck of
the St. Iago. Caught between two fires, the Spaniards wavered and
broke. The fight became a massacre. Down from the poop sprang
the Prince's men. Up from the waist rushed the new-corners.
There were five dreadful minutes of blows and screams and prayers
with struggling figures clinging to the bulwarks and sullen
splashes into the water below. Then it was over, and a crowd of
weary, overstrained men leaned panting upon their weapons, or lay
breathless and exhausted upon the deck of the captured carack.
The Prince had pulled up his visor and lowered his beaver. He
smiled proudly as he gazed around him and wiped his streaming
face.
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