Before the light of the early morning filtered below, we were aroused by the entrance of the liberty crew.

“Youst look at the mess,” cried Bill, staggering down the companion. “Jump below, friend Martin, an’ see the horsepittle they’ve made in this fo’c’sle.”

“Hoot, ye Scandinavian imp, is any one hurt? Mark ye, if there’s any fighting to be done, I’ll do it! Ye ken that? I’ll do it. I’ll do it.” And he followed Bill below, and after him trooped Big Jones, Ernest, and the rest. There was noise enough when we told our yarn of the evening before, and all except Anderson took a peep from the hatch seaward to try and raise the brig, which had cleared during the night. She was out of sight, however, and they came swarming below again, where the surly Swede was thanking the fates the barque had been robbed, and only mourned because none of her officers were killed or wounded.

Jennings and Jorg, the Finn, were about the only men who had received no hurt from the fracas, except myself. Even Heligoland had received a bad scratch from a stray bullet, and all of Gull’s crew were more or less bruised and banged about by the villains. One of the boat’s crew took a crack over the head that had put him out for many minutes, and another a stab from a knife that rendered his hand useless for the time being. Owing to the darkness, no one had received a bullet from the long skipper’s fire.

Before we had time to speculate upon what we would do, Hawkson’s voice bawled out for all hands, and Henry appeared at the hatch.

We turned out and saw smoke flying from the galley-pipe, and heard the voice of the Doctor singing off the effects of shore grog while he hustled the breakfast. In a few minutes we had eaten, and were manning the windlass to heave short.

There was a gentle breeze blowing, and the topsails were loosened, the canvas falling from the yards and hanging hauled up at the clews, ready to sheet home at the word. Far away seaward, the Desertas--the barren rocks infested only by wild goats--stood out sharply against the southern sky. Nothing white like a royal, however, broke the line of blue, and it was evident that our friend, the brig, had made a good offing during the night, in spite of the lack of wind. While Jim and Tom, our two Liverpool cockneys, squeaked out a song, to which Gus and Ernest added their guttural grunts, the starboard watch hove on the windlass brakes, and began to take the slack out of our cable. Before we had taken twenty feet, however, we noticed a boat coming from the shore, and soon recognized Yankee Dan, the trader. In a few minutes he was alongside bawling for Captain Howard. Then he climbed over the side, and, without stopping to pay his fare, started aft.

“It’s a nice mess he’s made ashore,” he said, as Hawkson appeared on the poop. “Don’t he know he’ll have to fight? What’s he afraid of, anyway?”

“Who?” asked the mate.

“The old man, of course. Who else? Hasn’t he insulted that Guinea officer ashore there? Don’t he know he’s playing mighty strange, not showin’ up when time’s called? Where is he?”

“Below,” said Hawkson, “but he’ll be on deck if he hears you, fast enough. What’s the trouble?”

I had reached the starboard quarter gun by this time, and saw a smooth poll, like the knob of a door, poked up the companion.

“Who’s making that racket?” growled a voice, and Howard’s face appeared over the coamings.

“Ain’t you goin’ to meet your man?” bawled the trader.

“What man, you nigger-thief?” growled Howard.

“I’ll settle with you afterward,” said the trader, coming close to him. “You better attend to one quarrel at a time. Are you goin’ to fight or not? You know the man well enough, the officer you insulted yesterday.”

“Where is he?” growled the old villain.

“On the beach, waitin’ for you. Are ye blind?”

“That’ll do the anchor. Get the small boat ready,” said he to the mate. “I reckon we’ll wait a bit and see what’s up ashore.”

In a moment after, he had disappeared down the companion. Howard came stiffly on deck again, buckling on a cutlass. His face expressed nothing, and, as he went toward the gangway, he called for his steward to bring him a glass of grog. The effect of this was instantaneous.

He limbered up, and, as Holmberg, Bill, and myself brought the boat to the steps, he was pacing fore and aft, cursing at our delay.

“I’ll have my breakfast when I come back,” he growled to Watkins. “No fear, I’ll take the stiffness out of somebody.”

Then he climbed down the side ladder and sprang into the boat, followed by Yankee Dan.

“Shove off!” he growled. Then he turned to the trader. “Where’s this fracas to be, and what’s it about? What am I fighting for, you nigger-thief?” And he broke into a high, cackling laugh, while his face hardly changed in expression, his fishy eyes roving in their gaze toward the beach.

We gave way with a will, and were out of hailing distance of the barque before Hicks appeared on deck. I could see him waving, but, as the captain sat with his back facing aft steering, I thought it was little use to call his attention to the matter.

We were heading, under the trader’s guidance, to a spot on the shore out of sight of the town, and in a little cove where there was no surf from the heave of the swell. Here the craft was beached, and we sprang out to drag her up. Then the trader and our skipper stepped ashore. Out from a thicket of laurel sprang a trio of men, all wearing the Portuguese uniform, and then I recognized one of them as the dago officer who had been talking to the trader the evening before, and whom our old captain had cursed so villainously. Under the arm of a younger man was a bunch of swords, such as were used at the time for fencing in the army,--little long, thin blades of the rapier pattern, and sharp as needles.

“Sorry to have kept you folks waitin’ so long,” said Yankee Dan, “but the old man had overslept himself. I reckon he’ll fight fast enough. We’re ready when you say the word.”

The younger officer passed him the hilts of a couple of rapiers, and politely begged that he try their temper and make a choice.

While he did so, our old skipper tossed aside his coat, and stood forth in a none too clean shirt and flowing trousers, held up by a broad leathern sword-belt. This he began to unbuckle unconcernedly, and, as he finished, he wrapped it around the scabbard of his hanger and drew forth the blade.

“I haven’t much time to waste on these Guineas,” said he, breaking into a sudden cackling laugh which ended abruptly. His face wore the same mahogany mask-like look it always presented, and his eyes were lustreless and fixed as those of a dead mackerel. “If there’s any game goin’, let it start, for we’ve a job in the offing to attend to.”

“Here,” said the trader, presenting him the hilt of a rapier he had chosen, “drop that meat-axe and bear a hand. We’ll settle our little affair later.”

“I’ll settle you, if you don’t sheer off,” growled Howard. “If the dago wants to fence, let him come in. This is the sword for me, and, if he’s finky about it, I’ll chase him clean up his chimney before he’ll get clear of it.”

Yankee Dan threw down his sword in disgust.

“Don’t let him worry on my account,” said the officer, in good English. “Let him keep whatever weapon he chooses. Perhaps he would like to have a pistol also.”

It seemed strange that the officer, who was a high official not far below the governor himself, should want to fight a duel with a man like Howard. He evidently intended to kill him, for he took no pains to hinder his clearing with his ship, and appeared eager to come to a personal settlement.

A line was drawn across the sand, and the two combatants advanced to it, the officer not above middle age and graceful, his sword held in proper manner before him and his feet set at the right distance apart, while his left hand he held poised at a level with his shoulder in the rear.

Howard grasped his scabbard in his left hand, with its belt wrapped about it, and, holding it high above him, advanced his cutlass’s point, and proceeded to work with no more concern than if he were prodding a lazy sailor.

The sun had risen, and the sea was a beautiful blue offshore, the gentle rippling along the beach sounding musically. The breeze just rustled the foliage overhead, and made a low, continuous clicking which blended with the sound of the steel. The air was warm, but fresh with the odour of the sea, and the two men facing each other felt its bracing influences, for they were hard at it in an instant, the old skipper breaking forth into a high, cackling laugh, as he swung his weapon with marvellous quickness. It was evidently great sport for him, and he was enjoying it.

The dago’s glinting black eyes shone fiercely as he thrust and lunged, with the black lust of murder in his heart, determined to rid the world of a villain. He was an expert swordsman, and accounted Howard a dead rascal. But the ways of Providence are strange. It won’t do to trust that the wicked will be punished and the good go unscathed. The ways of the Almighty Power are inscrutable, and to dictate a policy against crime, with oneself as the avenger, is a dangerous undertaking. The Almighty has a way of his own for dealing with all things, and the fallible human being is not consulted with a view to proving who or which is best.

The very confidence of the officer made me nervous. His fierce smile seemed to hold contempt and disdain for his antagonist, who, with his old scabbard held high in rear, ambled about the sandy shore like some old reptile, the perspiration starting out on the top of his bald poll and running down his expressionless face in little streams.

Once he was pricked sorely in the side, but the old fellow only laughed in his high, cackling voice, and swung his cutlass with renewed vigour.

Four, five, ten minutes passed, and the conflict waxed hotter and the men began to breathe heavily. The officer’s face was pale and calm with a fixed resolution. His breath came in sharp, rasping jerks, but his eye was bright and watchful, and he was much lighter and quicker on his feet.

Suddenly he lunged out and pressed the old man fiercely. Howard’s scabbard sank lower and lower behind him until he let it trail upon the ground. He was getting tired, though his face showed nothing. The officer stabbed him badly in the arm, and there was a look in his eyes that told of the finish. With a movement quick as lightning, the sailor transferred his sword to his left hand, and came on with his fresh wrist, working with the precision of the trained fencer.

Then the old man stopped, stepped back a pace, evidently thoroughly blown with the exertion. It looked like the end now, and I began to feel sorry for him, standing there to be spitted by the implacable dago.

“To the death,” hissed the officer in good English, and lunged out with a vigour that seemed to defy a parry.

It seemed to me his sword must go half a fathom beyond the old man’s body, and I gave a little exclamation of sympathy. Then something strange happened. Howard dropped his point and jerked his sword backward. It sheered off the thrust to starboard, and, before the officer could recover, the cutlass rose and fell like a flash in the sunshine. The blade landed fairly on his antagonist’s head, and down he went on the sand like a poleaxed bullock, while Howard broke forth into his cackling laugh, and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. Then he turned and strode toward the boat, where Bill held his coat and hat. The rest crowded around the wounded man, and cried out in excited tones.

“Shove her off,” growled our captain; “he isn’t hurt much, but it’s too hot for this kind of play. He, he, he! I’d a good notion to break his head, Dan, he looked so wicked, hey! ’Twouldn’t do to hurt one of those fellows if we want to come again. He’ll be all right in a week. Hi, hi, hi! but he hated me right fairly, hey?”

“I’ll call it quits,” said Yankee Dan, smiling, as he climbed aboard. We shoved off, and were soon on our way to The Gentle Hand.

As we sent the craft sheering through the clear water, I had a chance to look shoreward, for I faced aft with the stroke oar. Upon the yellow sand several forms now moved in a body, and, as they opened a bit, I saw the wounded officer walking away leaning upon the arm of his young comrade.

“Hi, hi, hi!” cackled Howard, “what an appetite a little play gives one, hey? Would you like to try your hand, you man-eater, to-morrow?”

“I’m no butcher; the pistol is good enough for me,” said Yankee Dan.