Meanwhile, upon Elephant Island, things had not been going well. For the first two days after the departure of Cap’n Pem and his boat, the work of killing and boiling had gone on as usual, although on a smaller scale owing to the lack of men. Then, on the third day came the terrific storm which had prevented the rescuing party from returning. Within a few hours after the screeching, howling gale had first burst upon the island, the flimsy shacks, erected for summer weather, had been completely wrecked; the tremendous seas had swept far up the beach and had carried away the try-works and had smashed and broached many of the casks of oil, and Mike and his men had been compelled to perform Herculean labors to save anything from the fury of the tempest.

By dint of incredible exertions they had managed to construct a rude shelter from the wreckage and had saved the rest of the oil and most of the supplies; but when the storm finally abated, the drenched, tired and shivering men looked upon a scene of desolation. The beach was littered with staved casks, boards, boxes and ruined supplies. Masses of wave-driven kelp and flotsam were piled high where the try-works had stood; the planks and canvas of the hut were scattered about and not a sea elephant was in sight.

Mike shook his head as he surveyed the devastated camp. “B’gorra!” he exclaimed. “Faith an’ ’tis the doin’s o’ the bo’sun burrd—bad cess to him! An’ be the same token ’tis worrit Oi am over Misther Potter an’ thim others. Foive days now, an’ divvil a soign av thim. Beloike an’ they wuz caught in the big wind, ’tis dead they be.”

“Mister Potter, he put da grub an’ da water for week,” Manuel reminded him.

“Shure ’tis thrue ye’re sp’akin’ Manny,” replied Mike in relieved tones, “an Oim a blessed phool fer thinkin’ Misther Potter’s a lan’ lubber for to be a-sthartin’ out in the tathe av a storrm. Faith though, but ’twill be a sorrer sight for thim to say whin they come. An’ not a say iliphant in sight. B’ Saint Pathrick Oi belave the storrm’s afther drowndin’ av thim all.”

Then, ordering his men to pick up everything they could and to endeavor to get some order out of chaos, the bo’sun with the cook and one man turned to the demolished hut and endeavored to rebuild it so it would be fit for occupancy when the boat returned. They were still busily engaged at this two days later when a shout from one of the men interrupted them, and gazing seaward they saw a sail above the horizon. For a time they could not determine whether it was approaching or not, but it was a square-rigged vessel beyond a doubt and when, after half an hour of steadfast watching through the glasses, Mike knew that it was heading towards the island, he shouted, “B’ gorra, lads, ’tis the Hector! Shure she’s ahid o’ toime a wake an’ more. ’Tis good luck she must’a’ been afther havin’. Three cheers, me hearties! ’Tis homeward boun’ we’ll be to-morrer!”

But scarcely had the three hearty cheers died down when Mike’s countenance fell, for through the binoculars he could now see that it was not the Hector but a brigantine.

“Worra be!” he bemoaned. “’Tis disapp’intment, me lads! ’Tis a brig b’gorra! Now phwat does he want here, at all, at all?”

Rapidly the oncoming vessel approached and presently all could see that it was a small brigantine and by her build and rig they knew it was not an American ship.

“Phwat in blazes arre the furriners a-buttin’ in here fer!” demanded Mike and, addressing no one in particular, “Shure ’tis throuble enough we’re afther havin’ av our own. An’ if it’s afther say iliphants they be, ’tis none they’ll be foindin’, an’ if they wuz ’tis divvil a bit Oi’d be afther lettin’ av thim sthop here. B’gob, ain’t they islan’s enough an’ to sphare widtout a-callin’ on us wid no invetashun?”

Curious as to why the stranger should be making for the island, for she flew no signals, the men had ceased their work and stood gathered near the hut watching the brig.

“Mebbe he come for get da ’ile,” suggested Manuel. “Eef he see we here firs’, mos’ like he go da other islan’.”

“Faith an’ he will, thot!” declared Mike. “’Tis two’s a crowd here. Well b’jabbers we’ll soon be afther knowin’. He’s dhroppin’ av his anchor.”

Hardly had the brig swung to her anchor before a boat was lowered and manned, and six men came rapidly shoreward.

As it neared the beach, Mike stepped forward, and followed by two or three of his men, stumped down to the water’s edge.

“Shure an’ what moight it bay that ye’re wantin’ here?” he demanded as the boat’s keel grated on the beach.

The steersman,—a huge, raw boned mulatto in ragged, dirty clothes and with a great livid scar on one cheek, looked the bo’sun over contemptuously and his mouth widened in a twisted smile, disclosing broken, yellow fangs.

“Whadda matter wi’ you, Pat?” he replied insolently.

Mike grew purple and his gray whiskers bristled.

“Kape a civil tongue in yer head, ye dhirty nagur!” he fairly roared. “B’the Saints, if yez is a-lookin’ fer throuble yez’ll be afther foindin’ it widout lookin’ far, ye spade-faced, mud-colored, bilge-rat!”

“Haa!” sneered the other. “Da Irish no like da vees’tor, eh? He no mek welcom’ da other fellas. Hmm! Eet look laik you have pretty good luck already. Plenty kill an’ b’il down an’ plenty ’ile mek an’ in cask. Hmm! You tink you owna dis islan’, Micky?”

Fairly bursting with rage at the man’s insolence and manner, Mike took a stride forward with doubled fists, but one of the boat’s crew rose to his feet, swung his huge oar and aimed a crashing blow at the bo’sun’s head. Mike sprang aside in the nick of time and as he did so, the men in the boat leaped ashore, significantly hitching their sheath-knives forward as they did so, and Mike, realizing the futility of resisting them unarmed, beat a hasty retreat. Shouting derisive insults at him, the mulatto boat steerer turned and signaled to his ship, and a moment later, another boat dropped to the water and came speeding shoreward.

With his men gathered about him, Mike spluttered and fumed, alternately cursing the newcomers and berating his men for a lot of cowards for allowing them to land.

“B’Saint Pathrick!” he roared. “Arre yez men or jelly-fish to sthand there an’ see yer bo’sun sassed by a slinkin’ black haythen av a half-breed Portugee? Shure an’ ain’t the foive av yez an’ mesilf a match fer thim twilve sn’akin’ rats? An’ ye wid sphades an’ irons an’ guns handy!”

“Beggin’ yer pardon, sir,” put in one of the men, “but you’re forgettin’ ’tis a free islan’. It’s not belongin’ to us nor the bark, sir. And there’s no reason I seen yet, to put ’em off.”

“Raisin is ut!” fumed Mike. “Raisin! Shure thin do yez be afther thinkin’ ’tis honest worruk they’re afther comin’ here for? Look at thim! Howly Saint Pathrick! The dhirty thaves arre afther st’alin’ av the ’ile!”

Mike was right. The boats’ crews from the schooner were calmly rolling the oil-filled casks to the shore, evidently with the intention of loading them into their boats. And now that the hostile status of the brig was evident, the Hector’s men no longer hesitated. With set faces and grim determination they seized the nearest weapons,—blubber-spades, elephant clubs, irons, and with Mike shouting encouragement and brandishing a heavy club the five whalemen charged towards the brig’s boats. Outnumbering the whalemen three to one, the oil pirates stood their ground, drawing their sheath-knives and seizing their heavy oars in readiness to repel their attackers.

But neither sheath-knives nor oars are of much avail against long-handled, razor-edged, blubber-spades or whale-irons and as one of the Americans hurled an iron which buried itself in the thigh of one of the raiders, and the gleaming spades cut down another, the remaining ten men turned tail, dashed to their boats and with frantic strokes pulled from shore barely in time to escape the maddened whalemen. Had they delayed an instant longer, all would have been butchered without mercy, for the whalemen, already soured, surly and ugly from the destruction wrought by the storm, had gone murder-mad when they saw their hard-won, precious oil being boldly stolen from under their noses.

Even as it was, the Portuguese had not escaped unscathed. The one struck by the iron was screaming and struggling unable to move from the heavy iron-pole, while his comrade lay moaning in a pool of blood and with a great, gaping gash in his shoulder where the spade had struck him. Shaking weapons and fists at the rapidly retreating boats, and hurling sneers and insults after them, the victorious whalemen turned their attention to the wounded raiders.

“Shure, ’tis no desarvin’ o’ pity yez be!” Mike informed them. “But ’tis no haythens we arre. B’gorra, Oil bet yez’ll think twoice afore yez arre afther buttin’ in an’ staylin’ o’ Yankee sailormins’ ’ile ag’in!”

It was no easy matter to extricate the barbed iron from the fellow’s thigh and Mike was no gentle surgeon and the man’s agonized howls, as the bo’sun cut away the flesh and drew out the iron must have made shivers run down the spines of those on the brig. Carrying the two wounded raiders to the shack, Mike and his men rendered rough first aid and gave no heed to what was taking place on the brig until one of the boat steerers gave a warning shout. Leaving the wounded men, all rushed out to see three boats leaving the brig and heading towards the shore.

“Glory be!” cried Mike. “’Tis more av the same med’cine they do be afther wantin’! An’ b’gorra, ’tis thot same they’ll be afther gettin’. Come on, yez spalpeens. Shure it’ll take more than twenty av yez to bate foive Yanks!”

Considering that two of his men were Portuguese, Mike’s use of the term “Yankees” was rather amusing, but no one noticed it, and indeed, the New Bedford Portuguese considered themselves as much Americans as did Mike himself.

Again seizing their weapons, the whalemen prepared to greet the invaders with a warm reception. But as they approached the water-side two of the men in the forward boat dropped their oars, sprang to their feet and, seizing rifles, fired point-blank at the advancing whalemen. It was lucky for Mike and his men that the Portuguese were poor shots and that their sudden motions rocked the boat; but as it was, the bullets sang harmlessly over the defenders’ heads.

Neither Mike nor his men were foolhardy enough to attempt to resist firearms with their weapons, and judging discretion the better part of valor, they retreated towards the hut, while the raiders maintained an intermittent fusillade of bullets. Suddenly there was a dull thud, a sharp cry from Mike and the bo’sun crumpled up and fell to the ground.

Seizing him by the arms, his men were about to drag him to safety when he jerked himself free and rose unsteadily to his feet.

“Bad cess to thim!” he roared. “’Tis me foine lig they’re afther sp’ilin’ entoirely! An’ thot costin’ av sivinty-foive bucks! B’gorra, they’ll be afther payin’ fer it or me name’s not Mike O’Malley!”

Before they could gain the hut, the marksmen’s aim had become dangerously accurate and the men were compelled to seek safety behind the casks of oil that stood near. Here they squatted, ruefully watching the brig’s crew as they hurriedly proceeded to load the oil barrels into their boats.

“Faith, if we had thim guns in the shanty ’twould not be a stalin’ so aisy they’d be afther doin’!” Mike declared. “B’gorra, Oi’m thinkin’ we moight be afther sn’akin’ there an’ gettin’ av thim. Will anny av yez foller me?”

All four men answered in the affirmative, and throwing themselves flat on their stomachs, the five wormed their way towards the shanty, their movements concealed from the raiders by the tiers of oil-filled casks. In safety they gained the hut and entered, and hastily arming his men with the boys’ shot guns and two muskets, and providing himself with the only remaining firearm, a bomb lance, Mike broke open a case of shells and distributed the ammunition to his men. Then, realizing that the range was far too great for the shot guns and also that the flimsy boards and canvas walls of the hut were but a poor protection from flying bullets, the bo’sun instructed his men to crawl back to the shelter of the oil-casks.

Hardly had they done so, when the raiders, having sent aboard to the brig the last of the casks that had been rolled to the beach, started forward, intent on securing those behind which the whalemen crouched. Thinking, no doubt, that the Americans had no firearms, and counting on their retreating without resistance, the Portuguese advanced without firing, but holding their guns in readiness.

Fortunately for them, Mike was far too hot-headed and excited to hold his fire until the raiders were within easy range, and before they had proceeded fifty yards, flashes spurted from behind the casks and bullets and buckshot plowed up the sand and sung through the air about the Portuguese. Utterly surprised at the unexpected volley, the raiders hesitated for an instant, and then fired wildly at the pile of casks. Then, an answering shot spat from the barricade and as two of their number threw up their hands and plunged forward, the raiders commenced to retreat, and when a bomb from Mike’s gun burst in their midst, they flung aside guns and fairly raced towards the boat.

Leaping in, they shoved off and bent to their oars, while about them splashed and spattered the bullets of the victorious whalemen.

And then, from those on shore, a mighty shout went up and the beaten raiders turned to see a trim, white whaleboat racing towards them from beyond the point.

Madly they pulled to reach their brig ere they were overtaken by these new enemies. Already the first boat had gained the vessel’s side, and panic-stricken, the crew flung themselves over the ship’s rails, dropping the painter of their boat and thinking only of safety. But the second boat was too late. When still far from the brig, the Hector’s boat was upon them, and, as the raiders glimpsed the grim, heroic figure of old Pem standing with uplifted iron in the bow, deadly fear gripped them and with agonized screams they strove wildly to escape. The next instant the heavy iron hurtled through the air, and as it crashed among them, the men, with one accord, leaped from their seats and plunged headlong into the sea.

“Reckon that finished of ’em!” growled Cap’n Pem grimly. “Sarves ’em right if I speared ’em like pupusses. Wonder what in tarnation’s the rumpus is anyhow. Give way, lads!”

Long before the boat had reached the beach, the brig had slipped her cable, her yard had been swung, and as the last of the swimmers pulled himself into her chains, she was standing towards the open sea.