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.

He raced across to starboard, and found that, by unfortunate mischance,
a Chilean fireman in Tollemache's detachment had been shot through the
brain. The poor fellow was prone on the deck; it was