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Updated: July 14, 2025
The next instant he was at the taffrail. One hasty glance all around showed him all that he wished to see. Another moment and he was beneath the water. Brandon had been taken unawares, and the Malay was in the water before he could think. But he drew his revolver, in which there yet remained two shots, and, stepping to the taffrail, watched for Zangorri to reappear.
With his revolver in his left hand he held a cutlass in his right, and every blow that he gave told. He had sought all through the struggle to reach the spot where Zangorri stood, but had hitherto been unsuccessful.
"That's for me to say," cried Brandon in a stern voice that forbade reply. In fact, the sailors seemed to feel that he had the best claim here, since he had not only captured Zangorri with his own hands, but had borne the chief share in the fight. "Englishman," said a voice. "I thank you." Brandon started. It was Zangorri who had spoken; and in very fair English too.
Yes, the ship was sinking. No one had noticed it; but the water was already within a few feet of the top. No doubt Zangorri had been scuttling her when he rushed out of the hold at the noise of the attack. There was nothing left but to hasten away. There was time to save nothing. The bodies of the dead had to be left with the ship for their tomb.
"This shall be mine," said he, and he threw the cord around his own neck, and put the creese under his waistcoat. But the sharp eye of the Malay had been watching him, and as he raised his arm carelessly to put the weapon where he desired, he thoughtlessly loosed his hold. That instant Zangorri took advantage of it. By a tremendous effort he disengaged himself and bounded to his feet.
He drew forth a creese, and holding it up saw this name cut upon the handle: "JOHN POTTS." The change that came over the severe, impassive face of Brandon was so extraordinary that even Zangorri in his pain and fury saw it. He uttered an exclamation.
A cry of terror and dismay arose from the Malays as they saw their chief fall. The sailors shouted; there was no further fighting: some of the pirates were killed, others leaped overboard and tried to swim away. The sailors, in their fury, shot at these wretches as they swam. The cruelty of Zangorri had stimulated such a thirst for vengeance that none thought of giving quarter.
"Do you speak English?" was all that he could say in his surprise. "I ought to. I've seen enough of them," growled the other. "You scoundrel!" cried Brandon. "you have nothing to thank me for. You must die a worse death." "Ah," sneered Zangorri. "Well. It's about time. But my death will not pay for the hundreds of English lives that I have taken.
"Because to the north'ard is the Strait of Sunda, and the Malay pirates are always cruising about, often as far as this. Did you ever happen to hear of Zangorri?" "Yes." "Well, all I can say is, if you hadn't been wrecked, you'd have probably had your throat cut by that devil." "Can't any body catch him?" "They don't catch him at any rate. Whether they can or not is another question."
Zangorri grasped Brandon's hand, and raised his knife; the next instant Brandon had shifted his pistol to his other hand; he fired. Zangorri's arm fell by his side, broken, and the knife rang on the ship's deck. Brandon bounded at his throat. He wound his arms around him, and with a tremendous jerk hurled Zangorri to the deck, and held him there.
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