My great-uncle sneezed delicately.
"In the dark one is clumsy," he observed. "I fear I have abused my nose with an over heavy dose of Rip-Rap. Well, well! Perhaps there is a parable in the incident for such clever fellows as Captain Flint.
"I must ask you not to move about, gentlemen. We have the better part of a glass to wait for the ebb, but caution is our watchword!"
CHAPTER XVII
THE STORM
We heard the Walrus before we had sight of her—the slatting of a head-sail, a rattling block, a vague creak of cordage. Then an impression of a mighty shadow, a towering spiderweb of spars and lacy rigging, stealing ghost-like from the enshrouding dark.
She floated nearer. Nearer still. And nearer. It seemed that the two vessels must collide, and the suspense became unbearable. I wondered at my great-uncle's restraint. Would he never—I gasped with relief as his cool, even tones clove the silence.
"Touch off, Coupeau."
Crash! The deck leaped underfoot; the anchored hull surged forward. A red sheet of flame girdled the James' side, and in the instant's glare the Walrus was revealed in stark detail against a setting of glittering, black water and low, forested shores. I saw a man in her foretop, aimlessly balancing a grenade. I saw men staring curiously from the gunports as our broadside smashed into them. I had a glimpse of the brutal face of Bones, peering over the bulwarks, a cutlass in his teeth.
The darkness returned, and a multitude of echoes dinned back and forth across the inlet. There was a rending and cracking of timbers, with such screams as I never hope to hear again, the screams of wicked men who face an unexpected death, oaths and blasphemy and piteous appeals, all blended into one terrible, heart-searching whole.