Back came the answer. “Fire if you dare!”
Quentin lowered the megaphone. His eyes glittered and his breast swelled with unholy joy. “It’s up to us,” he suggested.
“Send a shot between his masts,” ordered Topham. “It may bring him to his senses.”
“Crack.” The spiteful snap of the aft six-pounder thrilled through the night, and Topham saw the men on the yacht duck as the projectile whistled about their heads.
The next instant Ouro Preto’s voice, crazy with rage rose. “Fire! Fire!” he yelled.
But the yachtsmen did not fire. Ready as most of them were to take the risks of battle with the Brazilian government, they were not ready to fire upon a United States ship. Small though it might be, it carried the power and dignity of the nation.
They did not fire, but still the yacht swept on. “I’ll put the next shot through your pilot house,” megaphoned Quentin. “Be warned!” “Train on the pilot house,” he ordered, in tones loud enough to reach the yacht.
“Ay! Ay! Sir!” The gunners bent to their piece, but before they could fire the door of the pilot house of the Seabird flew open and a man, ducking low, ran out. Instantly the yacht, uncontrolled, swung off into the trough of the waves.
“You damned cowards!” Ouro Preto’s voice was unintelligible with rage. He snatched up a rifle and flung it to his shoulder, but some one knocked up his arm and the bullet whistled harmlessly over Topham’s head.
As the sound lost itself in the immensity of the ocean, Quentin’s voice sounded. “Heave to!” he ordered, calmly.