“There’s an answer from the warship, sir,” said Frank, who had turned his eyes aft.
“I wish I understood the game,” growled the Captain, banging his fist on the bridge rail. “Oh, she means it this time!”
A red tongue of flame leapt out, a great volume of white smoke; the shot, keeping low, struck the water up, and then there was a loud crash, followed by the whir of splinters.
Frank saw the dark figure at the wheel suddenly sink to the deck, and without losing a moment he bounded down the narrow deck, seized the handle as the wheel was beginning to revolve, and brought it round.
“She’s paying off. What in thunder’s up with the wheel?” roared the Captain. “Mr Webster, take two men aft. Starboard your helm.”
Frank put his weight in, and with every sinew straining, brought the vessel round, just as, like a runaway horse that takes the bit in its iron jaws, she had threatened to come broadside on.
“What’s wrong here?” panted Mr Webster anxiously, as he reached the wheel.
“Steersman hit,” said Frank shortly; “carry him off. I’ll manage this.”
Mr Webster groped for the wounded man, drew him away, and then paused to look up, for they were passing the vessel whose lights they had seen. She was scarcely making any way, and the bulwarks were lined with pale faces, among them those of many women.
“Thank Heaven, she’s no cruiser; hurrah, boys, hurrah!”