“Count the flashes,” thought Frank; “does he think this is a review?”
The twelve-pounders let go at the row of lights, and as the smoke rolled away there came a muffled roar, and in an instant, it seemed to Frank, the air was full of shells. The water was cup up astern, and one projectile struck the turtle-backed deck forward, and went humming into the black of the night.
“She carries six guns to the broadside, I think. What do you make it?”
“A dozen, at least, Captain, and heavy metal,” said Frank, wetting his lips.
“No more than six and twelve-pounders. A larger shell sets up a different music, as you will soon learn. Still, I don’t like it; their gunners are too smart.”
The Captain took a turn up and down the bridge, then sent a shout to the Quartermaster to cease fire.
“Mr Hume, you will find a life-belt on the starboard side, opposite the hatchway, with a canister attached. Cut it adrift.”
Frank found the belt, and sent it overboard.
“Keep her three spokes to port.”
The steersman starboarded the helm, and the Swift went off at an angle to her former course, whilst the canister, on reaching the water, flared out in a brilliant blaze in the ship’s former wake.