“It is the fortune of war,” said Webster, looking around. “But while we talk the ship may be sinking for want of a little sailor-like care. Have you a spare sail, señor?”
The Brazilian Captain folded his arms and spat on the deck.
“You surly brute!” cried Webster. “Here, men, cut away the mizzen sail!”
In a trice the British sailors swarmed up to the mizzen yard and cast loose the sail, which came down with a thud, knocking a couple of yellow-faced sailors off their legs, whereat the tars up aloft laughed. At this a dozen of the enemy drew their knives and looked to their Captain for a word.
It was a ticklish moment, and Hume pulled out a revolver, which he instantly presented at Juarez.
“Good, my lad,” said Webster. “Shoot him down if he moves a foot. Do you understand, señor?”
Juarez glared like a wild beast, and a hoarse, unintelligible cry escaped from his thick lips, but he kept quiet, while Webster, without another look at the scowling group, quickly slipped the great sail over the side, and had it drawn round and up over the damaged stern.
In the meantime Mr Dixon, working down below, had stopped the engines and explored the shaft funnel, ascertaining the extent of the damage done by the shaft in its unchecked revolutions. He came on deck, wearied out, to be met by dark looks.
“What’s the meaning of this?” said he.
“The meaning is,” cried Webster, with a bitter look of contempt round, “that these cowardly hounds won’t lift a finger to help us, and I’m damned if my men will do another stroke to save them! Let the ship sink, and she is sinking fast.”