“Plenty black stone, sar. Steam from here to Cape Coast Castle, I tink. Golly! Um hot!”
He groped in the pocket of his greasy jacket and produced a piece of waste with which he mopped his face. Then he turned his attention to the enemy and put up his rifle. Dick followed suit, and together the shots rang out.
“That’s where the big gun is,” said Dick, as he fired at the second of the two large boats, from which had come the bellow of the large piece which had accounted for the fracture of the tiller. “That fellow has got hold of an elephant gun, I think, and he is making good shooting. Whereabouts is he?”
“You watch, Massa Dick. You see dat man near far end of boat? Dat de feller. You watch um while me pot. See um go splash into de water.”
There was a malicious gleam in Johnnie’s eye, for a second or so before the hopes of escape which filled the minds of the fugitives had been suddenly upset by the boom of the heavy piece owned by the enemy, and by the hum of a bullet along the deck of the launch. There was a steady arm holding the gun, and had they but known it this native was one of King Koffee’s chief marksmen, an old hunter from the interior, who held a high place in the army mainly because of his prowess with the rifle in question. And the boat in which he sat, or knelt, was not so far behind that he was out of range, or even nearly so. Indeed, barely a minute had passed since the launch had overrun the first of the big war boats, and had sent her to the bottom. It was only a few seconds since Johnnie had plied his shovel to such good effect, and the enemy were still at close quarters. Nor were they minded to permit these audacious strangers to escape so easily. A yell, a discordant shriek of indignation had gone up as the launch dashed into and splintered the native craft, and that had been followed by a babel of shouts, by the clash of many a war drum, and the blowing of horns, while instantly the whole fleet had swung round and had followed, their guns pouring slugs after the launch. Dick could see them clearly, the paddlers plying their blades with terrific energy, and the fighting men standing or kneeling, ramming charges into their muzzle-loaders in desperate haste. Then had come that boom followed by the hum of the big bullet.
“Dat de man,” said Johnnie, as he held his rifle to his shoulder. “He just ’bout to stand and fire um gun. See um drop de villain.”
At once our hero’s rifle went to his shoulder, and, having waited to hear the snap of his comrade’s, and note that he had failed to hit the mark, he pressed his trigger gently, holding his weapon as rigidly as the trembling of the launch would allow. Instantly there was an answering report from the native boat, and he felt the breath of the shot as it raged past his cheek and flew on ahead. Then the man who had fired staggered, drew himself up and, holding his huge weapon above his head, toppled and fell like a stone into the river.
“Got um! By gum! but dat a fine shot! Johnnie’s no good. Bad. Velly bad. Hear um shout. No more pills ob dat size come after us.”
“It was a lucky shot and may save our lives. The beggar meant potting us, and there is no doubt that he was a fine shot, and knew his weapon. If one of his bullets had hit either of us I imagine that we should have been killed instantly. It must have been like a young cannon firing a very big charge, for did you see how the recoil shook him?”
The stoker nodded emphatically. “Not like shoot such gun often,” he said. “Make shoulder sore. But what massa do now? Stop here and fire, so as make dem sorry dey get in de way?”