The dhow’s company were lying flat on the deck and firing across the rail, which offered concealment rather than shelter. The crew had taken refuge in the forecastle, with the exception of the reis, who had squatted imperturbably on the deck. Margaret was sitting on the planking behind the mast, with her pistol in her lap.
“I did go below,” she answered. “But a bullet came right in through the side of the ship. It’s just as safe here. Wingate!” she exclaimed, as Elliott came over the rail, “you’re not hurt, are you?”
“No, of course not. Lie down on the deck,” said Elliott, irritably, “and put that gun away. You’re liable to hurt some one.” He felt unaccountably bad-tempered, nervous, excited, and scared.
“If those fellows get on the top of the hill,” Henninger snapped, “they’ll be able to keep us off the deck. We’d better—”
“Can’t we let the dhow drift to the island and capture the whole bunch?” suggested Bennett.
“We’d certainly lose a couple of men in doing it,” said Henninger, more collectedly. “I wouldn’t risk it. What are they doing on the steamer, Hawke? You’ve got the glasses.”
“They’re lowering another boat!” Hawke cried. “Four—six—seven men in her,” he continued, peering through the binoculars.
“By thunder, they’ll smother us out!” exclaimed Bennett, and the adventurers looked at one another for a moment in silence.
“That boat mustn’t land,” said Henninger. “Set your sights for five hundred yards, and don’t fire until I give the word; then pump it in as fast as you can. Be sure to hit the boat, if nothing else.”
The second boat had left the steamer and was being rowed toward the island at a racing pace, veering to the west, to make the same landing-place as the other. Henninger, struck by a sudden thought, turned to the skipper.