“That’s Sevier,” said Elliott.
“Yes, if you come alone,” Henninger shouted back, and in a few minutes a boat was got overboard from the steamer, with a red-capped seaman at the oars, and a man in white clothing in the stern.
This was indeed Sevier, but scarcely recognizable as the smooth and well-dressed Southerner as he climbed with difficulty over the dhow’s rail. His white duck garments were torn, blackened, wet, and muddy. His face was grimed with powder, unshaven, and reddened with the sun, and his right arm had the sleeve cut from it and was suspended in crimson-stained bandages. He had lost his characteristic suavity, and he glanced savagely about as he stepped upon the deck.
“This has been a bad business all round,” he said, as Henninger came forward to meet him. “I’ve come to see what terms you’ll make.”
“We won’t make any,” replied Henninger.
“Then we’ll fight it out.”
Henninger laughed rather harshly. “You can go back and begin as soon as you like. You make me tired,” he added. “You’ve lost half your men, you’re fast on the reef, you’re wounded, and yet you try to bluff us. Don’t you know any better than that? Our weapons have twice the range of yours. We could take your whole outfit if we thought it was worth while, and maroon you here—and you want us to make terms to be allowed to go away in peace. Fight it out, if it suits you. We’ll leave you here to fight as long as you please.”
“We’re not so bad as that,” said Sevier. “Our ship’ll float at the next tide. And there are ten men aboard with rifles, and at this range they’d clear off your decks in about ten seconds.”
Henninger glanced quickly at the steamer.
“Let them fire away then,” he said, tranquilly.