“Here goes,” said Panton, and steadily giving the fuse a good puff which lit up his face, he pitched the shell gently, so that it should roll down beyond the faggots, and they watched it as it went down and down with the fuse hissing and sputtering as it burned.
“Now, then,” cried Oliver, “down: everyone flat on the deck.”
“No go,” said Panton sharply. “I heard the fuse hiss: it fell right in the water beneath.”
At that moment one of the dry, freshly-thrown faggots, of those the blacks kept on steadily piling up, began to blaze, then to crackle and roar, and directly after a blinding, pungent smoke arose, and set dead on the bows and over the deck, driving the defenders away.
The next minute the pile was hissing and roaring with increasing fury, and, as the surroundings were illumined, the blacks could be seen running now, each with his faggot, which he threw on to the heap, where the fire grew fiercer and fiercer, and licked up the water which clung to the lower layer, as if it had been so much oil.
“The powder, the powder!” yelled Wriggs.
“It’s of no use, my man,” cried Oliver, “it would only increase the fire.”
“Hadn’t we better shoot some of the beggars down, sir?” said Smith.
“What would be the good?” replied Oliver. “Even if we killed a dozen or two we should be no better off. Now, every man be ready with his gun, in case they try to swarm on deck.”
He motioned his devoted band a little back, for Panton somehow resigned everything into his hands now, and there by the bright light they drew away aft, facing outward, ready for their first assailant.