“Throw one of the small kegs into the fire. Then, as it goes off, we must all drop down from the gangway, and fight our way to the south opening in the woods. I daresay we can get some distance under the cover of the smoke and confusion.”
“Good,” cried Panton. “It is our only chance. This vessel will be a pile of ashes in an hour’s time.”
That was evident to all, for the heat was growing tremendous, and even as Panton spoke the flames were running rapidly up the rigging of the foremast, which promised soon to be in a blaze right to the truck.
The smoke, too, was blinding, but when they could get a glance over the side, there were the blacks still silently toiling away, hurling on the faggots of wood which were licked up in a few moments, as with a crackling roar they added to the fierceness of the blaze.
And now, without a word, the little keg of powder was got up from the stores where it had been carefully stowed along with the cases of cartridges and the captain’s tiny armoury.
Panton went with Smith to bring it up, the latter carrying it and placing it upon the deck while the sparks and flakes of fire flew overhead in a continuous stream, some of them lodging upon the furled sails, forming specks of fire which soon began to glow, telling that before many minutes had elapsed the main mast would become a pyramid of flame.
“I don’t know how it’s to be done now,” said Panton. “No one could go near enough to the fire to fling it in.”
“I’ll scheme that, sir,” said Smith, “if you’ll let me.”
“No,” said Oliver, “I will not let any man run risks. Stop: I know,” he cried.
“How?” asked Panton.