A shout of derision came from within.
“I warn you again!” roared Mr Brymer. “I fired before without trying to hit you, now I shall aim straight. Stop that this moment!”
“Fire away! Ready below, lads, I’ll have it off—”
The report of the revolver, a hoarse, half-stifled cry from within, and then a yell of rage arose, to mingle with the shrieking of the wind.
“I was obliged to fire, Mr Frewen,” said the mate, sharply, “for at any cost we will keep the upper hand now.”
No one spoke, and I could not help shivering as I saw the stern looks of the men by me, even Mr Preddle’s round smooth face looking fierce and determined.
Mr Frewen was the first to open his lips.
“It is a bitter necessity,” he said; “those men must be kept down, but I am obliged to speak now. Brymer, I am a surgeon, and there are at least two wounded men there below, perhaps more. It is necessary for me to go down.”
“It is impossible, Mr Frewen. If I give orders for that hatch to be opened, there will be a rush, and even if we remain masters and beat them down, it can only be at the cost of wounding more, perhaps causing death.”
“Why not make a truce with them?”