“Never mind. Fire away steadily when you begin, boy. As I said before, they are so close that it will not matter; if you miss one man you are sure to hit another.”
“But it does seem so murderous, uncle,” whispered Stan passionately.
“A mistake, boy: not murderous; it’s only justice. We are playing the parts of executioners to criminals.”
“Ah! I thought so,” said Blunt suddenly.
“Thought what?” cried Stan, who felt glad that the discussion was at an end.
“Look at that smoke rising out from the middle of every junk.”
“Stink-pots!” cried Stan excitedly.
“The fire to light them from,” was the reply.
Blunt was rights for in a few minutes scores of wreaths of black smoke were rising out of the little fleet, and as soon as the horrible missiles were well alight the sounding of the gongs stopped for a minute. Then three heavy bangs were given from the nearest boat, and directly after the decks were seen clear of the horrible smoke, and seemed to have suddenly begun to bristle with matchlock barrels, pitchforks, tridents, and spears, while every now and then a gleam of sunlight flashed from some heavy sword-blade.
The scene was weird and strange, for the rapid motion of the crowding crews set the smoke wreathing and floating here and there, while the soft morning breeze wafted the clouds, one minute revealing the deadly preparations, the next hiding all in smoke.