“Marines, present—fire!” cried the captain.
There were two sharp clicks and as many tiny showers of sparks. That was all.
“Why, you were not loaded!” cried the captain, fiercely, “Where is the lieutenant? Where is the sergeant? Load, you scoundrels, load!”
The men grounded arms, and began to load quickly, the thudding of their iron ramrods sounding strangely in the still night air.
“Pipe away the first cutter!” cried the captain. “Mr Rogerson, bring those scoundrels back.”
The shrill pipe of the boatswain was heard, and there was a rush of feet as the captain shouted again,—
“Present—fire!”
There was a sharp flash, a loud report, and the captain stamped with rage.
“Fire, you scoundrel, fire!” he roared at the second man, who was about to lower his clumsy musket, after tugging in vain at the trigger, when the piece went off, and the bullet fled skyward, sending the nearest lanthorn held up in the shrouds out of its holder’s hand, to fall with a splash in the sea, and float for a few moments before it filled and sank, the candle burning till the water touched the wick.
“’Pon my word!” cried the captain. “Nice state of