As the black saw them he uttered a low, savage roar, and pointed to his shoulder, which had been grazed by a pistol ball, the smarting making the great fellow grin with rage and roll his eyes.
“Hi, below there!” cried Mark, the excitement making him forget all danger. “Hand up that pistol and any other weapons you have, or we’ll fire down among you.”
The answer was a flash, a sharp report, and a puff of smoke, Mark being conscious of a whizzing sound close by one ear.
“You scoundrels!” he cried, passionately. “Surrender; do you hear?”
“Not we,” came in a familiar voice. “S’render yourselves. You’re not Queen’s officers, only pirates, and I’m going to retake my ship.”
“If that pistol is not thrown out on the deck, sir, I give the orders to fire,” cried Mark.
“That’s jist what you darn’t do, mister,” said the American skipper.
“Let ’em have it, sir,” whispered Tom Fillot, excitedly.
But Mark felt as if the skipper’s words were correct, and that he dare not fire down into that cabin to the destruction of some poor wretch’s life, so he did not—to use Tom Fillot’s expression—“Let ’em have it,” but gave orders sharply in the way of defence, and not attack.
“Clap on the hatch, Tom,” he shouted; and the covering, which had been forced off in some way, was thrust back and held down for a moment or two, before Tom leaped away as a shot crashed through, and the hatch was driven off once more.