“That was the Spanish captain’s voice, I am sure,” cried Rodd.
“Eight, sir,” shouted Joe. “I’d swear to it. Well, he’s getting part of his dose. Oh, if it wasn’t so dark! Big gun’s crew!” he cried. “Is the tackle with her?”
“Ay, ay!” came in answer, after a short bustle of movement, in which trained men took their places.
“Here, run the rammer down her throat, my lads. She may be loaded.”
There was the sound of the stout ash staff passing down the bore of the gun, and the answer came—
“Right!”
“Good,” replied Joe. “Lower down that light. We must use that—if we fire. But we want fresh charges, and there will be no more here.”
There was a quick search made, but without result, and Joe Cross stood silent for a few moments.
“Well,” cried the doctor, “why don’t you send below, to the magazine?”
“Cabin hatch is closed, sir, and some of the slavers are below. This way, my lads—cutlashes. We must have them out.”