"You, Firangi, heed what I say. It is not for us to run risks: the hind does not walk open-eyed into the tiger's mouth. The grab must be put about immediately, or----"
"Who is in command?" asked Desmond quietly; "you or I?"
"We share it. I can navigate as well as you."
"You forget our arrangement in Gheria. You agreed that I should command."
"Yes, but at the pleasure of the rest. We are ten; we will have our way; the grab must be put about, at once."
"Not by me."
Desmond felt what was coming and braced himself to meet it.
Then things happened with startling rapidity. The Gujarati, with a yell of rage, made a rush towards the wheel. Knowing what to expect Desmond slipped behind it and with a few light leaps gained the deck forward. Fuzl Khan shouted to the serang to take the helm and steer the vessel out to sea; then set off in headlong pursuit of Desmond, who had now turned and stood awaiting the attack. The Gujarati did not even trouble to draw his knife. He plunged at him like a bull, shouting that he would deal with the pig of a Firangi as he had dealt with the sentinel at Gheria.
But it was not for nothing that Desmond had fought a dozen battles for the possession of Clive's desk at school, and a dozen more for the honour of the school against the town; that his muscles had been developed by months of hard work at sea and harder work in the dockyard at Gheria. Deftly dodging the man's blind rush, he planted his bare feet firmly and threw his whole weight into a terrific body blow that sent the bigger man with a thud to the deck. Panting, breathless, trembling with fury, Fuzl Khan sprang to his feet, caught sight of the muskets, and tearing one from its fastenings raised it to his shoulder. Desmond seized the moment with a quickness that spoke volumes for his will's absolute mastery of his body. As the man pulled the harmless trigger, Desmond leapt at him; a crashing blow beneath the chin sent him staggering against the wheel; a second while he tottered brought him limp and almost stunned to the deck.
