“No man must talk to the helmsman,” said Margaret gently.
“Your old sea-dog hasn’t learned manners, eh?” said Stukeley insolently. “You must teach him.”
He stared at Cammock, who returned the stare, and then spun upon his heel to con the ship through the channel.
Perrin drew Margaret aside.
“Oh, Charles. For the last time. Think what you’re doing. I must heave her to. You aren’t fit to decide. Heave to, Captain Cammock.”
“As she goes,” cried Margaret angrily. “No, Edward,” he added quietly; “I’ll take them. I’ll save her one shock, anyway. And if I must hang for it, I must. That’s settled.”
“You don’t even know what he’s done,” said Perrin.
“He’s her husband,” said Margaret. “And they fired on her. They fired on her. Now go and talk to her. No more talk, Ned. They’re coming with us. Go and talk to her.”
Perrin turned from his friend with a gesture of childish passion. He took off his hat, ripped the brim from the crown with a single violent tug, and flung both portions into the sea. Then he walked swiftly down the ladder (and to his cabin) muttering curses so vehemently that they seemed to shake him. As he passed under the cabin door a flash came from the bows of the sixth-rate. A ball from a long nine-pounder hit up a jet from the sea close alongside, then bounded on, raising successive jets, till it was spent. Another shot flew over them. A third, fired after an interval, brought the maintopgallant braceblock down. A part of the sheave just missed Olivia’s head.
“They ought not to salute with shot,” explained Captain Margaret. “They always do. And that bit of lignum vitæ—feel it; isn’t it beautifully smooth and hard—would have given you a nasty bruise. Hold on,” he called, catching her arm, “she’s rolling. We’re going over the bar. It’s all very well wishing a ship a pleasant voyage,” he continued. “But I wonder they don’t kill people.” His thought was, “Can she be such a fool? Surely she must know.” But at that time he knew very little of Stukeley.