There was no sign of resistance. Pengelly, escorted by the German captain, disappeared from view, three of his men following him. The others, with the exception of the boat-keeper, drove the passengers and crew for'ard like a flock of sheep.
"No guts!" soliloquised Broadmayne scornfully. "Can you imagine a British ship with that sized crew chucking up the sponge? They'd rush the blighters even if they only had broomsticks."
Presently one of the Alerte's boarders at the head of the accommodation-ladder held up a small white flag. It was a pre-arranged signal. As long as it remained held aloft, it indicated that the looters were having things all their own way. Should the Germans turn upon their captors, the white flag would be dropped. Then, and only then, would the Alerte's quick-firer pump shell after shell into the huge target presented by the motionless Cap Hoorn.
Twice there came the dull report of an explosion. The crew of the quick-firer tautened, the captain of the gun looking inquiringly at the imperturbable figure on the Alerte's bridge. But Captain Cain gave no sign. The white hand-flag was still conspicuously displayed at the gangway of the prize. Occasionally he swept the horizon with his binoculars, ready at the first sign of an approaching craft to recall his merry men and seek safety in flight.
An hour and ten minutes after the boat had pushed off from the Alerte, Pengelly descended the Cap Hoorn's accommodation-ladder. The boat, heavily laden, headed back to her degenerate parent and was hoisted up in davits.
"Well?" inquired Captain Cain laconically.
"Skinned 'em, sir," replied Pengelly, with a broad grin.