"Our other smoke-stack, I think," he soliloquized. "By Jove! What are those fellows up to?"
His attention was directed towards a group of men standing aft. With an utter disregard of danger, seven or eight men were throwing articles into one of the quarter-boats—their scanty personal belongings, tins of provisions, and kegs of fresh water.
"Belay there!" shouted Burgoyne. "Time enough when you get the order to abandon ship. Take cover."
Even as he spoke the staccato sound of a machine-gun came from the for'ard superstructure of the cruiser. The luckless men, caught in the open by the hail of nickel bullets, were swept away like flies. Nor did the machine-gun cease until every boat in davits on the Donibristle's port side was riddled through and through. Splinters of wood flew in all directions. Metal bullets rattled like hail against the steel framework of the deck-houses, and zipped like swarms of angry bees when they failed to encounter any resistance save that of the air.
By this time the speed of the Donibristle had fallen to a bare seven knots. The destruction of both funnels and consequent reduction of draught had counteracted the strenuous efforts of Angus and the engine-room staff to "keep their end up". Far below the water-line, working in semi-darkness owing to the fact that the hammering to which the boat had been subjected had broken the electric-light current, unable to see what was going on, the "black squad" toiled like Trojans in the unequal contest with the fast and powerfully armed pirate.
A glance astern showed the Third Officer that the Donibristle was steering a somewhat erratic course. The straggling wake was evidence of that. Perhaps it was intentional on the Old Man's part in order to baffle the pirate gun-layers; but Burgoyne decided to make sure on that point.
Crossing to the starboard side, so that the partly-demolished deck structure might afford a slight amount of cover, Alwyn ran for'ard. Scrambling over mounds of debris and crawling under the wrecked funnels he hurried, holding his breath as he dashed through the whirling wreaths of smoke.
At last he arrived at the starboard bridge ladder—or rather where the ladder had been. Only two or three of the brass-edged steps remained. Here he paused. The edge of the bridge hid the skipper from his view. He retraced his steps for a few paces and looked again. There was the Old Man still grasping the wheel. The sides of the wheel-house were shattered, daylight showed through the flat roof, but Captain Blair remained at the post of honour and danger.
It was evident that he had been hit again. One arm hung helplessly by his side. The white sleeve of his tunic was deeply stained.
Burgoyne hesitated no longer. He wondered why the Second Officer had not noticed the skipper's predicament, but the Second had followed the First, and was lying motionless across the dismounted binnacle.