All that could be done for the present was to jog on—there wasn’t the slightest chance of the whaler being upon the scene before the scrap ended—and wait for the destroyer to return to pick her up.
IV
Meanwhile Buster was hard at it, and not having things all her own way.
Opening out—for Maynebrace did not want to expose his crew to unnecessary risks from rifle fire— Buster drew level with the captured tramp. She was between the Supreme and the shore, two thousand yards separating the two craft.
Finding that their savage ruse of dropping the British prisoners overboard was not now deterring the destroyer, the pirates removed the survivors and ranged them along the side nearest their attacker, lashing the captives to the rail at sufficient intervals, so that wherever a shell took effect on the upper deck the helpless men would suffer.
All this Lieutenant-commander Maynebrace saw through his binoculars. There was his chance. He took it.
“Range two, double o, o. Hull her fore and aft!” he ordered through the voice-tube communicating with the bow four-inch quick-firer.
The gun-layer of this particular weapon was an artist at his job; and so was the sight-setter. It was mainly on that account that Buster headed the list in the quarterly gunnery returns.
The pirates had opened an ineffectual rifle fire. The destroyer was out of range, although ricochets occasionally mushroomed themselves harmlessly against her side.
The four-inch barked once—twice.