The first shell burst under the tramp’s counter. The second blew part of her stem away.
Again Maynebrace signalled, calling upon the pirates to surrender. It was a mere waste of time. They hadn’t the faintest intention of giving in. If they couldn’t escape they’d fight until the ship sank under them.
The tramp was slowing down. Her engines had stopped—probably the British engineers had a lot to do with that—and she was slowly swinging round to starboard. Her steering-gear had been shattered by the shell that had exploded under her counter. She was like a crippled wild cat, harmless at a short distance yet dangerous to close with.
But for the prisoners, Maynebrace would have soon settled the business. A few rounds of gas shells and the pirates would quickly be rendered harmless. He could neither use gas nor sweep the decks with machine-gun fire. The only solution appeared to be that of laying the destroyer alongside and carrying the ship by boarding, but that would entail heavy loss of life on the part of the ship’s company.
“We’ve winged her, Yardley,” observed the skipper. “What now?”
The lieutenant shook his head.
“I hardly know, sir.”
“Neither do I,” confessed Maynebrace.
“We could put her down.”
“With most of her former officers and crew either triced up on the upper deck or under hatches—that won’t do,” objected the lieutenant-commander. Then, a thought striking him, he inquired: “Is the whaler in sight?”