The explosion made a noble roar of thunder. The gun might have been a sixty-four pounder for that—nay, big as one of those infernal pieces which worried well-meaning Duckworth in the Dardanelles. The ball flew ricochetting for the boat, rhythmic feathers of water attending its flight, as though it chiseled chips of crystal out of the mirror it fled along. It missed the boat, but it fell close enough to flash a burst of white water that may have wetted some of the rogues; and, indeed, it was so finely aimed that our men roared out a cheer for the marksman.
That round shot achieved an unexpected result. The oars ceased to sparkle, the boat came to a stand; and this while our piece was loading afresh.
“Oh, ye saints, one and all, give it to me to smite ’em this time,” prayed Greaves through his teeth.
Wink went a gun in the bows of the boat; a puff like a cloud of tobacco smoke out of Yan Bol’s mouth rolled a little aside, and floated stationary and enlarging. The report came along like the single bark of a dog, but we saw nothing of the ball.
“Oh, come nearer—oh, come nearer!” groaned Greaves in his throat; and again he laid the piece, and again he applied the match, and a second volcanic burst of noise followed the fiery belch.
The final flash of water was astern of the boat this time; but Greaves’ second dose, leveled with amazing precision, considering the range, coming on top of the wind, the fresh, dark blue shadow of which would now be visible to the fellows astern, satisfied them. With mightily relieved hearts we beheld them pull the boat’s head round for the schooner, and, some minutes before they were got within the shadow of her side, the breeze was rounding our canvas, and the brig was wrinkling the water as she gathered way to the impulse aloft.
“Those gentry have not yet arrived at the Englishman’s notion of boarding,” said Greaves. “Your brass gun always speaks loudly. There was a note in the voice of this chap that deceived them. Their own schooner, probably, carried nothing so heavy.”
He slapped the breech of the brass piece, sent a contemptuous look at the schooner, and fell to pacing the deck.
The breeze slightly freshened and we drove along—considerably off our course, indeed, but that could not be helped: for the blue shadow of the wind was over the schooner; she was heeling to the small, hot gush of the draught; she had picked up her boat and was in pursuit of us. We waited awhile, and then, finding that she held her own—nay, that she was very slowly closing us, indeed—we put our helm up and squared away dead before it, leaving her to follow us as best she might with nothing more that would draw than a square topsail and topgallant sail and a big squaresail.
By sunset we had run her into an orange-colored star on the edge of the dark blue sea in the north; yet the cuss was still in chase, and, when the dusk came, we braced up on the larboard tack, with the hope of losing her, and steered southeast.