“Now steady, Billy, as you love me, boy!” he exclaimed in his eagerness.
True Blue had not far to stoop as he took the lanyard of the lock in his hand and looked carefully along the gun. The Ruby had herself hauled up a little. For an instant there was a cessation of firing. Billy at that moment pulled the trigger. The Frenchmen were in the very act of bracing up the mizen-topsail-yard when the mizen-mast was seen to bend over to starboard, and, with a crash, to come toppling down overboard, shot away a few feet only above the deck.
“You did it—you did it, Billy, my boy!” exclaimed Paul Pringle, almost beside himself with joy, seizing his godson in his arms and giving him a squeeze which would have pressed the breath out of a slighter body.
“Who fired that last shot?” asked the Captain from aft.
“True Blue, sir—Billy Freeborn!” cried Paul Pringle.
“Hurrah! hurrah!” shouted the men at the gun.
“Bravo! let him fire another, then,” answered Captain Garland, not complaining of the irregularity of the proceeding. Not another word could have been heard, for both the Ruby and the French frigate again began pounding away at each other.
True Blue, with the encouragement he had received, stepped boldly up to the gun. The captain was Tom Marline, one of his assistant-guardians, and he was a favourite with all the rest, so that there was no feeling of jealousy excited against him.
Again he looked along it. He waited his time till the smoke had cleared away a little, and then once more he fired. The shot hit—of that both Marline and Paul Pringle were certain, but what damage was done they could not determine.
“I pitched it astern, not far from the wheel,” observed True Blue quietly. “Maybe it hit the wheel—maybe not.”