"Stop firing!" commanded Captain Avery, less than a quarter of an hour later. "That black flag feller is careenin'! She's fillin'! I declare, she must ha' been a mere shell. The Noank's timbers'd ha' stood a heavier poundin' than that."
"It was pretty heavy pounding, Lyme," replied Sam Prentice. "Our timbers are good, but we don't care to be struck at short range. Not by heavy shot, anyhow. You see, that redskin jest plugged her every time. Some of his hits must ha' gone clean through."
"Used her up, anyhow," said the captain.
"Guert," said Up-na-tan to his pupil in the science of gunnery, "good! Boy aim twice. No miss. Boy make good gunner some day."
It was just so. The Manhattan had indulgently promised Guert to do some actual battle practice, and had made him as proud as a peacock. It was true that he had fired under close supervision and direction, but it had been a valuable teaching, and Guert almost believed that he could have done it all alone—with the right kind of men to handle the pivot-gun for him.
"Boy good eye," said Up-na-tan. "Hold hand steady. Hit mark. Ugh!"
Over, over, over, rapidly leaned the shattered hull of the Leon, the water pouring into her through the gaps in her starboard side. Down from her had dropped boat after boat, to be crowded with her surviving wolves, no effort being made by them to save any of their wounded companions. She had now drifted into pretty close neighborhood with the Santa Teresa, and a wild shout went up as the boats pulled away.
"Board the Spaniard!" cried her captain.
It was the last resource of utter desperation, and they might even now have succeeded in gaining possession of the Santa Teresa if she had been unassisted.
"Stand by your guns, men!" shouted Captain Velasquez. "Let them have it as they come!"