"He knows there's a chance now," Drews growled in Lachlan's ear, "an' he's begun to fight."
But the chance was slender. To Lachlan there came within the next half-hour conviction that the race was lost.
The Merry Amy still gained—less rapidly than before, but steadily, surely. It was not only a race now but a battle, for Black Lowther was firing from his bow-chaser and from two of his forward ports; three guns against one, since only the long gun on the Good Fortune's after-deck could be brought to bear. As yet no material damage had been done, but already there were three great holes in the Good Fortune's sails. The Merry Amy's fire was more accurate than the brig's; being much larger, she was a steadier gun-platform. She out-pointed the brig, too, and while she gained, she crept slowly to windward. A little while more and Lowther would be able to train his port broadside on his adversary.
All on board the Good Fortune knew what that would mean. The brig would be hammered to pieces, smashed little by little into kindling wood by an overwhelming rain of iron.
A round shot struck the water just behind the Good Fortune, so close to her that Lachlan felt the spray on his cheek. Next moment, with a whining, humming hiss, a ball passed not six feet from Falcon where he stood at the wheel and, ranging diagonally forward across the deck, nicked a great chunk out of the port bulwark.
