Lowther had changed his tactics. Hitherto he had been shooting at the Good Fortune's spars. Now, with the race as good as won, his target was the brig's deck. Diccon Drews croaked a savage imprecation. "We'll get it now," he growled. "He's started to hull us."
For a while, though both vessels fired steadily, there were no more hits. Then a cheer rose from the Good Fortune. One of her shots had gone home. It had struck the Merry Amy's deck squarely just as the ship plunged into a hollow between two waves, and it had worked havoc. Lachlan saw men running to and fro on the ship's forward deck, and Diccon Drews, peering through his glass just as the shot struck, swore savagely that the crew of the Merry Amy's forward gun had been wiped out.
"First blood!" roared Falcon. "By"
A rending crash drowned the oath. Behind and to the right of Lachlan the brig's bulwark had been ripped asunder. A splinter struck him between the shoulder blades, though without inflicting a wound, and he staggered and almost fell. Recovering himself, he sickened at what he saw. Forward in the waist of the ship, where the ball had ranged, five men were down and one of them lay sprawled across a guncarriage, blood spurting from the place where his arm had been.
Above the yells and groans of the wounded, Lachlan heard a whining, a humming. It was so loud, so near, that this time he was sure his end had come; but the ball passed him, passed Drews and Falcon
