THE half-hour had nearly passed. The Good Fortune was a ship of blood, a habitation of death. Sailing almost abreast of her and scarcely more than a pistol shot away, the Merry Amy had poured broadside after broadside into her. Against the ten guns that Lowther's vessel brought to bear—eight on her gun deck, one forward, and one aft—the brig could utilize only five, and now three of these were silent. But for the heavy seas, in which marksmanship even at close range was difficult, the Good Fortune could not have lived so long.
But she did live, and her masts still stood, and Falcon still held the wheel, though Diccon Drews was dead. Lachlan McDonald had taken his place. In his bull's voice Falcon still shouted his orders forward, but to Lachlan he gave his instructions for the powder-blackened men who worked the after-gun. He was very cool and calm now, the fury had gone from him; he smiled often. Once, when the Good Fortune still reeled under the shock of another broadside, he slapped Lachlan's back and congratulated him on becoming first mate of a pirate brig.
To Lachlan the thing seemed somehow not unduly strange—not stranger than all that had happened
