"She has a longer range than
most Spaniards," said he. "But I'll not waste powder yet for all that.
We've none to spare."
Scarcely had he spoken when a third shot boomed. There was a
splintering crash overhead followed by a sough and a thud as the
maintopmast came hurtling to the deck and in its fall stretched a couple
of men in death. Battle was joined, it seemed. Yet Captain Leigh did
nothing in a hurry.
"Hold there!" he roared to the gunner who swung his linstock at that
moment in preparation.
She was losing way as a result of that curtailment of her mainmast, and
the Spaniard came on swiftly now. At last the skipper accounted her
near enough, and gave the word with an oath. The Swallow fired her
first and last shot in that encounter. After the deafening thunder of
it and through the cloud of suffocating smoke, Sir Oliver saw the high
forecastle of the Spaniard rent open.
Master Leigh was cursing his gunner for having aimed too high. Then he
signalled to the mate to fire the culverin of which he had charge. That
second shot was to be the signal for the whole broadside from the
main-deck below. But the Spaniard anticipated them. Even as the
skipper of the Swallow signalled the whole side of the Spaniard burst
into flame and smoke.
The Swallow staggered under the blow, recovered an instant, then listed
ominously to larboard.
"Hell!" roared Leigh. "She's bilging!" and Sir Oliver saw the Spaniard
standing off again, as if satisfied with what she had done.
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