The sound of that first gun was what had really awakened Guert, but he had not at once understood it. Captain Morgan was on the point of following Captain Taber's example, when the big, peaceful-seeming British ship swung around a few points, and a lot of hitherto closed ports along her side sprang open. Every one of these ports had an ugly, metallic nose in it, and from each of these jumped a sheet of fire, followed by thunder. At the same moment a band of brass music on the after deck began to play "God save the King," while a long procession of men in red uniforms streamed up from below to join a lot of others like them who were already on deck.
"Eight ports!" exclaimed Captain Morgan, staring through his glass. "She may carry more guns than that! She's a British merchant ship of the largest size, turned into a troop-ship, and armed, I'd say, with long twelves. Thunder! We haven't anything to do with her! Starboard your helm, there! I'll signal Taber to keep away."
There was no need of that at all. The first heavy broadside of the stranger had hurtled toward the _Lynx_, and several of the half-spent shot had struck her. Her commander had taken warning instantly, and was already wheeling away, so to speak, when the second British broadside went so dangerously well toward the _Noank_.
"One such dose is just as good as two," remarked Captain Morgan. "I'm glad Taber has good sense. We don't want to be crippled jest now. We can't afford to risk a stick. We'll get away out o' range, quickest kind!"
So he did, and so did Taber. But they would by no means have done so if it had not been for a reason that was getting an explanation in the furiously angry exclamations of the British sailor in command of that pugnacious troop-ship. He had rapidly grown red in the face, and now he seemed ready to burst.
"Lost 'em! Missed 'em!" he roared, as he stamped up and down the deck. "I had 'em both trapped! I let 'em come near enough before I fired a gun. I'd ha' sunk 'em or sent 'em in. It's the fault o' that rascally thief at the navy-yard. He supplied us with that worthless, condemned contract powder. It won't pitch a shot worth tuppence. He ought to be hung! I'll report him!"
The mystery of so many cannon-shot being practically spent at a fair practice distance was completely explained. No doubt he was wrong in declaring that his ammunition was no better than so much sea-sand, but it was not the stuff to send twelve-pound balls of iron through oak or teak bulwarks, and his cunning trap to catch the two American privateers was a lamentable failure.