The Sultan's Daughter by Dennis Wheatley Read Free Book Online

handling ship, let us then continue to take our punishment while forging dead ahead, and pray that fortune may aid us to escape.’
    As he spoke, the frigate’s bow-chaser boomed again. Next moment the Quartermaster at the wheel gave a single scream and collapsed upon the deck. The cannon ball had taken him squarely in the small of the back, cutting him nearly in half and spattering his blood in all directions.
    Luckily the spent shot had not seriously damaged the wheel, only shearing off one of the spokes, and it was quickly secured by the bo’sun. But the ball had cleft the air barely a yard from Roger, so that he had felt the wind of it brush his cheek. More than once he had owed his life to having no false shame about taking cover when under fire and, while others about him were still gaping at the gory remains of the unfortunate Quartermaster, he left the poop in two swift bounds for the greater safety of the well-deck below it.
    He had scarcely picked himself up and stationed himself under the ladder, where he would be protected not only from a direct hit but also from flying splinters should a shot smash into the deck forward of him, than the frigate’s gun boomed again. This time she missed, but her next shot smacked through the sail above him, leaving a large rent in it.
    Crouching there, he thanked his stars that he was only a passenger and had no duty to perform or obligation to set an example by remaining exposed upon the poop, as was the case with Formby.
    The young Lieutenant, meanwhile, white-faced but determined, remained at his post, cursing his inability to return the frigate’s fire. But he ordered the after gun to be run out and loaded in readiness, for it looked as if their pursuer would soon be in range of his smaller armament.
    Dusk had now fallen and the enemy’s next two shots went wide. After the second, knowing there would be a minute’s interval before another could be fired, Roger swung himself round the ladder and ran a few steps up it to get a quick look astern over the taffrail. The semi-darkness obscured the outline of the frigate but her position could still be clearly seen because she had lit her lanterns.
    At that moment there came a sharp crack and flash. Formby had just given the gunner the order to fire the little twelve-pounder. Instead of ducking back, as he had been about to do, Roger leapt up the remaining steps of the ladder on to the poop. His action nearly cost him his life. Another ball smacked into the deck only a few feet in front of him. It would have carried off his head had it not landed on a ring-bolt which caused it to ricochet and whine away over his shoulder. Dashing forward he grabbed Formby by the arm, and shouted:
    â€˜Are you mad to fire upon the frigate?’
    Angered by such arbitrary treatment, Formby jerked his arm away. ‘How dare you address me in such terms?’ he cried hotly. ‘Get back to your funk hole and leave me to fight my ship.’
    â€˜Funk hole be damned,’ Roger retorted. ‘I’ve killed more men than you’ve been months at sea. Unless you want your ship shot to pieces order your gunner to blow out his match.’
    Drawing himself up, Formby snapped, ‘For this impertinence, sir, I could have you put in irons. I am the Captain of this ship and———’
    â€˜I care not if you are the King of Spain,’ roared Roger. ‘Have you not the sense to realise that though we can see the frigate on account of her lights, she can scarce see us as ours are still unlit? To her we can now be no more than a dark shadow. Another few minutes and we’ll be hidden by the blessed dark. But do you continue to fire your popgun you’ll be giving her a mark by which she may yet sink us.’
    The frigate’s gun boomed again. Seconds later the shot crashed through the stern rail, sending deadly splinters flying in all directions. One caught the Yeoman of Signals in the fleshy