e galley and was ready with a little iron pot filled with
live coals which was hidden under a bit of tarpaulin.

Ned Rackham was a young man and powerful, with a long reach and a
skilled blade. He fairly hewed his way into the ruck of the dauntless
sailors who had no more bricks to hurl. Several pirates were disabled,
with broken arms or bloody crowns, but the others crowded forward,
grunting as they slashed and stabbed, and well aware that Ned Rackham
would cut the laggards down should he detect them.

At the moment when there seemed no chance of salvation for the crew of
the _Plymouth Adventure_, Joe Hawkridge leaped from the gun and beckoned
Jack. The grin was restored to the homely, freckled visage and the salt
water gamin danced in jubilant excitement. Down from the forecastle roof
tumbled Jack Cockrell and went sliding across the deck, heels over head,
to fetch up in the scupper. Joe hauled him by the leg, close to the
wooden carriage of the gun, and swiftly told him what was to be done.

Obediently Jack began to loose the knots which secured the rope tackles
but it was a slow task. The wet had made the hemp as hard as iron and he
lacked a marlinspike. Joe dodged around the gun, saw the difficulty and
sawed through one rope after another, all but the last strand or two.
Then the lads tailed on to the breeching hawsers, which held the
carriage from sliding on its iron rollers, and eased the strain as well
as they could.

The ponderous mass was almost free to plunge across the deck. Joe
sweated and braced his feet against a ring-bolt while Jack Cockrell
found a cleat. Ned Rackham's men were moving forward, cut and thrust,
while the sailors grappled with them bare-handed and battled grimly
like mastiffs.

"The next time she rolls!" panted Joe Hawkridge as the hawser ripped the
skin from his palms.

"Aye, make ready to cut," muttered Jack.

The ship heaved herself high and then listed far down to starboard. Joe
slashed at the last strands of the tackles and yelled to Jack to let go
the hawser. Instead of discharging the nine-pounder, they were employing
the piece itself, and the carriage of oak and iron, as a terrible
missile. The moment of launching it was shrewdly chosen. The pirates,
still in compact formation as led by Ned Rackham, were directly abreast
of this forward gun of the main deck battery. The deck inclined at a
steep and giddy pitch. With a grinding roar the gun rolled from its
station. It gather