"Now, men," directed the American, "lie flat down behind the rail and
use your sticks and hand pikes to prize off grapnels. They will shoot
your hands."
"Very well, sor," breathed several voices.
The noise of the oars grew louder until it sounded immediately beneath
the defenders. Hogan stood up suddenly, leaned over the rail with a lump
of coal in each hand, and threw down viciously. There was a whack as one
lump hit the boat, and a grunt as the other struck some man. In return
came a terrific crash of rifles, and bullets spattered the iron plates
of the _Vulcan_. Fortunately Hogan had flopped down on deck in
time.
At that instant, the searchlight of the mother ship swept the
_Vulcan's_ deck with startling brilliance. The first volley had
perhaps been the signal, and the fight was on.
There came a clanging of grapnels on the rail over the crouching
defenders. Madden flung down the one nearest him, but others came flying
through the air to take its place. The prostrate men worked busily
dislodging the flukes. The fusillade from below prevented their getting
on their knees, and they were forced to lie on their backs as they
worked at the hooks. It seemed some sort of queer game: the attackers
flinging up scaling irons, the defenders flipping them down.
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