The Gujarati was none too quick witted.  He was patently taken aback, and hesitated for a reply.  The grab was standing steadily on her course shorewards.  Desmond was to all appearance unconcerned; but the crew were looking at one another uneasily, and the Gujarati’s brow was darkening; his fidgetiness increasing.  Surendra Nath was the only man among the natives who showed no anxiety.  He was leaning on the taffrail, gazing almost gloatingly at the land, and paying no heed to the strange situation around him.

Desmond was watching the Gujarati keenly.  The man’s manner fully confirmed his suspicions, and even in the tenseness of the moment he felt a passing amusement at the big fellow’s puzzle-headed attempts to invent an explanation that would square with the facts.  Failing to hit upon a plausible argument, he began to bluster.

“You, Firangi, heed what I say.  It is not for us to run risks:  the hind does not walk open eyed into the tiger’s mouth.  The grab must be put about immediately.”

“Who is in command?” asked Desmond quietly; “you or I?”

“We share it.  I can navigate as well as you.”

“You forget our arrangement in Gheria.  You agreed that I should command.”

“Yes, but at the pleasure of the rest.  We are ten; we will have our way; the grab must be put about, at once.

“Not by me.”

Desmond felt what was coming and braced himself to meet it.

Then things happened with startling rapidity.  The Gujarati, with a yell of rage, made a rush towards the wheel.  Knowing what to expect, Desmond slipped behind it and with a few light steps gained the deck forward.  Fuzl Khan shouted to the serang to take the helm and steer the vessel out to sea; then set off in headlong pursuit of Desmond, who had now turned and stood awaiting the attack.

The Gujarati did not even trouble to draw his knife.  He plunged at him like a bull, shouting that he would deal with the pig of a Firangi as he had dealt with the sentinel at Gheria.

But it was not for nothing that Desmond had fought a dozen battles for the possession of Clive’s desk at school, and a dozen more for the honor of the school against the town; that his muscles had been developed by months of hard work at sea and harder work in the dockyard at Gheria.  Deftly dodging the man’s blind rush, he planted his bare feet firmly and threw his whole weight into a terrific body blow that sent the bigger man with a thud to the deck.  Panting, breathless, trembling with fury, Fuzl Khan sprang to his feet, caught sight of the muskets, and tearing one from its fastenings raised it to his shoulder.

Desmond seized the moment with a quickness that spoke volumes for his will’s absolute mastery of his body.  As the man pulled the harmless trigger, Desmond leaped at him; a crashing blow between the eyes sent him staggering against the wheel; a second while he tottered brought him limp and almost stunned to the deck.