Rifle in hand, he crawled under the hot tarpaulin and lay flat on the reed deck, Will crawling after him to snatch the rifle in case Fred should be hit.
"Steer straight toward 'em!" Fred called to me, as soon as it was evident that the launch did not intend to pass us by.

"Keep headed toward them!" That was not easy in the light wind, until Schillingschen tired of staring at us and gave an order to the engineer.

Then they laid the launch broadside on to our bow at about two hundred yards' range, and without a word of warning opened fire on us from all six rifles, Schillingschen devoting his first attention to myself at the helm.
Our lone rifle cracked in reply, but they could not see Fred and did not guess where to shoot in order to search him out.

They came no nearer, but circled slowly around us, only Schillingschen's bullets appearing to come anywhere near the target, until a yell from below showed what their real plan was and I understood why the sail was not ripped and no bullets whistled overhead.

They were shooting through the planking of the dhow, endeavoring to massacre the helpless crowd below, and no doubt to sink her and drown us as soon as she was full enough of holes.
A wounded Nyamwezi came scrambling on deck, spouting blood from his neck and crazed with fear.