"And now, then," said Amos, as cool as ever, turning to the crew, "is there any man else who would like to command this ship?"
[CHAPTER VII--AND AM MADE TO PAY FOR IT]
And that was the end of the mutiny on board the Mary Greenfield. The match was struck by a negro; the flames were fed with rum; and the fire flared up, just to be stamped out by the one strong man on board.
Amos at once released both the captain and his mate; whereupon Dagg treated the crew to a long-winded, high speech upon the subject of what he would do, if such insubordination occurred again; but as he had done naught during the crisis, but to get knocked down the moment he opened his mouth, there were few of his audience who were not laughing up their sleeves.
I have told the full story of the disturbance, to illustrate the character of Amos Baverstock. I have yet to write of the sequel to the trouble, which more nearly concerned myself.
For Amos was as good as his word, and made short work of William Rushby and of me. Though the crew had been bound over to keep the peace, as you might call it, admonished to behave themselves in future, the boatswain was not only degraded of his rank, but forthwith cast into irons.
As for myself, I was led before a kind of tribunal, assembled in the saloon. Captain Dagg, Amos Baverstock, and Joshua Trust were my judges; and a strange triumvirate they made, Amos chewing his black cigar, and all three seated before their glasses of grog, with their greasy playing-cards scattered before them on the table.
"Boy," said Dagg, "you joined in a mutiny. Do you know that, you whelp? Do you know what it means?"
"No, sir," said I.
"It means death," said Dagg. "The yard-arm--that's what it means."