It was a wonderful change from the previous night as we hurried along the deck to join our friends. The ship rode on an even keel, the night was glorious with stars, and the lanterns shone bright and clear where they were swung. There was no creeping along a few feet at a time, holding on by rope and belaying-pin, with the spray dashing over the side.
We could see the group about the hatch standing a little back, for in spite of our defences, the mutineers were making a desperate effort to escape, and were keeping up a steady fire through the top and sides to cover the work of one of their number, who was chopping away at the door to hack out the fastening.
As we reached them, Mr Brymer was ready revolver in hand, hesitating as to whether he should fire, for he was husbanding his ammunition, the supply being far from abundant.
“It’s getting warm, doctor,” he said as we came up. “What is to be done? I grudge wasting cartridges.”
Just then Bob Hampton, who had been right aft, came trotting up.
“Who is at the wheel?” said Mr Brymer, sharply.
“Blane, sir.”
“That will do. Look here, Hampton, the captain saw to the receiving of the powder and cartridges while I was busy over the other portions of the cargo, and he is too weak to be questioned. You joined the mutiny for a time.”
“Never, sir, for no time,” growled Bob.
“Well, you were with the men, and in their confidence.”