“Water—water!—for heaven’s sake, water!” came in a piteous chorus, as the second boat rowed slowly in.
“Is it real or a trick?” said Mr Brymer, in a whisper.
“Real enough,” said Mr Frewen. “The men are suffering horribly, and—oh! look! There’s no subterfuge there,—that man—Jarette. He is dead!”
Chapter Forty Eight.
It was plain enough: the man had died there where his companions had tied him fast, and that night the two boats lay astern carefully watched after all the arms had been handed on board.
Not that there was anything to fear. For at daybreak, after two bodies had been committed to the deep, the spokesman of the mutinous crew told a pitiful tale, of how they would gladly have given up but for their leader, who by force and violence kept them to their task till, in utter despair, they had turned upon him and bound him, as they would some dangerous wild beast that they dared not kill.
That day, half the poor worn-out wretches were again confined in the forecastle, while the others were, under careful surveillance, allowed to return to their work.
For the calms were over, and a hard fight began with the weather, which grew so bad at last that Mr Brymer, who, as the days passed on, seemed to recover the more rapidly for having plenty to do, was glad to have all the men back to their duty.