“Now,” continued Antonio, “I have to inform you that the tables are turned. Better go to sleep till eight bells. Then I’ll shoot a few of you, to encourage the others.”
. . . . . .
The sun rose soon. Every wave caught up its rosy light; and even far in the west, the clouds that erst were grey and purple, were now ablaze with crimson and fiery gold.
And now, with the assistance of two of the black men who had escaped death, the largest boat was got out and swung overboard, a bagful of biscuits and a small cask of water was placed in the bows, and the boat was then lowered to the sea.
An armed guard was next formed around the hatchway, and the battenings at once cast off.
“One at a time now, men. No arms of any sort. Not even a chunk of wood.”
“Archie and Barclay Stuart, you will see the men into the boats. Keep the pistol to their heads, and shoot the first man that even looks defiant.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” from the mate and our hero. But the mutineers were stupid, heavy-headed, and thoroughly cowed.
All but two came up, and were allowed to descend to the boat.
“Davie Drake,” said Antonio now, “you go aft and look after Miss Leona and Teenie. On no account let them come forward.”