There were many discontented voices, but evil took the lead, and Slogger, the terrible-looking negro, took command--the black would rule the white as an evil spirit ruled all.
"Aft, men; aft!" he shouted. "Let us up with the boats, get provisions and arms, and down with the men who would prevent us."
The brute bared his arm and flourished a knife as he spoke.
The Turk had run towards the saloon just as the mischief began to brew.
"You won't be safe, friend boy," he cried to poor Kep. Then he hurried the lad into his little cabin and locked the door.
He met the leader and mutineers as they were making aft.
"No blood," he cried. "Shed no blood."
The black man dashed him to the deck. Not stunned though, it would take a deal to quiet so powerful a Turk, he was on his feet in a moment; knives glittered, and the two were in deadly embrace. Both fell, but only one rose, and a rivulet of blood was straggling towards a scupper hole. The black man was triumphant.
It was the spirit-room that was first stormed, and soon the rum began to do its deadly work. Kep trembled in his den to hear the singing, shouting, and stamping. But there were wiser men on deck, and very quickly and even orderly the boats were hoisted to the davits and loaded. Some of the cases were opened, and found to contain sand, not specie.
I do not wish to redden my pages by describing the fearful scenes that followed, when the mutineers in the saloon quarrelled and fought.