Fitzroy now advanced. The playwright had some knowledge of surgery, and at once applied a tourniquet to the mutineer’s bleeding limb, and dressed it as well as he could.
The man was very faint, and begged for water. A negro lad climbed a cocoa-nut tree and threw down some of the greenest fruit.
After Allison had drunk, he appeared to fall asleep, and Fitzroy got the giant to carry him gently in under the shadow of the banana shrubs.
Presently he opened his eyes. Fitzroy was kneeling by his side.
“Don’t leave me,” he moaned. “Don’t let me die just yet. I have that on my mind I would fain confess—and it concerns yourself—and Peggy McQueen.”
Meanwhile Stransom, with Johnnie and the giant, had gone off in one of the boats, towards the barque. They had the swivel gun in the bow.
As soon as they were near enough they hailed, “Ship ahoy!”
“Ay, ay. What’s in the wind?” cried a black-bearded, cut-throat-looking man over the stern.
“You’ve got to surrender, that’s all, my sweet little seraph. Your game’s up. Surrender quietly and your innocent life will be spared. If you make a bit of bobbery, I’ll hang you from your own jibboom.”
“We surrender.”