“Traitor!” spat a negro, and others caught up the word.
Now they were dangerous, for steel was out; they were persuaded against him in their hearts, and murder came close to the surface. Nor could it be avoided. Massed against him, Vanderberg with them, they had no fear of him now. They were on three sides of him, Bose and the captain at the table, his back to the wall of the cabin. There was a large stern window, but the glass had been smashed and a cloth nailed over it.
Now an irresolute silence. Vanderberg put out a hand and gulped down what was left of the Spanish wine; it mixed ill with rum, for his cheeks fired red at once. Then he cocked his head, listening. In the silence came a squeaking from above, as of a block and tackle at work; but this was instantly forgotten, when Crawford played his last and most desperate card.
He drew two pistols from under his coat and laid them on the table, and calmly primed them with a pinch of powder.
“Gentlemen,” he said coolly, “we fail to agree. The one determining factor must be hot lead, if ye’ll have it so. So far as my share of the gold is concerned, I’ll give it to the fellows aboard the ketch who want to join you, but the bark is mine. I’m going back to her. Any of you lads want to ship with me?”
“We’d ship wi’ the foul fiend sooner,” muttered one of them.
Crawford laughed.
“You’ll do that if ye try to stop me, lads. Careful, cap’n! Here are two pistols, and ye have none. I’ll——”
“Your high hand has gripped too far this time!” bawled Vanderberg, and shoved back his chair. “Stop him, lads! Give him the steel.”
Even before the word was spoken, the surging movement of men began, and Crawford knew there was no more hope. Therefore, he acted.