“Wot happened?” asked Mike shrilly.
“Our friends are in charge of the ship,” said Micky over the bridge-rail. “Come up ’ere! They’re going to take a vote for captain, mate and engineer. They say all things in their government should be settled by a vote. They’re going to elect a citizen captain.”
“Wot is their government?”
Micky gripped the rail.
“Bolshevik!” he snapped.
Mike steadied himself on the wet planks. He spat to the deck for a second time. His glance ranged from the little skipper to Ivan’s broad face.
“Ah thought so!” he rasped. “We’re deluded men!”
Ivan strode from the press of Russians beneath the break of the quarter-deck. He mounted the main-hatch. His voice rose and fell with the whine of the north wind. He spoke in gusty torrents. He pointed to the red flag aft. He turned and leveled an accusing finger at the bridge where Red Landyard and Micky stood with folded arms.
Mike squinted at the half-circle of Russians. They were being worked up to a storm by their leader. A fur cap was passed. Into this was dropped slips of paper upon which were scrawled names. A rifle’s bayonet lifted above the heads of the Bolsheviki. A club swung.
Mike leaped for the bridge-ladder and climbed to the bridge like a frightened ape. He worked his lashless brows up and down. He spat through yellow teeth: