These unfortunate fellows were out of their mind. Terror led them astray. They rushed towards the crag where our one boat (which could not hold them all) had been sheltered during the unloading of the schooner.
Captain Len Guy and Jem West rushed after them. I joined them immediately, followed by the boatswain. We were armed, and resolved to make use of our arms. We had to prevent these furious men from seizing the boat, which did not belong to a few, but to all!
“Hallo, sailors!” cried the captain.
“Hallo!” repeated West, “stop there, or we fire on the first who goes a step farther!”
Both threatened the men with their pistols. The boatswain pointed his gun at them. I held my rifle, ready to fire.
It was in vain! The frenzied men heard nothing, would not hear anything, and one of them fell, struck by the mate’s bullet, just as he was crossing the last block. He was unable to catch on to the bank with his hands, and slipping on the frozen slope, he disappeared in the abyss.
Was this the beginning of a massacre? Would others let themselves be killed at this place? Would the old hands side with the new-comers?
At that moment I remarked that Hardy, Martin Holt, Francis Bury, and Stern hesitated about coming over to our side, while Hearne, still standing motionless at some distance, gave no encouragement to the rebels.
However, we could not allow them to become masters of the boat, to bring it down, to embark ten or twelve men, and to abandon us to our certain fate on this iceberg. They had almost reached the boat, heedless of danger and deaf to threats, when a second report was heard, and one of the sailors fell, by a bullet from the boatswain’s gun.
One American and one Fuegian less to be numbered amongst the sealing-master’s partisans!