“It is a whale-boat,” he cried; “and there are three white men in her and four natives. She is very deep in the water, and I can see a lot of green stuff in the bows.” (These were the bunches of bananas, purposely stowed in a pile for'ard, so as to indicate the boat's peaceful mission.)
The mutineers—with the exception of the two Greeks—who remained on the quarter-deck, dressed in Mars-ton's and Villari's clothes—stood in the waist. All were armed with pistols, and a number of loaded muskets were lying along the waterways close to their hands, if needed.
When within easy speaking distance of the ship Ryan went to the rail and hailed the boat.
“Boat ahoy!”
The four oars ceased pulling, and Frewen, who was steering, stood up and answered the hail.
“Good morning, captain. I've seen you since daylight. You are drifting too close in, so I've come off to warn you to tow off.”
“Come on board, please,” replied the Greek, who, as Frewen spoke, saw that the boat was deeply-laden with fruit; and the cackling of fowls and sudden squeal of a pig convinced him that everything was right. And then, in a few minutes, Frewen and Raymond clambered up the side and walked quickly aft to where Ryan stood on the poop.
“How do you do, captain?” said Frewen, holding out his hand. “Where are you from, sir?”
“Valparaiso to Batavia,” was the glib reply, as the mutineer shook hands with his visitors. “Are you living on shore there?” and he nodded towards Samatau.
“Yes, this is my partner. We have a cotton plantation there. We have brought you off a boatload of fresh provisions. Perhaps you can spare us a cask of salt beef in exchange? Pork is the only meat we have on shore.”