The Victory murder trial had not attracted much public attention, and the prisoner had been defended at the public expense. On the voyage from London to Australia the crew had become discontented. They had reason for their discontent. Captain Cressingham, for all his suave, gentlemanly shore manners, was an adept at “hazing,” and was proud of the distinction of making every ship he commanded a hell to the fo'c's'le hands. Sometimes, with sneering, mocking tongue, he would compliment Challoner upon the courteous manner in which he “addressed the gentlemen for'ard.” As for the other two mates, they were equally as brutal as their captain, but lacked his savage, methodical vindictiveness.
When only a few weeks out, Harman, the second mate, one day accused one of the men of “soldiering,” and striking him in the face, broke his nose, and as the man lay on the deck he kicked him brutally. Challoner, who was on deck at the time, jumped down off the poop, and seizing Harman by the arm, called him a cowardly hound.
“And you're a d———d old woman,” was the retort.
Challoner's passion overpowered him, and at the end of five minutes Harman was carried below badly knocked about, and à stormy scene ensued between Challoner and the captain.
“You have all but killed Mr. Harman. I could, and should, put you in irons for the rest of the voyage,” the captain had said.
There was a steely glitter in the mate's dark eyes as he answered—
“In dealing with ruffians such as Harman and yourself one doesn't stop at an extra blow or two.”
From that time Cressingham was his bitter enemy; but Challoner did his duty as chief officer too faithfully to give the captain a chance against him.
Day after day had passed. The sullen discontent of the crew had changed into outspoken hatred and a thirst for revenge upon the captain and Harman and Barton—the latter the third mate—and Challoner, who knew what was brewing, dared not open his mouth to any one of the three upon the subject. Between himself and Cressingham and the other two there had now sprung up a silent yet fierce antagonism, which the crew were quick to perceive, and from which they augured favourably for themselves.
One night, just as Challoner had relieved the second mate, some of the hands from both watches marched boldly aft and asked him if he would take command of the ship. He had only to say the word, they said. They were tired of being “bashed” and starved to death by the skipper and two mates, and if he would navigate the ship to Melbourne they would keep him free from interference, and take the consequences, &c.