"Then you're a dead man," he said.
"Fire!" said I; "you may take my life, but never will I yield up my power to a pack of mutineers."
His finger was on the trigger, and the next moment I expected to be my last.
I must mention that the whole of that day the weather had been extremely sultry. A storm arose suddenly, and the ship pitched and rolled tremendously. All the crew were in liquor, and the helm was deserted. At the moment I expected it was all up with me a terrible flash of lightning struck the barrels of the pistols, which went off of their own accord, luckily missing me.
Ned Upaloft was struck blind. The crew were sobered for a moment.
"Behold," said I, reaping advantage from the confusion, "behold, how Heaven rescues her own. So may it go with all mutineers. Look up aloft," said I (a flight of Mother Cary's chickens just then passed overhead.) "Look! has that no warning? What are those but the souls of departed mariners, who have come to beckon you to your doom?"
A terrific clap of thunder almost instantaneously followed the flash, and drowned my last words. The crew looked irresolute as to whether they should renew their attack or throw down their arms and yield themselves as mutineers; but they were roused by the voice of Jack Haulaway, the second mate, who cried out,
"What! are you scared at the thunder and this man's words? Ho! there; reef the main-top-gallant sail."
The crew looked up aloft and hesitated, for the top mast threatened to snap every moment.
"Come, look sharp, or in two minutes we shall all be scudding under bare poles. What! you're afraid? Cowards that you all are. It will have to be done. I'll go myself."