‘Mutiny?’ said he half enquiringly.
‘Why you see, your honor—’ ventured one of the men.
‘Peace then,’ said Channing, ‘who made you spokesman for this ship?’
‘We thought, your honor,’ commenced another.
‘Stay, fellow, no excuse, there is none. Unbind that man,’ he said in a voice so low and musical that one would have thought it was a farce being rehearsed instead of a scene of blood. But those about him saw by blue eye that watched their every movement that they must obey. The mate was quickly unbound, and the men shrunk cowering away from the spot, gathering in a knot forward, and the most disaffected grumbling aloud. Suddenly one of this latter number, as if determined to do some mischief, sprang off to the tiller rope, and taking a knife from his pocket was about to sever it, when Channing whose quick eye had followed him said: ‘Hold there, what would you do?’
‘You ain’t old enough, sir, according to my reckoning,’ said the man insolently, ‘to command two vessels at the same time.’
‘Hold there, I say,’ continued Channing ‘cut that rope and you sever your own existence. Now cut if you will,’ said he levelling a pistol at the man.
This man was one of the crew taken in the prize, and who had falsely represented himself to be an American. He now paused for a single moment as if undecided and then cut the rope, which caused the ship to broach to at once: but it was the death signal of the mutineer. Channing, taking a step or two towards him, sent a ball direct to his heart, the man gave a terrific scream of agony and pain, and leaped into the sea a corpse.
‘Who is there here that wishes to share that man’s fate? Who will make himself an example for the rest?’ said Channing, still in the same low musical tone of voice, while his eyes shone like living fire, and his finger rested on the trigger of another pistol. Two or three of the men now fell upon their knees and implored forgiveness.
‘You richly deserve the yard arm,’ he said.