Padilla looks scared; Velarde the same. Both fancy their conspiracy discovered, their scheme blown; and that Striker, with all his talk, has been misleading them. They almost believe they are to be set upon and put in irons; and that for this very purpose the first officer is entering the forecastle.
They are soon undeceived, however, on hearing what he has to say. Striker draws it out, repeating the conversation passed, and the demand he has been making.
Thus Harry Blew gives rejoinder:
“I’m with ye, shipmates, to the end, be that sweet or bitter. Striker talks straight, an’ his seems the only fair way of settlin’ the question. The majority must decide. There’s two not here, an’ they’ve got to be consulted. They’re both by the wheel. Tharfore, let’s go aft, an’ talk the thing there. There’s no fear for our bein’ interrupted. The skipper’s asleep, an’ we’ve got the ship to ourselves.”
So saying, he leads up the ladder, the rest rising from their seats, and crowding after.
Once on deck, they cluster around the forehatch, and there stop; the first mate having something to say to them before proceeding farther.
The second does not take part in this conference; but stealing past unseen, glides on towards the after-part of the ship.
Soon the others saunter in the same direction, in twos and threes, straggling along the waist, but again gathering into a group around the capstan. There the moonlight, falling full upon their faces, betrays the expression of men in mutiny; but mutiny unopposed. For on the quarterdeck no one meets them. The traitorous first officer has spoken truly: the captain is asleep; they have the ship to themselves!