"Now, then," he said, standing up over the last man, "you can help yourselves and Jenkins to bread and water. One by one get up on your feet and pass into the forecastle. If any man needs help, I will assist him."
Some managed to scramble to their feet unaided, while others could not. These Denman helped; but, as he assisted them with one hand, holding his pistol in the other, there was no demonstration against him with doubled fists—which is possible and potential. Mumbling and muttering, they floundered down the small hatch and forward into the forecastle. The last in the line was Sampson, and Denman stopped him.
"I've a job for you, Sampson," he said, after the rest had disappeared. "You are the strongest man in the crowd. Go down the hatch, but aft to the storeroom, and get that barrel of hard bread into the forecastle. You can do it without my unlocking you."
"Very good, sir," answered Sampson, respectfully, and descended.
Denman watched him from above, as, with his manacled hands, he twirled the heavy barrel forward and into the men's quarters.
"Shut the door, turn the key on them, and come aft here," he commanded.
Sampson obeyed.
"Now, lift up on deck and then toss overboard every case of liquor in that storeroom."
"Very good, sir." And up came six cases, as easily in his powerful grip as though they had been bandboxes, and then he hoisted his own huge bulk to the deck.
"Over the side with them all," commanded Denman.