"No, sir," said the second mate; "I don't want 'em. They're no more use 'an a spare pump."
"I'll make 'em useful 'fore I'm done with 'em. Go forrard, you three. Get the bile out o' yer gizzards 'fore mornin', 'f ye value yer good looks." He delivered a vicious kick at each of the two standing men, bawled out, "Relieve the wheel an' lookout—that'll do the watch," and went aft, while the crew assisted the seasick men to the forecastle and into three bedless bunks—bedless, because sailors must furnish their own, and these men had been shanghaied.
The wind died away during the night, and they awoke in the morning with their seasickness gone and appetites ravenous. Somber and ominous was their bearing as they silently ate of the breakfast in the forecastle and stepped out on deck with the rest in answer to the mate's roar: "All hands spread dunnage." Having no dunnage but what they wore, they drew off toward the windlass and conferred together while chests and bags were dragged out on deck and overhauled by the officers for whisky and sheath-knives. What they found of the former they pocketed, and of the latter, tossed overboard.
"Where are the canal-drivers?" demanded the chief mate, as he raised his head from the last chest. "Where are our seasick gentlemen, who sleep all night—what—what——" he added in a stutter of surprise.
He was looking down three eight-inch barrels of three heavy Colt revolvers, cocked, and held by three scowling, sunburnt men, each of whom was tucking with disengaged left hand the corner of a shirt into a waistband, around which was strapped a belt full of cartridges.
"Hands up!" snapped the tall man; "hands up, every one of ye! Up with 'em—over yer heads. That's right!" The pistols wandered around the heads of the crowd, and every hand was elevated.
"What's this? What d' ye mean? Put them pistols down. Give 'em up. Lay aft, there, some o' ye, and call the captain," blustered the mate, with his hands held high.
Not a man stirred to obey. The scowling faces looked deadly in earnest.
"Right about, face!" commanded the tall man. "March, every man—back to the other end o' the boat. Laramie, take the other side and round up anybody ye see. Now, gentlemen, hurry."
Away went the protesting procession, and, joined by the carpenter, sail-maker, donkey-man, and cook, "rounded up" from their sanctums by the man called Laramie, it had reached the main-hatch before the captain, pacing the quarter-deck, was aware of the disturbance. With Captain Belchior to think was to act. Springing to the cabin skylight, he shouted: "Steward, bring up my pistols. Bear a hand. Lower your weapons, you scoundrels; this is rank mutiny."