There was a rush of terrified firemen from the grim inferno of the stokeholds; the engineers, having taken necessary precautions against an explosion of the boilers, hastened to follow their example, scrambling in a struggling mass between the narrow opening of the partially closed hatchway.
Clearly Ellerton had no means of gaining the deck in the rear of that human press; so lurching and staggering along the alley-way he made his way aft, where he met Mr. McKay, who, assisted by Andy, was about to go on deck. Terence, looking a picture of utter misery in the yellow light of the saloon, and Quexo, his olive skin ashy grey with fear, had already joined the others.
"Come on, Hoppy," shouted Andy cheerfully. "Give me a hand with the governor. Terence, you had better stay here."
Carefully watching their chance, the two lads managed to help Mr. McKay to the shelter of the poop deck-house, and they were about to return for Donaghue and the mulatto when they encountered Captain Perez and the first mate. Both were in a state bordering on frenzy, the captain rolling his eyes and calling for the protection of a thousand saints, while the mate was mumbling mechanically the last compass course, "Sur oeste, cuarto oeste" (S.W. by W.).
The cowardly officers had deserted their posts!
In an instant Fanshaw Ellerton saw his chance—and took it.
"Stop him, Andy!" he shouted, setting the example by throwing himself upon the Peruvian skipper.
The man did not resist; he seemed incapable of doing anything.
"Don't bother about the other," hissed the apprentice. "Make this chap come with us to the bridge. I'll be the skipper and he'll be the figurehead."
The two chums dragged the captain across the heaving deck, up the swaying monkey-ladder, and gained the lofty bridge.