“Ogle,” said he, in a voice cold and sharp as steel, “your station is on the gun-deck. You'll return to it at once, and take your crew with you, or else....”
But Ogle, violent of mien and gesture, interrupted him.
“Threats will not serve, Captain.”
“Will they not?”
It was the first time in his buccaneering career that an order of his had been disregarded, or that a man had failed in the obedience to which he pledged all those who joined him. That this insubordination should proceed from one of those whom he most trusted, one of his old Barbados associates, was in itself a bitterness, and made him reluctant to that which instinct told him must be done. His hand closed over the butt of one of the pistols slung before him.
“Nor will that serve you,” Ogle warned him, still more fiercely. “The men are of my thinking, and they'll have their way.”
“And what way may that be?”
“The way to make us safe. We'll neither sink nor hang whiles we can help it.”
From the three or four score men massed below in the waist came a rumble of approval. Captain Blood's glance raked the ranks of those resolute, fierce-eyed fellows, then it came to rest again on Ogle. There was here quite plainly a vague threat, a mutinous spirit he could not understand. “You come to give advice, then, do you?” quoth he, relenting nothing of his sternness.
“That's it, Captain; advice. That girl, there.” He flung out a bare arm to point to her. “Bishop's girl; the Governor of Jamaica's niece.... We want her as a hostage for our safety.”