It was as described to me—a heavy oaken door, nail studded, not only locked, but held firmly in place by a stout iron bar. There was not the faintest possibility of any entrance aft, except through assistance from this side. As I returned to the cabin, Gunsaules came out of the Captain's room and crossed the deck. At sight of me he stopped instantly, holding his tray in front of him.
"Gunsaules," I said, wasting no words, "you are to remain in this cabin until I give the word. The lady here has a pistol, and orders to shoot if you attempt to either enter this passage, or approach the door of Manuel's stateroom."
"Yes, Senor," his face like chalk, and his eyes rolling.
"How did you find Sanchez?"
"Sitting up in his bunk, Senor, and able to eat."
"Does he know what is occurring on board?"
"No, Senor. He questioned me, but I only told him everything was all right, so far."
In my heart I believed the fellow deliberately lied, but there was no opportunity to question him further, for at that moment the door of the companion opened and a miscellaneous group of men thronged down the stairs. They were a rough hairy lot, here and there a sturdy English countenance meeting my gaze, but the faces were largely foreign, with those of two negroes conspicuous. I felt my heart beat furiously at sight of such poor material, and yet many a ship's crew appeared worse. The fellows grouped themselves awkwardly behind Watkins.
"Twelve here, sir; I couldn't get Harwood down from the fore-top."
"And there are others below who will join us?"