"What's the game?" asked a sullen voice in English, and a bearded fellow burned black, pushed his way to the front. I had not noted his presence before, but instantly recognized his character.
"Are you English?"
"No; I used ter be Scotch; now I'm damned if I know what I am. One flag is as good as another ter me—only I want to know what sorter game I'm playin' in. Who the hell are yer? An' whar'd yer cum frum?"
"I am an English seaman," I answered shortly, "and how I came aboard makes no difference. Right now I am the only navigator on the Namur."
"What's happened ter Estada?"
"He's dead—knifed last night by one of the buccaneers. Manuel Estevan had a hand in the business, and he's safely locked in a stateroom aft. Captain Sanchez is wounded and helpless, and those cut-throats amidships are battened down below hatches. LeVere and I are the officers left, and we control the deck. We had to fight it out, or likely it would be our turn next."
"Yer mean those fellers were aimin' ter take the ship?"
"Exactly that; now where are you lads? With Manuel and his bunch of pirates? Or with us?"
"What er yer going ter do with us, an' this ship? That's the fu'st question."
I had not decided that even in my own mind, but the answer came promptly enough, as my eyes swept the faces fronting me.