“Up helm! Stand by with your harpoons, men!” roared the mutineer, springing to the quarter-deck with a bound and cocking his pistol.
But, before the vessel could fall off a quarter of a point, the bow of the boat struck her side, and a couple of her crew succeeded, a moment afterward, in grasping the man-ropes.
But Lark’s pistol pointed at the head of one of them, and a harpoon directed at the heart of the other, together with a fierce declaration from the mutineer, that he would shoot the first man that attempted to board him, rather startled the two sailors and caused them to let go their hold.
The captain, however, whose previous suspicions of foul play were now confirmed, darted to the bow with ready presence of mind, and, by means of the boat-hook drew the little vessel under the mizzen-chains before she could drop astern, and ordered his harpooner to secure her with a rope. This was soon done, but, at the same instant, the islanders threw their deadly weapons, which would certainly have done terrible execution, had not the bow oarsman, whose eye had not quitted his enemies for a moment, warded them off by means of the drag—a square, thick piece of wood, with a rope attached to the middle. With an oath of disappointment, the mutineer then ordered the islanders to procure more arms, and leaning far over the rail as he spoke, in order to make his aim sure, he directed his pistol at the captain.
But before he could pull the trigger, the boat-hatchet was hurled at his head with unerring precision, by the same courageous seaman who had foiled the murderous intentions of the dusky islanders. The back of the weapon struck the giant upon the temple with great force, felling him to the deck like an ox. Then, arming themselves with lances, the boat’s crew, headed by their captain, scrambled pell-mell up the ship’s side.
Perceiving the uselessness of resistance, as they were outnumbered by six to three, the New-Zealanders surrendered themselves, and every one of them, not excepting the man at the wheel—who was relieved by the orders of the captain, were ironed and thrust into the run. Tom Lark—Captain Lark no longer—who recovered his senses by the time these little preliminaries had been gone through with, was also secured with handcuffs—there are always plenty of these articles in a whaleship—and placed in the hold to enjoy the company of his fellow-conspirators.
“Ay, ay,” said this interesting character, as he was pushed through the open hatchway, “my prospects have received a sudden check. I haven’t had much opportunity to enjoy my newly acquired property, which is no sooner in my hands than it escapes ’em. That isn’t in the vocabulary of equal rights!”
It was about this time that the man at the wheel, upon casting a careless glance over his shoulder, saw the boat of the second mate, which was faintly distinguishable in the fog astern. He notified the captain, who immediately had the main topsail backed and the ship brought into the wind.
But he felt so much anxiety with regard to his niece and her companions—for Driko had at once informed him of the disposition that had been made of them by the chief mutineer—that he scarcely heeded the boat when it dashed alongside.
The hearty shake of the hand which he received from Mr. Spooner, however, as the old man confronted him, recalled him to himself.