As he entered the cabin where we lay, the men who were ransacking some of the skipper’s lockers desisted, and their shouting and swearing moderated a little. He forced his way through the crowd without noticing any one and strode up to where we lay. He stopped and gazed at us a few moments, and then, speaking in a low tone to a couple of the ruffians who followed at his heels, he started up the companionway.
The two men spoken to remained behind and sat on the transom near us, holding away from the rest of their fellows and evidently watching us closely, although we were all four fairly wrapped in coils of rope.
I turned my head to see where the leader had gone, and as I saw his head pass the opening of the hatch I noticed his face was reflecting a ruddy glare of light.
A loud exclamation from Brown, who lay staring up through the skylight, made me turn my eyes in the direction he was looking and I saw the lurid glare reflected on the hoisted spanker.
Crojack tried to turn, but was too weak. “It’s the Countess of Warwick,” he gasped, “and these devils intend to stay aboard of us. Is O’Toole dead?” and he tried to look into the face of his second mate.
“He made a great fight,” I answered, “but he got a clip on the head from a handspike. What did these fellows fire their ship for?”
“Just to take this one so no one will recognize them,” answered the old man.
“And us?” asked Brown, “what will they do with us?”
“We’ll have to go the way Garnett went, I guess,” gasped Crojack, “though I wouldn’t mind it so much if it wasn’t for those poor women. Mrs. Waters got a bullet meant for me. She won’t live till morning. Shot through the breast—”
“But Miss Waters?” I managed to get out in a whisper.