“We want the mate and the young fellow,” said the spokesman of the gang, and the rest took up the cry.
“‘WHEN I WANT YOU MEN TO COME AFT HERE TO HELP ME, I’LL SEND FOR YOU.’”
“Who will run this ship, then?” asked the leader, levelling his pistol at the man starting up the ladder to the poop. He spoke in a low, deep voice, but so distinctly that the fellow hesitated.
“I’m running this vessel,” said Benson, “and when I want you men to come aft here to help me I’ll send for you. You’d hang the whole crowd of us if you had your way. Go back forward and if the grub is no good make the cook eat it—and then pick your own cook. Go back.”
But the men were angry and hesitated.
“Do you think Mr. Gore would try to poison you, you fools?” he continued. “What good would that do him? Can he run the ship alone?”
Brown, who had turned in, having relieved me during the last watch, heard the rumpus and came on deck through the forward door of the cabin house. The men were standing there and surrounded him at once. It looked as though he would be roughly handled.
Benson saw that some quick action must be made at once. He thrust his pistol in his belt and made a flying leap from the break of the poop, landing upon the heads of the men who had gripped the third mate. With immense power he swung them first this way and then that as the bunch rolled upon the deck. Then dragging two of them to their feet along with him, he shook them and shoved them forward. Johnson stood motionless with his gun ready and Brown climbed the ladder to the poop. In a moment Benson came back. “You see, Gore, what a mess a man can make of things,” he said, coolly. “I know you had nothing to do with the cook, or I’d make you eat some of the grub. Better go aft out of the way.”
It was good advice, and Brown followed me to the taffrail.