"I'll get hold of the helm tackles—just you shoot if any of them tries any of their tricks."
"No! I'll go," I yelled, ashamed to funk the job.
I waited till the dhow was steady for a moment, worked my way along the weather gunwale, dodging those balks of timber which were being washed about the deck, until I was right in the middle of them. That beastly little dog snapped at my bare feet as I grabbed one of the tiller ropes to steady myself, and I kicked him back under the poop.
I yelled and waved to the crew to get for'ard, staying among them and kicking two of them in the ribs to make them let go of the ropes. They took not the slightest notice. The nakhoda was just behind me, and I feared, every moment, that I should feel a knife in my back.
Jaffa came scrambling to join me—I never thought that he would have the pluck to do so.
"Tell the nakhoda that if the crew don't go for'ard in two minutes I'll shoot him," I roared.
The nakhoda looked impassively to wind'ard whilst I pointed my revolver at his head and held up my wrist watch, so that he could see it, and waited.
A minute went past—Jaffa looked nervously round; the nakhoda folded his burnous more closely round his head. Two minutes went by—not a single one in all that stolid group moved; they still clung to the tiller ropes. I gave him three minutes. Three minutes went by, and that Arab nakhoda knew perfectly well that I would not shoot him in cold blood.
Nor could I. I let go the tiller rope and crawled for'ard again, absolutely not knowing what to do next.
We were driving and twisting, screwing and yawing before the gale like a bit of driftwood, seas toppling over the bows and the waist and washing right across the decks. And that crowd refused to budge—would not have done anything to save their own lives, I believe.