After close scrutiny we concluded this to be one or more sail beating up against the gale; but whether they were Dutch or English, it was too soon to say.
“Keep her as she is,” said Mr Adrian; “and, Mr Gallagher, pipe all hands. The sooner we come to an understanding with these fiends the better.”
I obeyed. A few of the old tars instinctively turned up to the call, but seeing all decks but the quarter-deck deserted, they remembered themselves and went off to look for their comrades.
Presently an uneasy group assembled on the forecastle, many of them showing traces of the mingled drunkenness and sea-sickness of the night. We could see them scanning the horizon with their glasses, and slowly awaking to the discovery that instead of being in the arms of the confederacy of “the Republic afloat” (as one of the proclamations had called it), the Zebra was scudding over the high seas.
There was an angry consultation, and shouts to those below to turn up. About half the number obeyed, though many of these were fit only to lie helplessly about the deck. A more miserable crew you never beheld.
“Hands aloft! Take in the main-topgallant sail!” cried Mr Adrian, and the order was shouted forward.
Not a man moved, except Callan, who came to the forecastle rail, and holding up a pistol, shouted back,—
“Surrender the ship, or we fire!”
Mr Adrian’s reply was to repeat the order just given, and draw his pistol.
One of the mutineers, sent forward by the leaders, advanced to the mainmast with a red flag in his hand, which he proceeded to fasten to the flag-lines and to hoist, bringing down the Union flag as he did so.