Mr Adrian levelled his pistol. There was a sharp, clear ring above the noise of the gale; the man flung up his arms, uttered a yell, and rolled over on the deck.
“Stand clear!” cried Callan, waving his men on either side of the forecastle guns. “Fire, my lads!”
There was a silence. No one on the quarter-deck stirred. Those on the forecastle who had stood with their faces our way, expecting to see the effect of the volley, looked round impatiently to see why the guns were mute.
Then came a cry of “Spiked!” followed by a howl of dismay as the contents of one of our quarter-deck guns crashed with a dull, savage roar on to the forecastle.
When the smoke cleared we saw a ghastly sight. Men lay in all directions—some blown to pieces, some groaning in pools of blood, some dragging themselves with livid faces to a place of shelter.
For my own part, I dreaded to hear Mr Adrian give the order to fire the second gun. The only thing which prevented it was the sudden clearing of the forecastle. All who could rushed to the main-deck, where at least they were below the range of the deadly grape.
Here Callan, who had escaped unhurt, called on his men to form, which they did in three straggling lines across the deck, howling execrations and flourishing their knives in our direction.
Before they could advance—before, indeed, those of them who carried pistols could fire—Mr Adrian, who had ranged us up behind the barricade, gave the signal to present arms and fire.
It was a volley almost as deadly as the first. Callan sprang a foot or two in the air, and fell back shot through the heart. The front rank of the mutineers went down like ninepins, and those behind fell back a pace in consternation, “Reload! Mark your men!” cried Mr Adrian, whose face was savage and as hard as a flint.
The wretches gathered themselves together after a moment’s hesitation, and stepping over the fallen bodies of their comrades, advanced with a half-hearted rush for the quarter-deck.