A few moments earlier and we might have saved the day. Now we could only pursue the pursuers.
Blythe leaped down the steps, revolver in hand. I followed, but my foot caught on a body lying at the foot of the ladder. A hand caught my coat.
"Gimme a lift, partner," asked a voice.
"You, Tom?" I cried, helping him up. "Hurt, are you?"
"Knocked in the head. A bit groggy. That's all."
The delay made me a witness rather than an actor in the dénouement. Our friends had disappeared within the saloon and slammed the door. The foremost mutineer reached it, tried the handle, and threw his weight against the panels. The others came to his assistance. A revolver shot through the door dropped one of them. The others fell back at once.
They met Blythe. A stoker swung a cutlas and rushed for him. Full in the forehead a bullet from the captain's revolver crashed into his brain. Like a football tackler the body plunged forward to Sam's feet.
For a moment nobody moved or spoke. Then,
"My God!" groaned Henry Fleming.
I cannot account for it. These men had been brave enough in the thick of the fight while facing numbers not so very inferior to their own. But now, standing there three to one, it seemed as if some wave of horror sickened them at sight of the lifeless body plunging along the deck.