The capture had been made none too soon. As Osmond came through into the cabin, he was aware of voices on deck, and, climbing on to the table, put his head up to listen, but keeping carefully out of sight.
“It’s a dam rum go,” a hoarse voice exclaimed. “Seems as if there was somethink queer about this bloomin’ ship. First of all this factory devil comes aboard like a roarin’ lion seekin’ who he can bash on the ’ed; then Sam goes overboard; then Bob Simmons goes overboard. ’Tain’t nateral, I tell yer. There’s somethink queer, and it’s my belief as it’s all along o’ this mutiny.”
“Oh, shut up, Bill,” growled Dhoody.
“Bill’s right, though,” said another voice. “We ain’t ’ad no luck since we broke out. I’m for chuckin’ this Ambriz job and lettin’ the old man out.”
“And what about Redford?” demanded Dhoody.
“Redford ain’t no affair of mine,” was the sulky reply; to which Dhoody rejoined in terms that cannot, in the interests of public morality, be literally recorded; concluding with the remark that ‘if he’d got to swing, it wouldn’t be for Redford only.’
“Then,” said the first speaker, “you’d better take the wheel yerself. I ain’t goin’ to.”
“More ain’t I,” said another. “I don’t want to go overboard.”
A prolonged wrangle ensued, the upshot of which was that the men drifted away forward, leaving Dhoody to steer the ship.
Osmond quietly renewed his preparations, though he realized that a considerably tougher encounter loomed ahead. Dhoody was not only less drunk than the others; he was a good deal more alert and intelligent and he probably had a revolver in his pocket. And the other men would now be more easily roused after this second catastrophe. He peeped out from time to time, always finding Dhoody wide awake at his post, and sensible of drowsy conversation from the sailors forward.
It was fully an hour before a chance seemed to present itself; and Osmond was too wary to attack blindly without a chance. By that time the mumblings from forward had subsided into snores and the ship was once more wrapped in repose. Looking out at that moment, he saw Dhoody staring critically aloft, as if dissatisfied with the trim of the sails. Presently the second mate stepped away from the wheel, and, casting off one of the lee braces, took a long pull at the rope. Now was the time for action. Slipping out through the skylight, Osmond stole quickly along in the shelter of the boat, and, emerging behind Dhoody, stood up just as the latter stooped to belay the rope. He waited until his quarry had set a half-hitch on the last turn and rose to go back to the wheel; then he sprang at him, clapped the plaster on his mouth, and encircled him with his arms.
But Dhoody was a tough adversary. He was stronger, more sober, and less nervous than the others. And he had a moustache, which interfered with the set of the plaster, so that his breathing was less hampered. In fact, Osmond had to clap his hand on it to prevent the man from calling out; and thus it was that the catastrophe befell. For as Osmond relaxed his bear-hug with one arm, Dhoody wriggled himself partly free. In a moment his hand flew to his pocket, and Osmond grabbed his wrist only just in time to prevent him from pointing the revolver. Then followed a struggle at the utmost tension of two strong men; a struggle, on Osmond’s side, at least, for dear life. Gripping the other man’s wrists, he watched the revolver, all his strength concentrated on the effort to prevent its muzzle from being turned on him. And so the two men stood for a space, nearly motionless, quite silent, trembling with the intensity of muscular strain.
Suddenly Dhoody took a quick step backwards. A fatal step; for the manoeuvre failed, and Osmond followed him up, pressing him farther backward. The bulwark on the poop was comparatively low. As Dhoody staggered against it with accumulated momentum, his body swung outboard and his feet rose from the deck. It was impossible to save him without releasing the pistol hand. He remained poised for an instant on the rail and then toppled over; and as he slithered down the side and his wrist slipped from Osmond’s grasp, the revolver discharged, blowing a ragged hole in the bulwark and waking the echoes in the sails with the din of the explosion.
Osmond sprang back to the companion-hatch and crouched behind the hood. There was no time for him to get back to the skylight; indeed he hardly had time to unfasten the doors and drop on to the ladder before the men came shambling aft, muttering and rubbing their eyes. Quietly closing the doors, he descended to the cabin and took up his old post of observation on the table.
“He’s gone, right enough,” said an awe-stricken voice, “and I reckon it’ll be our turn next. This is a bad lookout, mates.”
There was a brief and dismal silence; then a distant report was heard, followed quickly by two more.
“That’s Dhoody,” exclaimed another voice. “He’s a-swimmin’ and makin’ signals. What’s to be done? We can’t let ’im drownd without doin’ nothin’.”
“No,” agreed the first man, “we must have a try at pickin’ ’im up. You and me, Tom, will put off in the dinghy, while Joe keeps the ship hove-to.”
“What!” protested Joe. “Am I to be left alone on the ship with no one but Jim Darker, and him below in his bunk?”
“Well, yer can’t let a shipmate drownd, can yer?” demanded the other. “And look here, Joe Bradley, as soon as you’ve got the ship hove-to, you just fetch up the fo’c’sle lamp and show us a glim, or we shall be goners, too. Now hard down with the helm, mate!”
Very soon the loud flapping of canvas announced that the ship had come up into the wind, and immediately after the squeal of tackle-blocks was heard. The Speedwell carried a dinghy, slung from davits at the taffrail, in addition to the larger boat on deck, and it was in this that the two men were putting out on their rather hopeless quest.
Osmond rapidly reviewed the situation. Of the original seven men one was overboard, two were in the hold, one was below in his bunk, and two were away in the boat. There remained only Joe Bradley. It would be pretty easy to overpower him and stow him in the hold; but a yet easier plan suggested itself. Joe was evidently in a state of extreme superstitious funk and the other two were in little better case. He recalled the captain’s remark as to his resemblance to the dead mate and also the fact that Redford’s oilskins were different from any others on board. These circumstances seemed to group themselves naturally and indicate a course of action.
He made his way to the captain’s berth and, knocking softly and receiving no answer, entered. The skipper had fallen asleep over his book and lay in his bunk, a living commentary on the Book of Job. Osmond took the oilskins from the peg, and, stealing back silently to the cabin, invested himself in the borrowed raiment. Presently a passing gleam of light from above told him that Joe was carrying the fore castle lamp aft to ‘show a glim’ from the taffrail. Remembering that he had left the companion hatch unfastened, he ascended the ladder, and, softly opening one door, looked out. At the moment, Joe was engaged in hanging the lamp from a fair-lead over the stern, and, as his back was towards the deck, Osmond stepped out of the hatch and silently approached him.
Having secured the lamp, Joe took a long look over the dark sea and then turned towards the deck; and as his eyes fell on the tall, oilskinned figure, obscurely visible in the gloom—for the lamp was below the bulwark—he uttered a gasp of horror and began rapidly to shuffle away backwards. Osmond stood motionless, watching him from under the deep shade of his sou’-wester as he continued to edge away backwards. Suddenly his heel caught on a ring-bolt and he staggered and fell on the deck