Chapter I: Mutiny and Death

“I tell you what it is, Petersen, you’re a muff and a coward, and I guess that is pretty plain English. What say you, maties?”

There were nine of them in all, and they sat or lay on the grass, half-way up a beautiful mountain side that overlooks picturesque little Jamestown, the capital of this lovely isle of the sea--St. Helena--on which, in his lonely mansion at Longwood, Napoleon Bonaparte breathed his last.

Yes, yonder is the town, with its snow-white houses straggling up the bonnie glen; just beyond is the harbour or roadstead, in which, slowly moving to the heave of the swell, are many ships from many nations. A saucy British cruiser is there at anchor, her white ensign streaming gaily out against the background of water. Yonder is a German, and farther off the Stars and Stripes of a bold Yankee merchantman, and at least a dozen others, with dark boats passing to and fro the shore, the men singing as they bend to their work, the water dripping from their oars, and sparkling like precious stones in the sunshine.

Beyond is the blue, blue sea itself, patched here and there with the shadows of fleecy clouds, that float in the azure sky.

All around the glade, where the men of the _Zingara_ are holding their meeting, the tall cactuses are growing, with flowers of scarlet and carmine.

The songs of the boatmen are borne up the hill, with the buzz and murmur of the streets; but so faint and low that they sound like a gentle lullaby, to which the boom of the waves that break on the black rocks or beach forms a strange and dreamy bass.

Such sights, such sounds, on so sunny a day as this, might well be supposed to lull the fiercest passions that ever dwelt in human breast. In this case the poetry and romance of sea and shore are lost on the men here assembled.

Alas! it cannot conquer the lust and fiendish greed of gold that inspire this meeting.

Petersen sprang to his feet.

“Elman,” he cried, “stand up and repeat those words; stand up like a man, and we’ll soon see who is the coward and the muff.”

But a Finn held up his hand.

He seemed to be the leader and chairman of this mutinous assembly.

“Boys,” he cried, “there shall be no fighting, no disputes. We must hold together through thick and thin; to quarrel means to fail. Now,” he added, “I’m a plain-spoken man. Elman, you’ve got to apologise to good Petersen"--the Finn produced a pistol as he spoke. “You’ve got to apologise, or we can soon arrange for you to sleep beneath the cactus.”

Elman advanced, and shook hands with Petersen, who grasped his manfully.

Then pipes were lit, and there was a lull in the conversation, broken at last by Petersen himself.

“Men,” he said, “let us try to arrange this little affair, without unnecessary bloodshed or violence. Antonio has been good to me; _he_ must be spared. Little Teenie has got round all our hearts: her life is sacred! Is it not so, boys?”

“Yes! yes!” from all save one. He too was a Finn, of the lowest caste. His bushy eyebrows and fiendish looks proved him to be a man who would stick at nothing to gain an end.

He helped himself from a flask of arrack, so strong that it made even his eyes flash and water.

“I’ve been on jobs of this sort afore,” he said, “and my motto has always been----”

“What?” said Elman.

“A dark night, and a bloody blanket!”

Even Petersen shuddered as he heard these fearful words.

But the leader lifted his hand.

“I agree with Petersen,” he cried, “that there must be no bloodshed--if possible.”

“And what is more,” he added, “we are strong enough to do the work without--that is, if every man is true to his oath, and obedient to command.”

“Bravo!” from several voices.

“We are not all here, by several,” he added. “Even Antonio would have been suspicious had we all come on shore.”

“What about the black fellows?” said a voice.

“They are fools enough to be true to the old man.”

“Yes, if we let them.”

“Right,” said the leader. “They alone may be quietened. But, boys, the game is worth playing. There are enough precious pearls in that ship to make us all rich for life. Now, men, the oath.”

Every would-be mutineer stood up, and formed a circle around their leader.

Heaven forbid I should defile my pages by describing that scene. It ill accorded with the beauty of the day, with the sylvan scenery, with those gorgeous banks of flowering cactus, or the sweet trilling of bright-winged tropical birds in the thickets adjoining.

They had just got seated once again, when a merry childish voice was heard, and next moment Teenie herself ran out from the cactus, laughing and shouting.

She rushed straight for Peterson, and flung her arms round his neck.

“Where have you left your maid, darling?” he said.

“Oh, I just runned away from her. I is all alone. Miss Leona is in the town.”

“Have you been in the bush long?” This from the leader.

“Bush? What is that?”

“Among the cactus, yonder.”

“Oh, quite five minutes. I was listening.”

“She must die,” said the ugly Finn. “It is for our salvation.” He spoke in his own language, but even those who understood it not could easily understand its meaning.

Petersen took out his knife, and laid it ominously down by his side.

“If she dies, I die,” he said, in the same language.

“Listen, dear,” he continued, turning the child’s face up towards his own. “Tell us what you saw and heard?”

She clasped her hands in a devotional attitude.

“Oh,” she cried, “you is good _good_ men, and I loves you all. You were saying you’ prayers. That was all, and I not like to ’sturb you. So I stay till you is quite finished.”

“Now then, men,” said Petersen, “are you quite satisfied? Is there a man here who would injure a hair of this innocent head? If so, let him come into the wood with me.”

“We are all satisfied,” cried the men. Only the auburn-haired, fiend-faced Finn said nothing.

* * * * *

The _Zingara_ was once more at sea, and the wind was blowing free and fresh. Birds from the far-off islands or shores were floating in the air around her, and the very waves seemed to join in their wild and happy song.

Fore and aft the decks were clean and white, not a rope’s end uncoiled, not a trace that was not taut. Our heroes, Barclay and Davie, were briskly walking fore and aft on the lee-side of the deck, the thoughtful Antonio on the weather.

It was a day that would have made the heart of the veriest land-lubber jump for joy.

And yet the officers of this ship are standing on a veritable volcano, which may burst at any moment, though they know it not.

The mutineers have determined at all hazards to capture the _Zingara_, to land the officers and others on some island, and proceed to South America, to dispose of both ship and cargo.

But a storm of a different kind is brewing that will delay the mutiny--for a time, at all events.

Archie Webber comes on deck and approaches the captain.

“Glass going tumbling down, sir,” he says, “and look! look! why, the storm-clouds are banking up yonder already.”

“All hands on deck!” was the order that followed. The men came tumbling up, eager and anxious.

“Lay aft here, lads,” shouted Antonio.

The order was instantly obeyed, though the sworn mutineers lagged a little. Their evil consciences smote them. Oh, not with remorse! They merely imagined that Petersen had split. The ugly Finn stood close behind this sailor, determined that if his suspicions were correct he should immediately plunge his knife into his back.

“Men,” cried Antonio, “there is a storm gathering, and soon to burst, that I mean to be ready for and to fight, for the sake of the good ship that has borne us through so many dangers and trials.”

The mutineers exchanged glances, and the evil Finn edged still nearer to poor Petersen. His hand was on that ugly knife.

“Look to windward, lads. Hear the muttering thunder! We have twenty minutes and no more to trim ship, for unless I am much mistaken we are to have about the biggest thing in tornadoes that ever went whirling over the Atlantic.

“Away aloft there, lads, and get in sail; set the storm-jib, mate, and I’ve little doubt we shall weather it. Now, men, merrily does it. Away!”

The mutineers breathed more freely now; and right cheerily they worked. In an incredibly short time all sails were taken in that could be done without. The rest were close reefed.

When they came below again, the steward, honest Pandoo, was ready to splice the main brace; and never was a glass of rum better deserved.

* * * * *

I am not going to describe this terrible war with the elements; suffice it to say that it was fearful, and that it ended in a gale.

The _Zingara_ emerged therefrom, almost a total wreck.

Two masts, the mizen and the main, had gone almost by the board; there remained of them only the jagged stumps. The fore-topsail was also carried away, and the rudder itself was all but useless. They had been drifted away far from their course.

The boats had been taken in-board. There were five of these altogether, but being turned bottom upwards on the deck, they had luckily escaped injury.

“To-night!” said or rather whispered the leader of the mutineers.

“To-night!” The word was passed round, and every one knew that the hour had all but arrived.

By seven bells in the first watch the wind had gone down. Not a breath of air; not a zephyr to ruffle the oily, heaving waves.

Once more the good ship was but like a log on the great waters, drifting helplessly at the mercy of the current.

Our heroes and all aft had turned in. Even Antonio was sound asleep, and both mates also, for the bo’s’n was now permitted to keep watch.

Barclay Stuart was awakened by an ugly dream. He started and listened.

Then his heart almost stood still. There was the sound of scuffling on deck--the noise of a fierce fight coming aft and aft, till it raged on the very quarter-deck.

“Down below with them!” This he knew to be the voice of that bloodthirsty Finn, whom he had never trusted.

“Tumble the darkies overboard!”

But some one was heard interceding.

It was Petersen.

“No, no,” he cried, “spare them. No bloodshed.”

“Over they go without bloodshed. Leave the bloodshed to the sharks.”

There were shrieks for mercy now--ah! dear reader, mutiny is a fearful thing--then the sound of heavy bodies falling into the sea told the awful story.

In less time than it takes me to write it, every one in the saloon cabins was astir.

They rushed to--I was going to say arms. Alas! these were all gone. They were therefore helpless.

At the same time the good men and true had been driven below to the saloon, into which they rushed for safety’s sake.

Several were bleeding from wounds, and one poor fellow fell dead by the stove immediately after entering.

Then the saloon doors were closed, and barricaded outside by the mutineers.

The ship was captured no doubt, though what the end might be no one could even guess. Yet the prisoners in the saloon dreaded the very worst. Had their arms not been taken away, they would have sold their lives dearly. As it was, if the mutineers meant to murder them, it would be a mere massacre in cold blood.

No bells were struck to-night; but the saloon clock pointed to the hour of two. It would be over four long hours yet, then, ere the red sun leapt up from the sea and daylight began.

Daylight? Yes, and every one seemed to feel it would be their last day on earth.

Antonio knew well that as soon as morning broke those fiends incarnate would commence to loot the ship--and the fate of the prisoners would be too dreadful to contemplate.

Yet this weird little Captain Antonio did all he could to cheer every one around him up. It was a sad task and a difficult, for the shadow of death seemed to have settled on every heart, a gloom that kept all silent. Even Teenie herself, who would sit nowhere but on Barclay’s knee, was sad and fearful. Again and again she asked the boy the question--

“What will they do, Barc? What will the bad men do to us?”

For a whole hour Miss Leona sat weeping.

At last she started to her feet and dried her tears.

“Captain Antonio,” she said quietly, “we still can pray.”

“We can,” was the solemn reply.

Miss Leona’s prayer was earnest, pleading, pathetic.

“Yet not our will but Thine be done,” she concluded. And I think he or she is a true Christian who can _pray_ these words from the inmost heart. Then at her request, some of the beautiful verses from that psalm of psalms, the twenty-third, were sung:--

“The Lord’s my Shepherd, I’ll not want.
He makes me down to lie
In pastures green: He leadeth me
The quiet waters by.

* * * * *

Yea, though I walk in death’s dark vale,
Yet will I fear none ill:
For Thou art with me; and Thy rod
And staff me comfort still.”

* * * * *

The only one missing in the saloon was strangely enough the fat boy Johnnie Smart, and considerable anxiety was felt as to his fate. Surely he too could not have joined the mutineers.

But about half-past three o’clock on that eventful night, a single low knock was heard at the door of the saloon, and a moment after a piece of paper was passed in under it.

It was a letter from Johnnie. Only an ill-spelt, badly written scrawl; but it rejoiced the hearts of all inside nevertheless, and raised hopes within them.

It was Leona who read it first.

“God has heard our prayers,” she said. “He will even yet give us the victory.”

Then she handed the note to Antonio.