"DUTCH COURAGE"
Captain Dove had come up on deck, and was standing by the
companion-hatch, drawing difficult breaths, swaying to the rise and sink
of the ship on the long, slow, ceaseless swell.
He had only a greatcoat secured by a single button about his shoulders
over his night-dress, and on his feet an old pair of carpet slippers.
Sallie darted a blazing glance of indignation at Jasper Slyne who,
instead of helping the sick old man, seemed only bent on aggravating him
with his evil tongue.
"You coward!" she cried at that immaculate gentleman, and would have
gone to the old man's aid but that he angrily waved her also aside as he
tottered forward, changing his scowl by the way to that sleek,
benevolent smile which he could always assume at his pleasure.
A slow silence followed on the low, suspicious rumble of voices with
which the mutineers had greeted his most unexpected appearance. They
had, of course, supposed him physically incapable of further
interference with them and their plans. But, as it was, he did not look
very dangerous in his grotesque dishabille.
As he reached the rail, Reuben Yoxall stepped to one side, touching his
cap in his customary salute. Slyne had halted a couple of paces behind,
and Sallie, too, had drawn back. Captain Dove stood alone at the top of
the stairway, in the forefront of the little group there, and looked
contemplatively down at the men who, he knew very well, would listen to
no appeal of his for his life. From his placid, benign demeanour then he
might have been inspecting a Sunday-school.
His features were in themselves of an unctuous cast, smooth, flat,
snub-nosed, clean-shaven as a rule, except for a straggling fringe of
whisker. His white hair and weak, winking eyes added to his smugly
sanctimonious expression. He was squat of build, unduly short in the
legs and long of arm. And, altogether, he cut no very dashing figure in
his ridiculous garments, one sleeve of his coat hanging limp and empty,
the arm that should have filled it lying across his chest in a sling,
his chin disfigured by a week's growth of stubble, his whiskers all
unkempt.
But it had never been by his gallant presence that he had held to heel
the cut-throats who composed his crew, and, even then, when they had him
before them helpless, a certain target for their loaded rifles, not one
of them seized the immediate opportunity.
He steadied himself with his free hand on the rail of the narrow
stairway, and so stepped downward among them. Still no one else moved.
It may have been that his almost inhuman daring daunted them in spite of
themselves. But Sallie, in the background, was holding her breath. She
knew he was courting a bloody death, and feared he would meet it there,
before her shrinking eyes. That tragedy and all its unspeakable
consequences were literally hanging on a hair-trigger.
He reached the level below, still smiling blandly, and, letting go the
rail, shuffled forward, slowly but steadily enough, his slippers
flapping at his heels with ludicrous effect. Two or three of the men
confronting him stepped to one side, gave him free passage into the
throng, and closed in again behind him. He took no notice of anyone, but
held on his way till he reached the ladder which led from the break of
the poop to the quarter-deck.
He climbed that at his leisure, panting a little, his back toward them.
They had faced about and were following his every movement with
malevolent eyes. A single shot would have made a quick end of him, but
no shot was fired. And, at the top of the ladder, he turned to speak.
"I'll send Mr. Hobson aft to issue your ammunition," he said, in a voice
without any tremor of weakness. "Get two full bandoliers, each of you,
and then file forward again while the others come aft for theirs."
And with that, leaving them to their own reflections, agape, absolutely
dumfounded by his audacity, he made his way up on to the bridge, the
skirts of his night-dress fluttering from under the shorter length of
his heavy coat.
They fell to whispering among themselves, excited and distrustful. They
had only a few loose rounds for their rifles, and Captain Dove alone
knew how the ship's magazine might safely be entered. It would
undoubtedly have cost some of them their lives to force that secret. No
one of them would be willing to sacrifice himself for the common cause,
and Captain Dove's unlooked-for concession of their chief need had no
doubt mystified them altogether.
Hobson, the second mate, came aft a few minutes later, a beetle-browed,
foxy-looking fellow, with a furtive smile of encouragement for his
accomplices. At a sign from him they unshipped the hatches. He
disappeared into the hold, a bunch of keys dangling from one wrist, and
presently shouted up some order, in terms much more polite than he had
lately been in the habit of using, to them at least. A chain of living
links was promptly formed from the magazine, and packed bandoliers,
passed rapidly from hand to hand, soon reached its farther end. The men
grinned meaningly at each other as they slung the web belts crosswise
over their shoulders. For with these they were still more absolutely
masters of the situation.
Reuben Yoxall, back at his dangerous post by the stairway, was watching
them no less narrowly than before. It seemed the sheerest madness on
Captain Dove's part to have disclosed to their ringleader the secret of
the magazine, and no one could tell at what moment they might now assume
the offensive. The sun was already dipping behind the sea-rim.
"We've changed our course," Sallie said to him in a puzzled whisper, and
he nodded silently. The _Olive Branch_ was heading inshore. The outline
of the coast had grown clearer under the last of the evening light. Here
and there against its smudgy-brown background showed dark green blots
that were mangroves or clumps of palm. A thin, white ribbon of surf was
distinctly visible on the distant beach.
Captain Dove was at the starboard extremity of the bridge, his
binoculars at his eyes. He laid them down, and pointed out to the third
mate, at his elbow, some landmark directly ahead. Then he climbed
carefully down to the quarter-deck and began to make his way aft again.
Behind him, rifles in hand, came creeping another strong contingent of
his strangely numerous crew. Half a dozen of those nearest him had drawn
and fixed the long sword-bayonet each wore at his hip.
The old man in greatcoat and slippers paused at the after-rail of the
quarter-deck. The bayonets were almost at his shoulder blades. But the
three anxious onlookers aft could not even warn him of that additional
danger, to which he seemed quite oblivious.
The crowd at the open hatch looked round at him, as of one accord, and
the bulk turned on their heels towards him, but a few remained facing
the three still, silent figures on the poop. Sunset and the final
instant of crisis had come together.
From among the men grouped about the hatch one stepped forward, as if to
speak. Captain Dove held up his hand and the fellow hesitated, with bent
brows. A quick, angry growl arose from among his neighbours. But Captain
Dove was not to be hurried. He cleared his throat and spat indifferently
into the scuppers.
"I've a little job ashore for you lads to-night," he said then, in a
tone audible to all, "a job that'll fill our empty pockets properly--if
it's properly carried out. We haven't been so lucky of late that we can
afford to lay off just yet. What money there is on board means no more
than a few dollars apiece, share and share alike. I know where I can lay
my hands on a thousand at least for each of us. If you think that's
worth your while, get away forward now to your supper; the others are
coming aft for their ammunition."
He ceased abruptly, and for a moment no one answered him or made any
move. He had succeeded in raising their curiosity, and so gained some
trifling respite at least for himself. They were turning over in their
dense minds, however suspiciously, this new and plausible suggestion of
his.
It was no news that there was very little money on board, and--they were
of a class which always can be led to grasp at the shadow if that looks
larger to them than the substance itself. They hesitated--and they were
lost. Captain Dove had descended among them, and as if the subject were
closed, was pushing his way through the gathering with a good-humoured,
masterful, "Get forward. Get away forward, now."
And they gave way again before him, apparently forgetful of their
purpose there, quite willing, since they held the power securely in
their own hands, to await the outcome of one more night. In the morning,
and rich, as he promised, or no worse off if his promise failed, they
could just as conveniently close their account with him. As the others
came crowding aft, those already possessed of bandoliers began to file
forward, exchanging rough jokes with their fellows.
Captain Dove addressed a parting remark to them from the poop. "We won't
be going ashore till midnight," said he, "and I _must_ get some sleep or
I won't be fit for the work we've to do there. I'm sick enough as it is.
Get that hatch-cover on again as soon as you can, and keep to your own
end of the ship till the time comes. I'll send you forward a hogshead of
rum to help it along."
"Ay, ay, sir," a voice answered him cheerily from out of the gathering
darkness, and Sallie saw that he almost smiled to himself as he
staggered toward the companion-hatch.
There he would have fallen, spent, but that she, at his shoulder, caught
hold of him and held him up till Slyne came to her assistance. And they
together got him safely below.
"Gimme brandy," he gasped, as he lay limply back in the chair on which
they had set him. His lips were white. His overworked heart had almost
failed him under the strain he had put on it.
The stimulant still served its purpose, however. He sat up again,
revived.
"But that was an uncommon close call!" he commented, half to himself. "I
felt blind-sure I'd have a bayonet through my back before I could play
my last card. And I didn't believe I'd win out even with that. But here
I am, and--" He turned to the girl at his side.
"Don't stand there idling, Sallie," he ordered querulously, "when
there's so much to be done. Tell Ambrizette to bring me a bull's-eye
lantern. Go up and see if the decks are clear yet. Send Reuben Yoxall
down to me as soon as they are. And then get ready for going ashore.
You'll have to wear something that won't be seen--but take a couple of
Arab cloaks in a bundle with you as well."
At that Jasper Slyne spoke, divided between doubt and anger.
"What devilment have you in your mind now, Dove?" he demanded. "You
surely don't mean to--You told me yourself that there's nothing but
dangerous desert ashore here."
"Never you mind what I mean to do, _Mister_ Slyne," Captain Dove
answered him with a gratified grin, picking up the brandy bottle again.
"When I want any advice from you, I'll let you know. And, if I ever ask
you again to help me into my clothes, you'll maybe be more obliging next
time.
"Dutch courage is cheap enough, Mister Slyne," said the old man
tauntingly. "So I'm going ashore,--into the dangerous desert,--in a few
minutes, with Sallie. But there's nothing you need be afraid of, for
you're going to stay safe on board."