The second mate's gun had jammed,
and so there were but two weapons opposed to the mutineers
as they bore down upon the officers, who now started to give
back before the infuriated rush of their men.
Both sides were cursing and swearing in a frightful manner,
which, together with the reports of the firearms and the
screams and groans of the wounded, turned the deck of the
Fuwalda to the likeness of a madhouse.
Before the officers had taken a dozen backward steps the
men were upon them. An ax in the hands of a burly Negro
cleft the captain from forehead to chin, and an instant later
the others were down: dead or wounded from dozens of
blows and bullet wounds.
Short and grisly had been the work of the mutineers of the
Fuwalda, and through it all John Clayton had stood leaning
carelessly beside the companionway puffing meditatively upon
his pipe as though he had been but watching an indifferent
cricket match.
As the last officer went down he thought it was time that
he returned to his wife lest some members of the crew find
her alone below.
Though outwardly calm and indifferent, Clayton was inwardly
apprehensive and wrought up, for he feared for his wife's
safety at the hands of these ignorant, half-brutes into
whose hands fate had so remorselessly thrown them.
As he turned to descend the ladder he was surprised to see
his wife standing on the steps almost at his side.
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