"You fools!" he shouted. "You may die soon enough without killing each

other. Make way there! Ah! would you?" He caught the gleam of an

uplifted knife, and struck savagely at the face of the man who would

have used it. The butt of the revolver caught the sailor on the

temple. He went down like a stone. Courtenay stumbled over another

prostrate body. It was Mr. Boyle, striving to rise. Their eyes met in

the gloom. Courtenay stooped and swung the other clear of the fight,

for the second and third officers were using their fists, and Walker,

even in the hurry of his ascent from the stoke-hold, had not let go of

a spanner. The yells and curses, the trampling of dim forms swaying in

the fight, the roaring of the gale, and the incessant crash of heavy

spray made up a ghastly pandemonium. It was an orgy of terror, of wild

abandon, of hopeless striving on the edge of the pit--a stupid madness

at the best, as the ship's life-boats on the port side were on the spar

deck; in their panic the men were endeavoring to lower a dingy. Yet

Courtenay saw that discipline was regaining its influence. He thought

to inspire confidence and stop useless savagery by a sharp command.

"All hands follow me to starboard!"

The struggle ceased instantly. The captain's order seemed to imply

some new scheme. Men who, a moment ago, would have killed any one who

sought to restrain them from clearing the boat's falls, now raced

pell-mell after their officers. No heed was paid to those who lay on

the deck, wounded or insensible. Herein alone did these Chilean

sailors differ from wolves, and wolves have the excuse of fierce hunger

when they devour their disabled fellows.

Still carrying Boyle, Courtenay led the confused horde through a

gangway to the higher side of the deck.

"Swing those boats back to the spar deck!" he said. "Get falls and

tackle ready to lift them to port. Don't lose your heads, men. You

will all be clear of the ship in ten minutes if you do as you are told."

Two officers and a quarter-master sprang forward. In an incredibly

short space of time the crew were working with redoubled frenzy, but

under control, and with a common object. For an instant, Courtenay was

free to attend to his chief officer. He bore him to the lighted saloon

companion. Boyle was deathly pale under the tan of his skin. The

captain saw that his own left hand, where it clasped the other round

the waist, was covered with blood.

"Below there!" he cried. "Bring two men here, Mr. Malcolm."

When the chief steward came he gave directions that Mr. Boyle should be

taken to the saloon and Dr. Christobal summoned.

"Send some one you can trust to return," he continued. "Go then to the

lee of the promenade deck. You will find others there."




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