prisoner. The soft mass struck
the man with force sufficient to blind him for an instant. The musket
exploded harmlessly in the air, and ere the astonished Barker could
recover his footing, Bates had hurled him out of the cabin, and crying
"Mutiny!" locked the cabin door on the inside.

The noise brought out Mrs. Vickers from her berth, and the poor little
student of English history ran into her arms.

"Good Heavens, Mr. Bates, what is it?"

Bates, furious with rage, so far forgot himself as to swear. "It's a
mutiny, ma'am," said he. "Go back to your cabin and lock the door. Those
bloody villains have risen on us!" Julia Vickers felt her heart grow
sick. Was she never to escape out of this dreadful life? "Go into your
cabin, ma'am," says Bates again, "and don't move a finger till I tell
ye. Maybe it ain't so bad as it looks; I've got my pistols with me,
thank God, and Mr. Frere'll hear the shot anyway. Mutiny? On deck
there!" he cried at the full pitch of his voice, and his brow grew damp
with dismay when a mocking laugh from above was the only response.

Thrusting the woman and child into the state berth, the bewildered pilot
cocked a pistol, and snatching a cutlass from the arm stand fixed to the
butt of the mast which penetrated the cabin, he burst open the door with
his foot, and rushed to the companion ladder. Barker had retreated to
the deck, and for an instant he thought the way was clear, but Lesly and
Russen thrust him back with the muzzles of the loaded muskets. He struck
at Russen with the cutlass, missed him, and, seeing the hopelessness of
the attack, was fain to retreat.

In the meanwhile, Grimes and the other soldier had loosed themselves
from their bonds, and, encouraged by the firing, which seemed to them
a sign that all was not yet lost, made shift to force up the forehatch.
Porter, whose courage was none of the fiercest, and who had been for
years given over to that terror of discipline which servitude induces,
made but a feeble attempt at resistance, and forcing the handspike from
him, the sentry, Jones, rushed aft to help the pilot. As Jones reached
the waist, Cheshire, a cold-blooded blue-eyed man, shot him dead. Grimes
fell over the corpse, and Cheshire, clubbing the musket--had he another
barrel he would have fired--coolly battered his head as he lay, and
then, seizing the body of the unfortunate Jones in his arms, tossed it
into the sea. "Porter, you lubber!" he cried, exhausted with the eff