A fierce composure settled upon Wicks and Carthew, their fighting second wind.  They posted Tommy at the fore and Amalu at the main to guard the masts and shrouds, and going themselves into the waist, poured out a box of cartridges on deck and filled the chambers.  The poor devils aloft bleated aloud for mercy.  But the hour of any mercy was gone by; the cup was brewed and must be drunken to the dregs; since so many had fallen all must fall.  The light was bad, the cheap revolvers fouled and carried wild, the screaming wretches were swift to flatten themselves against the masts and yards or find a momentary refuge in the hanging sails.  The fell business took long, but it was done at last.  Hardy the Londoner was shot on the foreroyal yard, and hung horribly suspended in the brails.  Wallen, the other, had his jaw broken on the maintop-gallant crosstrees, and exposed himself, shrieking, till a second shot dropped him on the deck.

This had been bad enough, but worse remained behind.  There was still Brown in the forepeak.  Tommy, with a sudden clamour of weeping, begged for his life.  “One man can’t hurt us,” he sobbed.  “We can’t go on with this.  I spoke to him at dinner.  He’s an awful decent little cad.  It can’t be done.  Nobody can go into that place and murder him.  It’s too damned wicked.”

The sound of his supplications was perhaps audible to the unfortunate below.

“One left, and we all hang,” said Wicks.  “Brown must go the same road.”  The big man was deadly white and trembled like an aspen; and he had no sooner finished speaking, than he went to the ship’s side and vomited.

“We can never do it if we wait,” said Carthew.  “Now or never,” and he marched towards the scuttle.

“No, no, no!” wailed Tommy, clutching at his jacket.

But Carthew flung him off, and stepped down the ladder, his heart rising with disgust and shame.  The Chinaman lay on the floor, still groaning; the place was pitch dark.

“Brown!” cried Carthew, “Brown, where are you?”

His heart smote him for the treacherous apostrophe, but no answer came.

He groped in the bunks:  they were all empty.  Then he moved towards the forepeak, which was hampered with coils of rope and spare chandlery in general.

“Brown!” he said again.

“Here, sir,” answered a shaking voice; and the poor invisible caitiff called on him by name, and poured forth out of the darkness an endless, garrulous appeal for mercy.  A sense of danger, of daring, had alone nerved Carthew to enter the forecastle; and here was the enemy crying and pleading like a frightened child.  His obsequious “Here, sir,” his horrid fluency of obtestation, made the murder tenfold more revolting.  Twice Carthew raised the pistol, once he pressed the trigger (or thought he did) with all his might, but no explosion followed; and with that the lees of his courage ran quite out, and he turned and fled from before his victim.