I struck a match then, that he might see me, and by sign-language tried to make him understand that we should go on deck and search for Thirkle and the others.

Before we had finished our silent parley I heard a noise at the scuttle, and then Riggs whispered:  “Rajah!  Rajah!”

I was wondering what I should say to him, afraid that I might frighten him away again, or that when he recognized my voice he would be all the more convinced that I was against him, or make some startled exclamation which would betray his presence to Thirkle, and also give him the information of my whereabouts.  Before I made any sound Rajah had rapped a signal to him, and I heard him coming down.

Rajah scratched my hand and felt for the matchbox in my pocket, and as Captain Riggs reached the foot of the companion I struck a match and held it before my face, between Rajah and myself.

“Good God!” cried Riggs, and he backed toward the companion, holding up his hands in terror as he thought that I had captured Rajah.

“Captain,” I called as the match went out, “it’s Trenholm, ready to fight with you.  I’m not with that murdering crew.  I didn’t kill Trego.  Don’t be a fool, but give me a chance to help you.”

“Didn’t kill Trego!” he said, amazed.  “I know you didn’t kill Trego, but you had the red chap do it for you.”

“No, I didn’t.  The money I gave that little devil was for bringing my bag on board, and he told you that I paid him for killing Trego so that Meeker, or Thirkle, would get me out of the way.  I tell you that I am not with that gang.  Give me a gun, and I’ll help you in this fight.”

“Who’s that dead man on the deck?” he asked.  “How come you down here?”

“That’s Harris.  Thirkle and Buckrow killed him.”

“Thirkle!  There’s no Thirkle aboard here.  Thirkle!  Why, that’s—­”

“Thirkle,” I said, “is the Rev. Luther Meeker.  He is the head of the whole gang.”

“Then poor Harris was right,” he moaned, feeling for a chest and sitting down upon it.  “Harris was right.”  I could hear despair in his voice—­he was master no longer, but a broken, dispirited old man.

“Cheer up, captain; we’ll beat them yet,” I said as cheerily as I could.

“We’re lost,” he moaned.  “Light the slush-lamp,—­they won’t bother us now.”

“But let’s get on deck and give them a fight,” I said.  “It won’t do any good to stay down here—­”

The board at the scuttle rattled, and we listened.  I stooped and groped for the belaying-pin.

“They got below,” growled Buckrow.  After a minute he slammed the scuttle-board shut, and we heard a heavy, thumping sound and the clanking of a chain.

“We’re lost!” moaned Riggs.  “They are making the scuttle fast with rail-chains.  All hands lost, and the Lord have mercy on us!  Light the slush-lamp, Mr. Trenholm—­we’re dead men!”

“What is their game?” I asked, in doubt as to the meaning of what he said about the rail-chains, although I was dismayed by the ominous sounds at the scuttle and knew that we must be prisoners in the forecastle.