In Commandant Balliot’s own heart hope was dead.  But it seemed that this detestable Englishman had schemes in his head by which their lives might yet be saved.

He had been given a sample of the Englishmen’s brazen daring already.  After his troops mutinied, and pandemonium reigned in the village where he was quartered, the Englishman had steamed up with his paltry stem-wheel launch, and by sheer dash and recklessness had carried him and his last parcel of faithful men away in spite of the mutineers’ teeth.

It was an insane thing to do, and when he had (as senior officer) complimented Kettle on the achievement, the little sailor had coldly replied that he was only carrying out his duty and earning his pay.  And he had further mentioned that it was lucky for Commandant Balliot that he was a common, low-down Britisher, and not a fancy Belgian, or he would have thought of his own skin first, and steamed on comfortably down river and just contented himself with making a report.  The white engineer of the launch—­a drunken Scot—­had, it seemed, been killed in the sortie, which, of course, was regretable; but Balliot (who disliked the Scot personally) had omitted to make the proper condolences; and it was at this that Kettle had taken umbrage and turned the nasty edge of his tongue outward.

“Now,” said Captain Kettle, “enough time’s been wasted.  We will start business at once, please.  That boiler’s got to be mended, first.”

“But,” said Balliot, “it’s under fire all the time.”

“I can see that for myself,” said the little sailor, “without being reminded by a subordinate who wasn’t asked to speak.  We take things as we find them, and so it’s got to be mended under fire.  Moreover, as the chief engineer of this vessel was killed ashore, and the second engineer was shot overboard, there’s others that will have to take rating as engine-room officers.  Commandant Balliot, have you any mechanics amongst your lot?”

“I have one man who acted as armorer-sergeant.  He is very inefficient.”

“He must do his best.  Can you handle a drill or a monkey wrench, yourself?”

“No.”

“Then I shall find you a laborer’s job.  Doc, are you handy with tools?”

“Only with those of my own trade,” said Clay.  “I’m pretty inefficient all round,” he added, with a shrug, “or else I shouldn’t be here.”

“Very well,” said Kettle, “then I’ll rate myself chief engineer.”  He got up, and walked round to where the black second engineer, the last man shot, still nuzzled the boiler plates exactly in the same position where he had first fallen.  He lifted one of the man’s arms, and let it go.  It jerked back again like a spring.

“Well, Daddy,” he said, “you didn’t take long to get stiff.  They shot you nice and clean, anyway.  I guess we’ll let the river and the crocodiles bury you.”  With a sharp heave, he jerked the rigid body on to the rail, and even for the short second it poised there the poor dead clay managed to stop another of those bullets which flew up in such deadly silence from that distant sandbank.