Something of this I spoke aloud to Newman.  There was no answer, and I became conscious he was not behind me.  I wheeled about.  Newman, with the lady’s assistance, was hobbling up the ladder to the deck above.  I swore my amazement and dismay at what seemed to me madness, but I hurried after them, and emerged on the poop at their heels.

The night was banished by the strong light flaring forward.  That was my impression when I leaped out on deck.  When I turned forward, I saw the whole ship, clear to the foc’sle, bathed in that light.  Not one, but a half dozen flares were burning at once; they had been thrown upon the deck both to port and starboard.  Everything on the decks was brightly revealed, every ringbolt, the pins in the rails, deadeyes, sails, gear, aye, every rope in the rigging was boldly etched against the glowing background.  With that one sweeping glance I took in the scene.  High up in the main rigging, almost to the futtock shrouds, the figure of a man was revealed:  he was blazing away in the direction of the poop with a revolver.  On the deck, near the mainmast, the second mate was laying about him with a capstan bar, and a dozen men seemed boiling over each other in efforts to close with him.  Other figures lay motionless upon the deck.

So much for what I saw forward; what concerned me that instant was what was right before my eyes.  Captain Swope was leaning against the mizzen fife rail, screened by the mast from those forward, returning the fire of the man in the rigging—­but no, even as I clapped eyes upon him, he shot, and I saw he aimed, not at the man in the rigging, but at the group fighting on the deck.  At his second officer, no less!  Aye, and I understood in a flash why I had not beard the shotguns; the tradesmen had not Swope’s murderous intent towards Mister Lynch. and they held their fire because they could not rake the gang without hitting Lynch.

The tradesman, Connolly, was crouched against the companion hatch; he was staring after Newman and the lady, mouth agape.  He saw them directly they appeared on deck, which Swope did not.  He raised his gun uncertainly, then lowered it, then raised it again, covering Newman’s broad back—­and by that time I was upon him, my clutch was upon his wrist, and my right fist impacted violently against his head.  It was a knockout blow, at the base of the brain, and he slumped down, unconscious.  I straightened up, with the gun in my hand.

It was at this instant that Captain Swope became aware of our presence.  It was Newman, himself, who attracted his attention—­aye, and the attention of the whole ship, as well.

For Newman had marched into the light.  He stood now almost at the forward poop rail, with his arms raised above his head; and he sent his voice forward in a stentorian hail, a cry that was like a thunderclap.

“Stop fighting, lads!  Stop it, I say!  It is I—­Newman!  Stop fighting and go for’ard!”