Pierre Radisson turned.  There faced him that grim, mutinous crew.

No need to try orders then.  ’Twas the cat those men wanted.  Before Pierre Radisson had said one word the mutineers had discovered the deck cannon pointing amidships.  A shout of baffled rage broke from the ragged group.  Quick words passed from man to man.  A noisy, shuffling, indeterminate movement!  The crowd swayed forward.  There was a sudden rush from the fo’castle to the waist.  They had charged to gain possession of the powder cabin—­Pierre Radisson raised his pistol.  For an instant they held back.  Then a barefoot fellow struck at him with a belaying-pin.

’Twere better for that man if he had called down the lightnings.

Quicker than I can tell it, Pierre Radisson had sprung upon him.  The Frenchman’s left arm had coiled the fellow round the waist.  Our leader’s pistol flashed a circle that drove the rabble back, and the ringleader went hurling head foremost through the main hatch with force like to flatten his skull to a gun-wad.  There was a mighty scattering back to the fo’castle then, I promise you.

Pierre Radisson uttered never a syllable.  He pointed to the fore scuttle.  Then he pointed to the men.  Down they went under hatches—­rats in a trap!

“Tramp—­bundle—­pack!” says he, as the last man bobbed below.

But with a ping that raised the hair from my head, came a pistol-shot from the mainmasts.  There, perched astride of the crosstrees, was a rascal mutineer popping at M. Radisson bold as you please.

Our captain took off his beaver, felt the bullet-hole in the brim, looked up coolly, and pointed his musket.

“Drop that pistol!” said he.

The fellow yelped out fear.  Down clattered his weapon to the deck.

“Now sit there,” ordered Radisson, replacing his beaver.  “Sit there till I give you leave to come down!”

Allemand, the pilot, had lost his head and was steering a course crooked as a worm fence.  Young Jean Groseillers went white as the sails, and scarce had strength to slue the guns back or jacket their muzzles.  And, instead of curling forward with the crest of the roll, the spray began to chop off backward in little short waves like a horse’s mane—­a bad, bad sign, as any seaman will testify.  And I, with my musket at guard above the fo’scuttle, had a heart thumping harder than the pounding seas.

And what do you think M. Radisson said as he wiped the sweat from his brow?

“A pretty pickle,[1] indeed, to ground a man’s plans on such dashed impudence!  Hazard o’ life!  As if a man would turn from his course for them!  Spiders o’ hell!  I’ll strike my topmast to Death himself first—­so the devil go with them!  The blind gods may crush—­they shall not conquer!  They may kill—­but I snap my fingers in their faces to the death!  A pretty pickle, indeed!  Batten down the hatches, Ramsay.  Lend Jean a hand to get the guns under cover.  There’s a storm!”