’But in Brown’s crew there was a Solomon Islander, kidnapped in his youth and devoted to Brown, who was the best man of the whole gang.  That fellow swam off to the coaster—­five hundred yards or so—­with the end of a warp made up of all the running gear unrove for the purpose.  The water was smooth, and the bay dark, “like the inside of a cow,” as Brown described it.  The Solomon Islander clambered over the bulwarks with the end of the rope in his teeth.  The crew of the coaster—­all Tagals—­were ashore having a jollification in the native village.  The two shipkeepers left on board woke up suddenly and saw the devil.  It had glittering eyes and leaped quick as lightning about the deck.  They fell on their knees, paralysed with fear, crossing themselves and mumbling prayers.  With a long knife he found in the caboose the Solomon Islander, without interrupting their orisons, stabbed first one, then the other; with the same knife he set to sawing patiently at the coir cable till suddenly it parted under the blade with a splash.  Then in the silence of the bay he let out a cautious shout, and Brown’s gang, who meantime had been peering and straining their hopeful ears in the darkness, began to pull gently at their end of the warp.  In less than five minutes the two schooners came together with a slight shock and a creak of spars.

’Brown’s crowd transferred themselves without losing an instant, taking with them their firearms and a large supply of ammunition.  They were sixteen in all:  two runaway blue-jackets, a lanky deserter from a Yankee man-of-war, a couple of simple, blond Scandinavians, a mulatto of sorts, one bland Chinaman who cooked—­and the rest of the nondescript spawn of the South Seas.  None of them cared; Brown bent them to his will, and Brown, indifferent to gallows, was running away from the spectre of a Spanish prison.  He didn’t give them the time to trans-ship enough provisions; the weather was calm, the air was charged with dew, and when they cast off the ropes and set sail to a faint off-shore draught there was no flutter in the damp canvas; their old schooner seemed to detach itself gently from the stolen craft and slip away silently, together with the black mass of the coast, into the night.

’They got clear away.  Brown related to me in detail their passage down the Straits of Macassar.  It is a harrowing and desperate story.  They were short of food and water; they boarded several native craft and got a little from each.  With a stolen ship Brown did not dare to put into any port, of course.  He had no money to buy anything, no papers to show, and no lie plausible enough to get him out again.  An Arab barque, under the Dutch flag, surprised one night at anchor off Poulo Laut, yielded a little dirty rice, a bunch of bananas, and a cask of water; three days of squally, misty weather from the north-east shot the schooner across the Java Sea.  The yellow muddy waves drenched that collection of hungry ruffians.