What my thoughts were when I realized the position of the woman I loved I can hardly remember.

I am a plain sailor-man, and, perhaps, a rough one. But I believe my skin is no thicker than most men’s.

Now, when I look back on that time and remember what I went through, I try to think if it would have been any better for the people who look down on me, or if I would have been a better man had I acted differently.

I’m not a man to cry out against the rulings of a fate I’ve fought against with all my power. If I’m looked down upon as an untrustworthy man, I’m willing to take my rating accordingly. I know I’m shunned and called a pirate by some, but I still feel as if I did about what might have been expected from one in my position and condition, and that I was as near right as possible.

I know, also, that Brown acted from as good an impulse as I did, although it may not have been the same. Had old Captain Crojack lived he would have made it plainer to landsmen why we stood together in the part we played. But I don’t mean to say that the honest old fellow would have joined us.

As it was, before eight bells in the morning Captain Crojack was stark and stiff, lying dead where they had left him on the cabin floor. He had received several wounds after Mrs. Waters was shot, while she was clinging to him.

Not a word of complaint about himself had passed his lips. He died the man he had lived, and the deep-water fleet lost one of the best and bravest men that ever trod a quarter-deck.

At eight bells this convict, Benson, who now had command of the ship with a hundred and more men for her desperate crew, came into the after cabin.

There were only the two men left to watch us in there of this gang, and he glanced quickly at them and then at us.

Then he took a key from his pocket, opened the door of the captain’s stateroom, and entered there alone.

In a few moments I heard a piteous cry, followed by the noise of a slight scuffle. Then all was quiet. Something seemed to swell within me as if my whole life or spirit was striving to burst forth from my lashed body. I remember that I suddenly found myself with my mouth open, gasping for breath. Then I strained every nerve and sinew to start my lashings. I saw nothing, but felt a strand of rope give slightly. Steadily I kept the strain until it seemed as if I was losing consciousness. Then I felt the rope part across my chest and I forced one arm free. The next instant the two men were upon me.

They were powerful men. I struggled and fought fiercely in the vain effort to free myself, but the coils wrapped me closely from my shoulders to my ankles. I bent and doubled and struck out savagely with my free arm. But it was no use.

They pinned me down and soon had another turn around my arm and I lay helpless. One of the villains, however, got his hand too near my mouth and I cut the thumb from it with my teeth as clean as if done with a knife. Then something crashed upon my head and a great flame burned before my eyes. The struggle was over.

When I regained consciousness from the blow, an hour or two afterward, the blood was running from my nose and mouth in a thin stream. A hurricane roared in my ears, but I could see objects distinctly. The red fluid ran down the deck seams and trickled on to O’Toole’s cheek, rousing him as it became cold. I remember watching it with a feeling of indifference, except that I hoped it would continue to run.

Benson came out of the stateroom and stood languidly resting his elbow against the bulkhead. His face wore a devilish smile and his dark eyes looked straight and steadily into mine. His shirt was open at the front and I recall the smooth white skin of his neck. I watched him closely and hoped he would come near enough to me. If he had, bound and lashed as I was, I should have killed him with my teeth. I was breathing hard, but otherwise I was cool and collected. “You are the mate,” said the convict leader in a low, even tone, still looking me in the eye and smiling.

O’Toole moved his head slightly and I saw that he was aware of what the man was saying.

“I’ll give you three men the choice of joining or leaving,” went on Benson. “You will have to navigate the ship to where we want to go. What is it, stay or leave?”

“Me friend,” said O’Toole in a strained voice, “ye cannot expect me ter spake with th’ rope a-cuttin’ through me. I can’t think av th’ proposition till ye’ll loosen a few turns av th’ gaskets about me wind.”

Whether it was my desire to live in order to revenge myself upon this felon, Benson, or whether it was the thought of staying and doing what I could for the girl, that swayed me most, I leave people to judge for themselves. I will admit that these two ideas were the only ones in my head at the time, but I cannot honestly recall which of them governed me the most. I know that I never wished to live, before or since, with the desire that came upon me at that moment.

Thoughts come rapidly to a man used to emergencies, and I made up my mind what to do before O’Toole had ceased speaking.

I saw the light in Benson’s eyes when he turned his gaze toward the second mate. Although the matted beard he wore partly covered the smiling movement of the convict’s mouth, I felt that he had passed sentence on O’Toole at that glance. He remained perfectly quiet, however, and awaited my answer. I know that some people have said that men, such as Crojack, O’Toole, and myself, ought to have given better account of ourselves in a fight where we knew it was almost certain death to be beaten. But we were not story-book heroes. We were just plain sailor-men.

There were only three convicts killed in the fight and four wounded. Three of these latter had the unmistakable marks of the second mate’s belaying-pin on their heads.

With the exception of the big-shouldered German sailor in my watch, the men had offered no resistance whatever. This one man had made some show of resistance when cornered under the t’gallant fo’castle, but he was quickly overpowered.

O’Toole and myself were strong men, but what did that count for in such a crowd. Crojack and Brown had defended the quarter-deck until they were shot down and overpowered. They were but two against fifty.

I knew that every man of our crew who would not join would walk the plank long before daylight.

There had been no unnecessary noise about it. The deep, sullen murmur of angry voices forward, followed by splashes alongside, told plainer than words what Benson meant to do with us unless we joined him in his crime.

I knew, also, that he would not suspect the feeling I bore toward his poor victim left in the captain’s cabin, and if I stayed, I might watch for my chance for either rescue or revenge. Even if rescue were out of the question, I felt that nothing could save the villain’s life, should I once again be free.

Therefore, I looked him straight in the eyes and answered:

“I promise to join you for good or bad. Turn me loose and give your orders.”

“And you?” he said, quietly, addressing Brown.

“I’ll follow Mr. Gore in anything,” he answered.

O’Toole gasped, struggled, and half-rose in a sitting posture, crying out:

“My God! Mr. Gore! Mr. Gore! What have ye done? What have ye done?”

Benson opened the door in the bulkhead which separated the fore and after cabins, and instantly three men, who appeared to be his chief followers, entered and cut my lashings and cast me adrift to my ankles. These fellows had evidently been listening and waiting for this.

Then they handed me a sheet of paper and placed pen and ink on the cabin table. I was requested to write that agreement with Benson that stated I joined him of my own free will. This paper was used against me at the trial to prove my piracy. I wrote it and signed it without being threatened in any way.

After that my ankles were freed and Brown was cast loose. He was bleeding slightly from a bullet-hole through his leg, and could scarcely stand from weakness caused by the loss of blood, which had continued for hours.

He was given the paper and pen and he wrote as I had already written.

O’Toole was loosened as far up as his waist and allowed to stand. He avoided our looks, and stood with his gaze bent on a seam in the planking beneath his feet.

His great red head bore a gash above his ear, and the clotted blood made a sickening spectacle. But his spirit was neither bent nor broken.

“’Twould have been better if we was all killed in th’ scuffle,” he said, in a deep, sad voice. It may have been the roaring in my head from the blow I received, but there was something in his tone that made me think of the low, deep murmur of the sea on a quiet night.

“I’ve lived too long already, but if I’d lived t’ be a hundred I’d never expected to see a thing like that,” and he looked at the paper on the table. “I’ll take the walk on nothin’, me friend, for there ain’t no power you’ve got can make a damned, dirty convict av th’ second mate av this ship.”

At that moment I felt meaner than I would care to own, and I noticed that Brown was busy bandaging his wounded leg. A sudden feeling of shame came over me, and, for an instant, I glanced around the cabin for a weapon to make a last rally. Then my eye fell upon that stateroom door, and I remembered.

Men crowded suddenly through the door of the forward cabin, and O’Toole was led out to his doom.

As I saw him hold his head up, and a hard, determined look settle over his seamed and lined face when he turned away, my voice came back to me, and I called loudly for my captain.

I had learned the villain’s name before this. He had no intention of leaving Brown and myself alone in the cabin, so he turned at my hail and stood in the doorway.

“Give him a chance,” I said. “Don’t do that!” and I pointed forward.

The scoundrel raised his eyebrows and drew a revolver from his belt. He slowly cocked the weapon, while men crowded up on either side.

“If you murder him, I’ll stand by him,” I said, and I began to measure my distance. “You may set him adrift and let him take his chance.”

He was no fool, this Benson, and saw that if he killed us both there would be no one aboard he could depend on to navigate the ship. A vessel adrift is an awkward thing, especially if she is overcrowded with desperate men.

He held his pistol lower and I saw that he was hesitating, so I took my advantage.

“Put him in one of the small boats with grub and water and give him a chance for his life. He don’t know where we are going, and can do no harm even if he is picked up,” I argued.

The pistol went down to his hip.

“I give orders aboard this ship,” he said, “and don’t let me hear from you again. Come on deck and show me what the men would like to do. If it’s convenient I may have it done. You are one of us and have a right to ask questions; but don’t let me hear any orders.”

Some of the men appeared disappointed at the ending of the affair, and I fancy most of them would have been better pleased if their leader had shot me. One heavy-set, short ruffian, who stood at Benson’s side, glared savagely at me as I went on deck.

I looked about me for a sign of a ship, but there was nothing in sight. We were drifting ahead before a light air, so I couldn’t tell whether the Countess of Warwick had burned and foundered or been left astern.

The deck about me was crowded with men. I looked to see if there was any trace of the scuffle, and I saw several dark smears on the white planking that told of either the second mate’s belaying-pin or my revolver.

On the starboard hand, amidships, was a heavy plank run out over the topgallant rail, about two fathoms beyond the vessel’s side. Its inner end was lashed fast and a crowd of men with pale faces and rough beards stood near it. That big-shouldered German, who had fought like a man, was being led toward it. Behind him came O’Toole. They were the last to go. Benson meant to leave but little to chance and he intended to leave no witnesses to hang him. I’ve no doubt that he meant to get rid of me in the same manner, after he had used me to take him where he intended to go.

The German sailor halted at the inner end of the plank. His arms were lashed fast to his sides, but his legs were free.

He was lifted or pushed up the steps set against the rail and then he stood on the plank’s end.

“Walk!” came the hoarse order from a lean scoundrel.

The German hesitated and the command was followed by a thrust from a boarding cutlass.

Instead of walking to the end, he turned quickly. The convict’s face was within a couple of feet of the plank.

He looked down on the villain coolly while he measured the distance with his eye. Then he kicked out so fully that the convict dropped as if shot. Both of his eyes were ruined and he never could see well enough afterward to get about the deck alone.

Then the sailor walked slowly out over the side, while several convicts aimed their pistols at him. As he reached the farthest end of the plank he started to turn around. Several reports cracked out, and I saw him sway from the bullet-strokes. Then he fell with a splash and was gone.

O’Toole was led up next. His face was hard set and he walked with a firm step. He reached the steps at the rail and a crowd of men started to push him up.

“Bring him aft!” roared Benson, and the men hesitated.

The leader’s hand went to his belt, but he did not repeat the order.

His short henchman, who had stuck to his side, plunged his heavy-set body into the crowd and reached those nearest the second mate. Three more of the leaders then helped clear the way, while Benson stood there with his pistol out. The arms the convict ship had carried to control her cargo were the principal cause of her loss. A revolver, backed by a man like Benson, was an affair of authority that few men would care to dispute.

O’Toole was led aft to the quarter-deck.

“Bring a boat alongside,” ordered Benson.

Several boats were towing astern, where

they had been dropped by the convicts after they had gained the deck.

One of these, a double-ended craft, was hauled alongside.

There was a breaker of water in the stern-sheets, and several oars lay upon the thwarts. A man was sent below and presently he came back with a bag of ship’s biscuit which he tossed over the side into the boat. O’Toole’s lashings were cast adrift as he stood in the mizzen channels, and he was shoved into her. A man let go the painter, forward, and, before the second mate could turn around, he was adrift and going slowly astern.

I watched him as he stood there in the sunlight, while the breeze, which just ruffled the ocean, made long, dark streaks in the water around his boat. I thought of his past and what a fine mate he had been. Rough man as he was, he appeared grand to me, standing there gazing silently after us, adrift and alone.

The ruffians crowded to the rail and hailed him with jeers and curses.

He remained silent and motionless, with his arms folded and his head bowed slightly forward, until he drifted slowly out of sight.

I tried to bid him farewell, but the words stuck in my throat.

Benson’s voice sounded behind me, and I turned.

The breeze had increased, and I was ordered to lay a course to the southward. After a good deal of bungling I finally had the ship braced sharp up to the southeast trade, which we were now beginning to feel, and when I had a chance to look about me again there was nothing in sight astern save the blue sea and sky.