Mr. Baker came back to the ship about a couple of hours after the marooned men had come aboard. He had spent more than an hour in going to and fro, looking for Smith’s body, but had seen no sign of it, and had concluded that it had sunk at once. That seemed strange, for the lungs must have been full of air, but nobody gave it a second thought unless some of the most disaffected of the crew did; none of them, in all probability, gave so much as a first thought to the fact. I do not really doubt that Smith was dead, and that his body was swaying about in the ooze at the bottom of the sea, unless the sharks got it first. But I remember that soon after I got home, I saw an account—merely an item of a few lines in a shipping paper—of a man’s having been taken off Amsterdam Island, and the description of the man might have been the description of Smith. He had forgotten who he was and how he got there, and he had been badly hurt, but he had managed to live alone for two years on the island. However, whether that was Smith or not, he passed out of our lives when he dropped from the yard.

Captain Coffin was in the cabin with Captain Nelson when Mr. Baker’s boat’s crew came over the side. Mr. Baker showed no surprise when he heard of it, but Starbuck did. He immediately sought out the two men who had come aboard with Captain Coffin, and I suppose he got their story. I was not free, as I was wanted to wait upon the two captains; but that was no disadvantage, for I got the story as Captain Coffin told it to Captain Nelson. They sat at the cabin table, leaning back in their chairs at their ease, with a pitcher of hot rum and water between them. I remember the pitcher exactly. It was a rather small white crockery pitcher, with a bluish tinge, such as they used to serve water in at country hotels, only smaller. They sat there quietly, and the hot rum and water steamed gently between them; and Captain Coffin had his fingers clasped loosely about his glass, but he drank little, and that in little sips. Between times he either gazed contentedly out of the cabin window, saying nothing, or he spoke briefly of his experiences in the Battles or on Amsterdam. His utterances were never long at any one time, but always punctuated by a sip and a long look out of the window. Captain Nelson said nothing at all. I stuck around rather more closely than was necessary.

It was the old story of mutiny, but in this case for no reason whatever except that the mutineers saw a good chance of taking the vessel. The ringleaders must have laid their plans before the Battles sailed, Captain Coffin thought, and have enlisted some of the crew in the scheme. Possibly Wallet knew about it also. They met the Clearchus at every opportunity, until Wallet went aboard of the Battles, where he was at the time when Captain Coffin told the story, so far as he knew; but he had turned out to be such a pusillanimous cuss that he had not been able to maintain himself in the position first given him. The bothering of the Clearchus was but incidental; but the crew got so much fun out of their sport with us—or Drew did, which was more to the point—that they could not resist the temptation to try it whenever they had the chance.

Sam Drew was the leader in the mutiny. At the name Captain Nelson grunted, and said that he knew Sam Drew, and had never known any good of him. Captain Coffin nodded, and went on with the story. It had all happened before they got to Fayal. Drew was a boatsteerer. One morning, as Captain Coffin came on deck, six men fell upon him at once, pinioning his hands, his arms and his legs, and throttling him. They must have rehearsed their parts pretty thoroughly, for each man seized some particular member, and clung to it; he was seized around the knees, as in a tackle at football—football had hardly developed the tackle at that time—and thrown to the deck, while the sixth man choked him. Captain Coffin is a tough customer to attack, and the men knew it. With two men on each arm, and choked by another, while the man who had tackled him took a turn about his ankles with the slack of the main sheet, he still put up a stiff fight, and almost got the two men on his right arm overboard. The odds were too great, however. He was soon bound hand and foot, tied to a stanchion, gasping for breath.

He had been aware of a struggle going on forward. He now saw Mr. Mayhew, his first mate, beheaded by a single stroke of a spade, and Jim Carter, the second mate, badly wounded by a lance. The third mate was not to be seen, but he was soon brought up from below. Then Drew called a council of a few of his cronies—a Council of State, perhaps—and spoke briefly to them. Captain Coffin could not hear what he said to them, but he heard plainly what he said afterward.

“Over with him, men,” he said, indicating the body of poor Mayhew.

The body was uncere­mon­i­ously pitched into the sea, and the head after it. Then the men hesitated.

“Over with him!” said Drew impatiently. “You know what happens to the man who refuses to obey orders.”

The men laid hold of the wounded Carter and began dragging him to the rail. He was too badly wounded to resist, but Captain Coffin struggled and roared at them. The men hesitated again, but Drew smiled.

“Never mind him,” he said. “He can’t do anything. I’m in command of this vessel now. Over with him!”

They got Carter up on the rail, and pitched him into the sea. Then Drew turned to the third mate. He, poor fellow, was not wounded. He saw that his fate was to be left swimming in the middle of the Atlantic, and he tried to meet that fate like a man. It was too much. He could not; and when Drew offered him the choice of joining them or of going over the side, he joined. It is hard to blame him for his choice.

Captain Coffin then saw the men start for him; but it was only to carry him below and to throw him on his bunk, bound as he was. He lay there until the next morning.

Drew came to him about the middle of the forenoon, at just about four bells, and sat down beside him and said he wanted to have a talk. He said that, unfortunately, the third mate had fallen overboard during the night. This may have been true, or he may have been distrusted and have been thrown overboard, or his conscience may have tortured him so that he jumped overboard. Captain Coffin never knew which was the truth, but the fact was that he was no longer there, and the vessel was without a navigator excepting the captain. Drew, therefore, had a proposition to make, and the captain could take it or leave it. It was this: that the captain should navigate, under guard in his cabin, coming out only at night for observations. If he would not consent to that he would follow his three mates.

That was rather a hard choice; but Captain Coffin could see no gain to anybody by his being thrown overboard, while, if he accepted, there might be a chance of getting his vessel back. He did not see how, and he had no plans, but there would be time enough to make them. So he accepted Drew’s offer, on condition that he was to be free in his cabin, and that he was not to be compelled to speak to any of them. Drew smilingly agreed to those conditions; and it had been strictly true that he was “confined to his cabin,” and that he left written instructions on the cabin table every morning. Thereafter, he saw nothing except the view obtained from his stateroom port, and a brief nightly view of the starlit heavens and a wide, dark sea. Drew himself told him where they wanted to go, and he did the rest.

This state of affairs continued until he had navigated, according to instructions, to Amsterdam Island, and had come to anchor there. He knew nothing of what had taken place on the schooner since the mutiny, as he was at all times closely guarded. Then he was told briefly to come along, and was taken ashore with the two other men—both foremast hands—and left there, with nothing but what they had on their persons. Why they did not simply throw all three of them overboard he could not imagine, unless they had had enough of murder; and why he had been permitted to navigate so long, when they had a competent navigator in Wallet, he did not see. But so it was. No doubt Wallet had been navigator since; the nine months that they had been on Amsterdam. His plans—he had made many—had come to nothing, but what could he have done, and why was the situation not better as it was than it would have been if he had allowed himself to be thrown overboard? Tell him that.

To that Captain Nelson growled assent. “Where’d you get your flag?” he asked.

Captain Coffin straightened in his chair, and brought his fist down on the table. “Gorry!” he cried. “I forgot that flag. I ’ll have to go ashore and take it down. It’s my undershirt.”

“Only one you had?”

“ ’Course. ’D you think I wore two?”

“Cold?”

“Sometimes. But that’s nothing, and it’s over and done with.”

The two captains sat silent for a while, Captain Coffin gazing out of the cabin window.

“I aimed,” he said at last, “to wreck her, if nothing better turned up, when we got where there were some people, and my chance would be as good as the next man’s. I guess Drew knew it, and thought he’d better get rid of me. I had the Keelings in mind, or Sunda Strait”—he called it Sunday—“or some parts thereabouts, if the weather turned favorable for wrecking. Pretty bad gales at the Keelings in the season. Well—that’s all, I guess. I’d like to come across the Battles again. Maybe I ’ll be able to get some fast little schooner, and some kind of a crew, at Batavia, and go after her. I’d spend my last cent on it.”

Captain Nelson grunted again. “I’d give you a berth here if I had one. Better make up your mind to stay on this ship, Fred, and we ’ll see what turns up. I ’ll ship your two men. We’re two men short.” Then he told about Smith.

“Good!” cried Captain Coffin. “Good! Just right, and just like you, Cap’n. I’d have given something to have the chance on the Battles, but there was never a suspicion. Drew was too smart. He’s a damned smart man.”

“H’m!” Captain Nelson was noncommittal. “Now that we’re here, we may as well lay in some wood. I ’ll have the men take down that shirt of yours.”

Then he turned to me, and told me that I might as well go on deck, for they would not need my services right away. I took the hint, and went. After all, stories of mutinies are much alike; they differ only in details. But the two captains sat there a couple of hours longer, with the fresh pitcher of hot rum and water which I had brought just before I came up.

Something turned up sooner than they could have expected. We were only a day at Amsterdam laying in wood, for we did not really need wood. Our anchor was up the next afternoon and we sailed to the northeast, bound either to Sunda Strait, or for a cruise along the south coast of Java, as circumstances might determine. We had been out about a week, and were getting into more comfortable weather, when I was awakened, very early one morning, by a rumpus on deck. There were shouts, a tramping of feet, and a heavy report, like that of a Spencer gun. My heart jumped up into my throat, I was completely awake, there was that prickling sensation at the roots of my hair, my breath came short and hard, and I found that I was smiling. It was no use, I was always taken that way when any kind of a fight promised. I could no more help it than I could help breathing; not so easily. I scrambled into some clothes and ran up the ladder.

I came out into the gray, melancholy half-light of early dawn. I was conscious of it and of the whispering sea about us. If I had ever contemplated suicide, I am sure it would have been at just that time of day, for that is the time when a man’s fortitude is at the lowest ebb, every­thing looks black, and the future holds no promise. The darkest night is not nearly so bad. That gray loneliness of early dawn is an equally fitting time to choose for going insane, and Mr. Snow seemed to have chosen it for that purpose. He was standing in the same spot that Captain Nelson occupied when he dropped Smith from the yard, and was living over that experience, with himself in the captain’s place. A Spencer was in his right hand, the barrel in the hollow of his left arm, and a long, sharp lance leaned against the after house. Now and then he bellowed an order at an imaginary man on the yard, and that was apparently what he had shot at. Spencer bullets, however, are not imaginary, and nothing was to be seen of the men of the watch. They had run forward and taken refuge behind the foremast, the try-works, and anything that offered shelter. I caught a glimpse of one poor fellow who had taken refuge behind the mainmast, almost directly in front of Mr. Snow, and who was trying his level best to make himself small. Mr. Snow did not notice him; did not see him. All his attention was directed to that foretopsail yard.

Less than half a minute had gone since the report of the Spencer had startled me into full wakefulness. I had my trousers on, but I had not stopped to button them, trusting to one suspender to hold them in place. I had come up the booby-hatch, a very few feet behind Mr. Snow, and although I was barefoot, I must have made considerable noise; but he was so taken up with his bellowing and flourishing that he did not hear me. I think I might have come through the deck at his very feet and run into him without his being aware of it. I heard quiet stirrings on the cabin ladder and down the booby-hatch, and I knew that the mates and boatsteerers would be on hand in a few seconds; and noises in the cabin told me that Captain Nelson would not be far behind. Mr. Snow’s attention had at last been attracted by a movement behind the mainmast—the man there was so scared that he could not keep still—and he raised his rifle. It was like shooting point-blank at the side of a barn. He might easily hit the man, who had not sense enough to keep behind the mast, but kept popping out. I was upon him in one jump, had him about the body from behind, and was grabbing for the rifle.

I was much taller and stronger than when I had tackled Lupo, and Mr. Snow was not the man that Lupo was. Still, I was not prepared for the strength that he showed. Although I succeeded in deflecting the rifle, he managed to discharge it, catching the flesh of my thumb partly under the hammer, making a wound that bothered me for weeks. The bullet ploughed up the deck. Then another pair of arms enveloped him. It was Mr. Macy, and in his arms Mr. Snow was helpless. Then the boatsteerers and the other mates appeared, with the captain just behind them, and I let go my hold and fell back.

Mr. Snow was violently insane, there was no doubt about that. He struggled, shouted, and foamed at the mouth. They took him below, and he was kept locked in his cabin for two days, but he made such a row there that nobody could get much sleep. On the second day he succeeded in setting fire to his mattress, which made a great smoke and almost smothered him. The fire was put out and he was resuscitated; but Captain Nelson was forced, for the safety of the ship, to put him in irons and remove him from the cabin. I used to hear his cries and shouts for days, issuing from the bowels of the Clearchus somewhere. Finally they stopped, and I was afraid that he had died; but the steward told me that he was only sulking, and would not say a word, or take any notice of him when he carried food to him. I did not blame Mr. Snow for that, and thought it might be a symptom of returning sanity. The steward was a thoroughly obnoxious little pest and had a special animosity toward Mr. Snow for continuing to live and adding to his work. Poor fellow! I refer to Mr. Snow, and not to the steward. What an unhappy time he must have had ever since we left Cape Town!

We were standing to the northeast, for the Keeling Islands, hoping to find some homeward-bound whaler there to which we could transfer our crazy man. Imagine having such a passenger foisted upon you; but nobody seemed to have any doubt that any whaler going home would take him. It seemed to be his only chance—and ours. It was wearing upon the nerves of every one in the ship to hear the noises that he made, and then to have the noises stop. I used to listen for them, and Peter said that the men used to; and the men were highly superstitious, as ignorant sailors are apt to be. I have no shame in acknowledging that I was superstitious myself. The men maintained that nothing but bad luck would come from it, and I found myself of their opinion, although I knew well enough that it was foolish and had no sense or reason in it, unless the very belief of the men should bring on the thing they feared. Nevertheless, I was in suspense—waiting for it.

The bad luck came soon enough. We had got about halfway to the Keelings, and had not seen a single spout. That did not bother Captain Nelson, for I have no reason to think he was expecting to see any; but one afternoon we raised a solitary spout to leeward. We had struck the southeast trades two days before, and were then bowling along merrily, the ship making a great fuss, but not so much headway as anybody would be led to think who did not know her ways. The wind was strong from a little south of east, which made it as nearly close-hauled as was comfortable for the Clearchus, and it was typical trade-wind weather. The whale was about three or four miles off the lee bow when we first saw his spout.

We did not lower at once; indeed, there was doubt whether we should lower at all. I saw Captain Nelson gazing at the spout for a long time, evidently in doubt what to do. Obviously, he hated to lose the time, for he was anxious to get Mr. Snow started home as soon as possible, and any delay might mean that he would miss the ship which otherwise he would catch. I could almost see the arguments which passed through his mind. Captain Nelson was a tender-hearted man under his crust, and I believe his anxiety was entirely for Mr. Snow, and that he was thinking of getting him started home as soon as possible rather than contemplating the relief it would be to get rid of him. But obviously, too, he was out for whales, and there was one within easy reach; “she blows and she breaches, and sparm at that,” to quote the immortal classic of Captain Simmons. “Ile is sceerce, and ile is money.” That settled it. Captain Nelson began to move slowly to and fro, and I knew that we should lower as soon as we got into a favorable position.

Soon after Mr. Snow’s collapse Captain Coffin had been offered the fourth mate’s berth until there should be something better. He took it at once, like the good sport he was. The two men who came with him relieved the sailmaker and me, so that I was now nothing but cabin boy. I did not like being uncere­mon­i­ously pushed out of my boat in that way, but there was nothing to do or say about it, so I held my peace, and tried to be contented.

Mr. Baker and Captain Coffin lowered—I suppose I should not speak of him as Captain Coffin now, as he was temporarily fourth mate, and plain Mr. Coffin. The whale was travelling about as fast as the ship, and had not sounded since we had sighted him. There was something a little odd about the way he travelled, but it was nothing very extraordinary, and it was only after we had been watching him for a good while that it was forced upon our attention. It turned out that the whale was blind. Mr. Tilton was the first man to say what was the matter, and it dawned upon him only when he saw how the whale acted while the boats were pulling up to strike.

They approached from the rear, where the whale could not have seen them in any case. Mr. Baker was to starboard of him, and about a boat’s length ahead of Mr. Coffin, who was to port. The wash of the seas under the strong trade wind was enough to nearly drown the noise of the oars, and the men were pulling hard. Mr. Baker was just drawing past the flukes, when the whale seemed to feel that every­thing was not as it should be. The slow, steady, pumping motion of the flukes ceased, and the great flukes moved from side to side, feeling, as delicately and gently as the antennÆ of an insect, for whatever they might find. Mr. Baker pulled ahead, and avoided them. Mr. Coffin tried to avoid them, but could not, for they were just abeam of him, and the men felt the gentle touch upon the keel amidships. At that moment Starbuck planted his first iron near the side fin, and at that touch upon the keel, Miller, knowing instantly that something would happen, hastily seized a harpoon, and darted. The harpoon struck just under the hump. There was no chance for a second iron, for the flukes lifted convulsively, staving in two planks, and rolling the boat over; then came down in a smashing blow upon the water, and the whale started to run.

The men of Captain Coffin’s boat were swimming about the wreck. I was watching through my old glass, and counted heads. There was one missing, although I could not tell, at that distance, who it was. Mr. Baker was fast disappearing, to the eastward, in the foaming wake of the whale. Still watching, I thought I saw a head suddenly bob up in the sea behind the whale. I lost it, and, after a long search, I found it again. The man, whoever he was, seemed to be having difficulty in swimming. I dropped the glass to the end of its lanyard, where it swung and bumped against my chest at every jump, while I ran to tell Captain Nelson. Mr. Brown lowered at once, and went after him.

Mr. Brown was soon back with Captain Coffin, who had torn a tendon in his ankle. He had been caught under his boat when it rolled over, and a tub of line had been emptied over him, entangling him completely. The coils of line were wound about his body, arms, and legs, and the whale was running. He fought desperately to get clear of the line, and thought he was clear, when a bight of the line tightened about his ankle. He was jerked under water when the line came taut, but managed to get hold of the line, pull himself forward, and cut. Captain Coffin was a powerful man, never lost his head, and was resourceful; but most whalemen who survive—and many who do not—are that. He was helped into the cabin, and spent most of the next three weeks with his bandaged ankle up on the lounge there, fretting because he could not return to his duty.