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.
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