All of them appeared to be rough men, except the man whose powerful and commanding voice I had heard above the general uproar. He was followed everywhere by a few who kept close at either hand, and the way he roared out orders told plainly that he was the leader.
He was a tall, fine-looking young man, and his powerful frame showed in marked contrast to the rest. But it was his face that appeared most different from those of his followers. Every line in it spoke the leader, and every feature, from the fierce, bright eyes to the square, heavy jaw, spoke the man of indomitable spirit and sudden action.
When I first had a good look at him I could hardly believe such a fine-looking man could be a great villain. It was easy to gather from the remarks of his companions, however, that his appearance belied him, and that even the worst of them stood in awe of his passions. Afterward, when I had learned his history, I realized the enormous power for evil that this man was capable of and the great influence he held over nearly all with whom he came in contact.
It was he who had planned the uprising and had taken advantage of the calm weather when he was allowed on deck to communicate with his fellows.
As he entered the cabin where we lay, the men who were ransacking some of the skipper’s lockers desisted, and their shouting and swearing moderated a little. He forced his way through the crowd without noticing any one and strode up to where we lay. He stopped and gazed at us a few moments, and then, speaking in a low tone to a couple of the ruffians who followed at his heels, he started up the companionway.
The two men spoken to remained behind and sat on the transom near us, holding away from the rest of their fellows and evidently watching us closely, although we were all four fairly wrapped in coils of rope.
I turned my head to see where the leader had gone, and as I saw his head pass the opening of the hatch I noticed his face was reflecting a ruddy glare of light.
A loud exclamation from Brown, who lay staring up through the skylight, made me turn my eyes in the direction he was looking and I saw the lurid glare reflected on the hoisted spanker.
Crojack tried to turn, but was too weak. “It’s the _Countess of Warwick_,” he gasped, “and these devils intend to stay aboard of us. Is O’Toole dead?” and he tried to look into the face of his second mate.