"You are a prisoner!" exclaimed the Third Officer. "Put up your hands!"
"I'll see you to blazes first, you mutineering dog!" shouted the Captain, making straight for his would-be captor.
Before the skipper had taken a couple of steps, a knife hurtled through the air and buried itself to the hilt in the Englishman's left shoulder. Maddened by the pain, for the wound felt like a stab with a hot iron, Captain Gregory spun round. Only a tremendous effort of will-power kept him from falling. He was almost surrounded by men whose manner and appearance were unmistakably hostile. Evidently they meant to capture and not to kill. The knife had been thrown with the unerring accuracy for which Spaniards are noted; had the owner intended to murder the skipper the blade would have pierced his heart or severed his jugular vein. By transfixing Gregory's shoulder the thrower meant to disable his victim.
In a trice the Captain made up his mind. It was his duty to warn and defend—as far as lay in his power—his employer. Could he but regain Mr. Heatherington's cabin, it might be possible for the four Britons to hold out against the mutineers for days, and perhaps communicate the news of their plight to a vessel that chanced within visual signalling distance.
Even as the ring of mutineers closed in upon their captain, the wounded Englishman made an impetuous irresistible rush.
With the knife still blade-deep in his shoulder, Gregory was severely handicapped, yet so impetuous was his onslaught that one of the men who attempted to bar his way was lifted clean off his feet by a staggering right that caught him fairly and squarely upon the point of his chin.
In his fall the mutineer brought down one of his companions, Gregory plugging a third on the solar plexus and sending him to leaven the whole lump.
Another Spaniard, knife upraised, made a determined attempt to stab the intrepid captain. The point missed by a hair's breadth. The dealer of the blow, unable to recover his balance, presented a face that formed an easy and tempting target. One short, sharp jab, and the mutineer was sent reeling with the loss of four of his front teeth.
So sudden and unsuspected had been Gregory's dash that the mutineers behind him had no time to act. They could not throw their knives without running a great risk of transfixing their compatriots, and by the time the British captain had burst through the cordon and gained the head of the companion-ladder it was too late for a display of knife throwing.
Gregory never knew how he got down the flight of brass-treaded steps. He was so faint and weak from loss of blood that he seemed to have no feeling in his lower limbs, while his brain reeled and his sight grew dim.
He was dimly conscious of hammering upon the door of Mr. Heatherington's state-room, and bellowing an almost incoherent warning; then the door was unbolted and he fell unconscious into the arms of the charterer of the Paloma.
Mr. Heatherington's first act was to place the inert body of the Captain upon the floor. He then locked the door and thrust home the bolts. Already the foremost of the mutineers were crowding down the companion-way, shouting, cursing, and uttering ferocious threats against their intended victims.
Kenneth's father gave a quick glance at the two lads, but it was enough to reassure him. Although pale, Kenneth and Peter showed no signs of panic. Either would have fully admitted to himself that he "had the wind up badly", but even the immediate prospect of death by violence would not have made him own up to it to anyone else.
"Barricade the door, lads, while I get my automatic," exclaimed Mr. Heatherington, as he opened the top drawer of a chest fitted under the bunk.
He found the weapon, which he invariably kept with the magazine fully charged; fumbled for a packet of spare cartridges, failed to find it; tried the second drawer with equal lack of success. By this time Kenneth and Peter had piled up every suitable article of furniture—scanty enough—that could be detached and used to secure still further the massive teak door.
"Keep clear," cautioned Mr. Heatherington. "They'll probably start throwing knives through the jalousie."
The jalousie was a sort of louvred ventilator, which, although admitting air, prevented anyone from seeing directly into the cabin. On the other hand it was possible that a missile could be projected through the openings and stand a fair chance of striking any of the occupants who happened to be immediately behind the door.
For a full minute the mutineers hammered upon the woodwork. Had the barricade not been in position not even the lock and the stout bolts and hinges would have withstood the onslaught. The jalousie was splintered but none of the ruffians dared to show his face at the aperture.
Then the uproar ceased. Ensued a period of a long-drawn out half minute, when no sound broke the silence save the deep breaths of the mutineers, the gentle pulsations of the engines, and the plash of water against the yacht's sides.
To Kenneth the silence was decidedly uncanny. It was far more trying than the clamour that had hitherto prevailed. As for Peter, who not so very long ago had bewailed the fact that the voyage was lacking in adventure, he realized that now peril was thrust upon him with the utmost lavishness. As things were going it seemed too sudden to realize fully.
"Keep well away from the door," cautioned Mr. Heatherington again. "Watch that opening, and crack the skull of the first one who shows himself."
The silence was resumed. Peter and Kenneth, one armed with an ebony ruler and the other with a rather heavy Malacca cane, kept on the alert, one on either side of the door; while Mr. Heatherington, with his automatic cocked and the safety catch released, waited for the onslaught to be resumed.
"It's no use, Ingleses!" exclaimed a mocking voice, which the lads recognized as that of the Chief Officer, Pedro Mendoza. "Open ze door an' surrender, den we give you your lifs; put you on ze leetle boat an' you fetch ze land in leetle no time."
That Mendoza was the leader of the mutineers, or even one of them, came as a surprise to the besieged Englishmen. The Chief Officer had previously been most polite, although he had professed complete ignorance of English. He seemed to be of a quiet, unassuming disposition, and to be a keen and conscientious navigator. To Mr. Heatherington's knowledge, Mendoza, unlike Lopez the Third Officer, never spoke on terms of intimacy with the rest of the crew. Now he was showing himself in his true colours as a mutineer and would-be murderer.
"Sorry I cannot entertain your offer, Señor Mendoza," replied Mr. Heatherington. "For one thing I don't like being in little boats; for another I don't propose to leave the Paloma at present, since I've paid for the chartering of her. Apparently in your diabolical schemes you overlooked the fact that we are in possession of a small wireless set. We will soon call up every vessel within fifty miles of us, explain that the Paloma is in the hands of mutineers, and in a very short time you will be prisoners on board an American cruiser. How does that strike you?"
Mendoza bluntly gasped with consternation. He had not counted upon such a possibility. The Paloma was fitted with wireless, but the installation was in the hands of the mutineers.
"We can do ze interruption, señor," he replied. "Ze ship's wireless it make—how you call it? Caramba! Make ze jam."
"That won't prevent us sending out signals," declared Mr. Heatherington.
A babel of excited voices held sway for the next few minutes. Mendoza had to explain the situation to his fellow mutineers, and apparently the information was extremely disconcerting.
Then Lopez took up his parable.
"You tink you bluff, eh?" he exclaimed mockingly. "You have-a not got wireless. I know all 'bout what you got. An' you talk to discharge Spanish crew an' sign on Ingleses, ah? Palaver ended."