Even before Courtenay
could reach the scene, both the second and third officers were stabbed,
this time mortally. He saw one of the infuriated mutineers heave the
third officer's body overboard--a final quittance for some injury
previously received.
He emptied his revolver into the tumbling mass of men, but he was swept
aside by the fresh gang from the saloon, and perhaps owed his escape
from instant death by falling on the slippery deck. He was up again,
shouting, entreating, striking right and left, but he felt bitterly
that his efforts now were of no avail, and he bethought him that there
was only one resource left. These frenzied wretches would destroy
themselves and all others--so, if he would save even a few of the lives
entrusted to his care, at least one of the boats must be protected.
The struggle was fiercest for the possession of the two life-boats. By
a determined effort the jolly-boat might be secured.
So he ran to obtain help from the few he could trust, from the tiny
company of white men he had left in the saloon; he met them, a forlorn
procession, coming up to the bridge.
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