Vonderholtz and his men were between the devil and the deep sea in more ways than one. They dared signal no passing vessel and ask assistance, for the gallows awaited them ashore. Many of them were for abandoning the liner at once. It was useless, they argued, to wait until she foundered under their feet. The _Alsatian_ had become untenable. Refusing to acknowledge that ruin had overtaken his splendid conspiracy, Vonderholtz stormed like a madman at the cowards who would take to the boats. He swore he would stand by the ship until she went down. Were they to abandon the two millions in gold? It was impossible to save it in the boats. Castaways could not explain the possession of a fortune in treasure. The mutineers, who had openly broken away from their leader, replied that they would quit the ship and take chances of being picked up or of making a landing at the Azores. Let the crew and passengers drown in the ship, and good riddance to them. The dissension increased, the bravest of the rascals resolutely standing by Vonderholtz. Those who were for deserting the liner began to crowd to the boats and swing them out, ready for lowering. Discipline had vanished. Captain Michael O’Shea said a word to Johnny Kent, who pulled his revolver from the breast of his shirt. Twenty of the passengers were ready for the order. Some had armed themselves with pieces of steel piping unscrewed from the frames of the state-room berths. Others flourished clubs of scantling saved from the wreckage of the fire. They were men unused to violence--lawyers, merchants, even a clergyman--but they were ready to risk their lives to win freedom from their shameful plight. The compact little band swept out on deck like a cyclone. O’Shea and Johnny Kent opened fire, shooting to kill. The enemy was taken in flank and in rear. Those who were busied with the boats tumbled into them. Before the rush of the passengers could be checked they had cleared a path forward and gained the stairway to the bridge-deck. Scattering shots wounded one or two, but shelter was found behind the wheel-house and chart-room. O’Shea ran to the captain’s quarters and entered with fear in his heart. The room was empty, but there was blood on the floor and signs of a struggle. “They did away with him,” O’Shea cried, his voice choked. “He died like a brave sailor. Now for the officers.” Snatching an axe from the rack in the wheel-house, he jumped for the row of cabins. The first door was locked and he smashed it in with mighty blows. The chief officer of the _Alsatian_ was discovered within, irons on his wrists, a nasty wound slanting across his forehead. “Take me out of this and give me a gun,” sobbed the stalwart Englishman. “How about the rest of ye?” shouted O’Shea. “They shot the old man and clubbed Hayden, second officer, to death. The others are alive.” “Lay your hands on the rail yonder and hold steady,” O’Shea commanded him. “I will shear the links of those bracelets with the axe.”