“I’m with you, captain,” he yelled. Courtenay saw that he had conquered them—for the instant. He raised his hand. “Behave like men,” he cried. “You can do no good by crowding the deck. I am going to the bridge to see if it is possible to lower the boats. Each boat’s crew will be mustered in turn, passengers and men alike. If you are cowards now you will throw away what chance there is of saving your lives.” His voice rang out like a trumpet. His attitude cowed while it reassured them. Men turned from one to another to ask what the señor captain was saying. They understood much, but they wanted to make sure of each word. Was there any hope? Now that the gates of death were opening, he was a god in their eyes—a god who promised life in return for obedience. A revolver barked twice somewhere on deck. A bullet smashed one of the windows of the music-room and lodged in a panel behind Courtenay. They all heard the reports, but the captain promptly turned the incident to advantage. “You see we mean to maintain order,” he said. “Mr. Malcolm, take care that every one has a lifebelt.” A sort of cheer came from the men. Who could fail to believe in a leader so cool and resourceful? He ran out into the darkness to discover the cause of the shooting. A number of sailors and firemen were striving to launch a boat. There was a struggle going on. He could not distinguish friend from foe in the mêlée, but he threw himself into it fearlessly. “You fools!” he shouted. “You may die soon enough without killing each other. Make way there! Ah! would you?” He caught the gleam of an uplifted knife, and struck savagely at the face of the man who would have used it. The butt of the revolver caught the sailor on the temple. He went down like a stone. Courtenay stumbled over another prostrate body. It was Mr. Boyle, striving to rise. Their eyes met in the gloom. Courtenay stooped and swung the other clear of the fight, for the second and third officers were using their fists, and Walker, even in the hurry of his ascent from the stoke-hold, had not let go of a spanner. The yells and curses, the trampling of dim forms swaying in the fight, the roaring of the gale, and the incessant crash of heavy spray made up a ghastly pandemonium. It was an orgy of terror, of wild abandon, of hopeless striving on the edge of the pit—a stupid madness at the best, as the ship’s life-boats on the port side were on the spar deck; in their panic the men were endeavoring to lower a dingy. Yet Courtenay saw that discipline was regaining its influence. He thought to inspire confidence and stop useless savagery by a sharp command. “All hands follow me to starboard!”