The Americans gazed at him in astonishment. Apparently the commander of the _General Barrill_ occupied much the same position as a man in a powder magazine with a pipe in his mouth. By his account they understood that the one efficient officer on board, the only man on whom he could rely, had just passed away. “But, after all,” thought the middy, “our concern now is to get back to the _Beale_ with our report. I’m afraid it won’t be an encouraging one.” Aloud, however, he said: “You are going to put about for Boca del Sierras, sir?” “No, we are bound north,” rejoined the captain. “We must be at Santa Anna to-night. In that harbor are the three vessels which went over to the insurgent side. It is my duty to prevent them leaving there and forming a blockade at Boca del Sierras.” Ned saw at once the object of this. It was evident that the government authorities expected that an attack by the united insurgent armies was imminent. Against the armies alone the government forces stood a chance. In order to make matters certain, however, it would appear that the insurgent navy was to conduct a bombardment from the sea. If the ships were allowed to leave Santa Anna, the fall of Boca del Sierras seemed certain. The Dreadnought Boy felt a thrill of admiration go through him for the brave old sailor, who, with a mutinous, incompetent crew, and disaffected, inefficient officers, was going to what seemed certain death. The captain was called forward at this point. Certain matters relating to the disposal of the possessions of the dead officer had come up. With a word of apology, he hastened from the cabin. Ned glanced from the port. The _General Barrill_ was steaming close inshore along the palm-fringed coast. The sea was calm and blue and sparkling. The land breeze brought a balmy odor floating through the open port. It seemed hard to believe that in the midst of these placid surroundings they were on such intimate terms with semi-mutiny and the shadow of death. They were all silent for a space. Perhaps the same thoughts occupied the minds of all. It was Midshipman Stark who broke the silence. “It may be a long time before we see the _Beale_ again,” he said. “Looks so, sir,” agreed Stanley, “and if what that dago skipper says is right we stand a good chance of going to Davy Jones with the rest of his mucker crew.” “I’m not so sure of that!” exclaimed the middy, his eyes sparkling. “You, Stanley, are a good gunner. There are no better hands at the guns in the navy than Strong and Taylor. Why can’t we take these fellows in hand and fight their ship for them?” The sheer audacity of the idea took the others’ breath away. “Well, sir,” broke out Stanley finally, “so far as we’re concerned----”