With the exception of the big-shouldered German sailor in my watch, the men had offered no resistance whatever. This one man had made some show of resistance when cornered under the t’gallant fo’castle, but he was quickly overpowered. O’Toole and myself were strong men, but what did that count for in such a crowd. Crojack and Brown had defended the quarter-deck until they were shot down and overpowered. They were but two against fifty. I knew that every man of our crew who would not join would walk the plank long before daylight. There had been no unnecessary noise about it. The deep, sullen murmur of angry voices forward, followed by splashes alongside, told plainer than words what Benson meant to do with us unless we joined him in his crime. I knew, also, that he would not suspect the feeling I bore toward his poor victim left in the captain’s cabin, and if I stayed, I might watch for my chance for either rescue or revenge. Even if rescue were out of the question, I felt that nothing could save the villain’s life, should I once again be free. Therefore, I looked him straight in the eyes and answered: “I promise to join you for good or bad. Turn me loose and give your orders.” “And you?” he said, quietly, addressing Brown. “I’ll follow Mr. Gore in anything,” he answered. O’Toole gasped, struggled, and half-rose in a sitting posture, crying out: “My God! Mr. Gore! Mr. Gore! What have ye done? What have ye done?” Benson opened the door in the bulkhead which separated the fore and after cabins, and instantly three men, who appeared to be his chief followers, entered and cut my lashings and cast me adrift to my ankles. These fellows had evidently been listening and waiting for this. Then they handed me a sheet of paper and placed pen and ink on the cabin table. I was requested to write that agreement with Benson that stated I joined him of my own free will. This paper was used against me at the trial to prove my piracy. I wrote it and signed it without being threatened in any way. After that my ankles were freed and Brown was cast loose. He was bleeding slightly from a bullet-hole through his leg, and could scarcely stand from weakness caused by the loss of blood, which had continued for hours. He was given the paper and pen and he wrote as I had already written. O’Toole was loosened as far up as his waist and allowed to stand. He avoided our looks, and stood with his gaze bent on a seam in the planking beneath his feet. His great red head bore a gash above his ear, and the clotted blood made a sickening spectacle. But his spirit was neither bent nor broken. “‘Twould have been better if we was all killed in th’ scuffle,” he said, in a deep, sad voice. It may have been the roaring in my head from the blow I received, but there was something in his tone that made me think of the low, deep murmur of the sea on a quiet night.