CHAPTER ONE.THE REFUGE OF THE MUTINEERS.THE MUTINY.On a profoundly calm and most beautiful evening towards the end of thelast century, a ship lay becalmed on the fair bosom of the PacificOcean.Although there was nothing piratical in the aspect of the ship--if weexcept her guns--a few of the men who formed her crew might have beeneasily mistaken for roving buccaneers. There was a certain swagger inthe gait of some, and a sulky defiance on the brow of others, which toldpowerfully of discontent from some cause or other, and suggested theidea that the peaceful aspect of the sleeping sea was by no meansreflected in the breasts of the men. They were all British seamen, butdisplayed at that time none of the well-known hearty off-hand rollickingcharacteristics of the Jack-tar.It is natural for man to rejoice in sunshine. His sympathy with cats inthis respect is profound and universal. Not less deep and wide is hisdiscord with the moles and bats. Nevertheless, there was scarcely a manon board of that ship on the evening in question who vouchsafed even apassing glance at a sunset which was marked by unwonted splendour. Thevessel slowly rose and sank on a scarce perceptible ocean-swell in thecentre of a great circular field of liquid glass, on whose undulationsthe sun gleamed in dazzling flashes, and in whose depths were reflectedthe fantastic forms, snowy lights, and pearly shadows of cloudland. Inordinary circumstances such an evening might have raised the thoughts ofordinary men to their Creator, but the circumstances of the men on boardof that vessel were not ordinary--very much the reverse."No, Bill McCoy," muttered one of the sailors, who sat on the breach ofa gun near the forecastle, "I've bin flogged twice for merely growlin',which is an Englishman's birthright, an' I won't stand it no longer. Apretty pass things has come to when a man mayn't growl without tastin'the cat; but if Captain Bligh won't let me growl, I'll treat him to aroar that'll make him cock his ears an' wink six times withoutspeakin'."
CHAPTER ONE.THE REFUGE OF THE MUTINEERS.THE MUTINY.On a profoundly calm and most beautiful evening towards the end of thelast century, a ship lay becalmed on the fair bosom of the PacificOcean.Although there was nothing piratical in the aspect of the ship--if weexcept her guns--a few of the men who formed her crew might have beeneasily mistaken for roving buccaneers. There was a certain swagger inthe gait of some, and a sulky defiance on the brow of others, which toldpowerfully of discontent from some cause or other, and suggested theidea that the peaceful aspect of the sleeping sea was by no meansreflected in the breasts of the men. They were all British seamen, butdisplayed at that time none of the well-known hearty off-hand rollickingcharacteristics of the Jack-tar.It is natural for man to rejoice in sunshine. His sympathy with cats inthis respect is profound and universal. Not less deep and wide is hisdiscord with the moles and bats. Nevertheless, there was scarcely a manon board of that ship on the evening in question who vouchsafed even apassing glance at a sunset which was marked by unwonted splendour. Thevessel slowly rose and sank on a scarce perceptible ocean-swell in thecentre of a great circular field of liquid glass, on whose undulationsthe sun gleamed in dazzling flashes, and in whose depths were reflectedthe fantastic forms, snowy lights, and pearly shadows of cloudland. Inordinary circumstances such an evening might have raised the thoughts ofordinary men to their Creator, but the circumstances of the men on boardof that vessel were not ordinary--very much the reverse."No, Bill McCoy," muttered one of the sailors, who sat on the breach ofa gun near the forecastle, "I've bin flogged twice for merely growlin',which is an Englishman's birthright, an' I won't stand it no longer. Apretty pass things has come to when a man mayn't growl without tastin'the cat; but if Captain Bligh won't let me growl, I'll treat him to aroar that'll make him cock his ears an' wink six times withoutspeakin'."
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