J. Allan Dunn

“ Bane took a step and spurned the body with his foot.
“Over with that carrion,” he ordered. “It grows dark. Strip the sloop. Set those cravens aboard.” He nodded toward a group of shaking passengers. “Bring in the crew.”
The sailors of the Neptune were herded before him.
“Look ye,” said Bane. “I want no forced men aboard my craft. Free men and equal are we all. Join, and, as ye prove, ye get a full share. That—or aboard the sloop with ye.” ”

“ With her torn taffrail, the decks apparently cumbered with dismantled canvas, only three or four men visible, the sloop, going sluggishly, streams of water issuing from her pumps, gained the sympathy of the commander of the merchantman.
The pirates could see him on the poop, speaking-trumpet in hand, and Bane caught the bellow of his voice, borne down wind, shouting for the smaller vessel to come-up and stand-by for a boat.
“She’s no beauty,” said Bane, “but she will serve. She’s gulled! She sees the jack! Not a man of ye moves till I give the word. Then aboard! We’ll need no guns. ”

“ At the head of the table Bane held place, having given over the deck to the quartermaster, “Scarry-Dick” Denton. His eyes were set and his beard was soaked with liquor spilled by the tossing of the sloop as he tried to quaff it.
“Sink or swim,” he shouted, “we’ll go through bravely. Blood and fire, listen to the thunder!”
He rose, swaying, as the cabin glared blue in the lightning that poured in through port holes and skylight, and held to the breech of a gun, securely lashed behind its closed port.
“The gods are drunk with us in their tipple and have gone together by the ears. ”