The rest of the ship's staff were the same, except the captain; and as Dyck had made a friend of Greenock the master, a man of glumness, the days were peaceful enough during the voyage to the Caribbean Sea.
The majority saw that every act of Dyck had proved him just and capable.
He had rigidly insisted on gun practice; he had keyed up the marines to a better spirit, and churlishness had been promptly punished.

He was, in effect, what the sailors called a "rogue," or a "taut one"-- seldom smiling, gaunt of face but fearless of eye, and with a body free from fatigue.
As the weather grew warmer and the days longer, and they drew near to the coast of Jamaica, a stir of excitement was shown.
"You'd like to know what I'm going to do, Michael, I suppose ?" said Dyck one morning, as he drank his coffee and watched the sun creeping up the sky.
"Well, in three days we shall know what's to become of us, and I have no doubt or fear.

This ship's a rebel, but it's returning to duty.
We've shown them how a ship can be run with good food and drink and fair dealing, and, please God, we'll have some work to do now that belongs to a man-of-war!" "Sir, I know what you mean to do," replied Michael.

"You mean to get all of us off by giving yourself up." "Well, some one has to pay for what we've done, Michael." A dark, ruthless light came into Dyck's eyes.

"Some one's got to pay." A grim smile crossed his face.