The decks were already thick with half-dressed sailors.

Here and there lanterns gleamed, and what they showed was the three lifeboats of the Heron--two on one side of the cabin and one on the other--blown into matchwood.

Only shapeless fragments and bundles of kindling wood dangled from the davits.

Captain Henshaw, cool and calm in his white clothes, stood with folded arms examining the wreckage on one side.
The sailors from the forecastle went here and there, muttering, growling surlily; for a shrewd blow had been struck at their plan of mutiny, the last item of which was to abandon the Heron off a deserted coast and then row ashore in the lifeboats.

Over their clamor and cursing broke two voices, one accusing in a deep bass and the other protesting innocence in a harsh treble.