Four of the pirates formed the crew of the boat, and taking the oars, they pulled towards the shore.  We did not leave the pirate ship with any regret, though few people would desire to be landed on a desert island in the middle of the Pacific.  Tom Congo, the black cook, was the only person who wished us good-bye.  He was evidently sorry to lose us. We had no means of showing our gratitude to him, except by a few hurried words.  We saw his good-natured black visage grinning at us over the bulwarks, as we left the vessel's side.  Suddenly he started back. There was some violent disturbance on deck.  Shouts, and cries, and pistol-shots were heard.  The outbreak we had anticipated was taking place.  There was a mutiny.  Some of the crew had risen against the captain; there could be no doubt about that.  Some of the men in the boat wanted to go back to join in the fray, but an old man among them shook his head and said, "No!  Let the fools fight it out.  When we go back we shall know which side to join."  The rest saw the worldly wisdom of the advice, and calming down their eagerness, they pulled on to the shore.