But they couldn't take liberties in the second mate's watch. You bet they couldn't! Bucko Lynch curbed his vocabulary and stopped using his fists, as the captain ordered, but he didn't stop working his men. There was no slackness in his watch; he kept us up to scratch. That made the starboard stiffs especially bitter against him. They felt themselves cheated of the easy times Fitzgibbon's men were having.
But the sailors didn't feel that way about it. They were worried, just as I was. The sailors knew ships as the stiffs did not. They couldfeelships. Those dumb squareheads could not reason it out as I could (with Newman's assistance), but they could feel the undercurrent of intrigue. They were glad to escape the thumpings to which the mates had accustomed them; but they were not satisfied with the new order for they could feel that this strange peace was unreal, unhealthful. Aye, the calm before the typhoon. They felt it just as I felt it, just as Nigger felt it. As for pessimistic Nigger, so strictly did he mind his own business these quiet days he was like a dumb man, a silent brown shadow. But he went on sharpening his knife.
To heighten the squareheads' foreboding, and to scare the wits half out of us all, Nils' ghost visited the ship. You know what sort of men we were in that foc'sle; save Newman and the parson, we were ignorant men, and superstitious. We all believed implicitly in ghosts, I, and the squareheads, Nigger and Cockney, and even the stiffs who had not the sea in their blood. Aye, even Blackie and Boston believed in haunts. It seemed reasonable to us that Nils should come back to the scene of his earthly misery. Reasonable, and fearsome.
Nils came at night, in the middle watch, always in the middle watch. That circumstance might have aroused suspicion in sceptical minds. But we were not sceptical.
Lynch had us busy forward this night. Aye, it had become a practice with him to keep us busy in the fore part of the ship during the night watches. One of his tradesmen, Connolly, kept the poop watch for him. No, we did not think this arrangement odd; we worked too hard to think.
Newman had the first wheel. At four bells, a lad named Oscar went aft to relieve the big fellow. A moment later he reappeared forward, wild-eyed and spluttering his own lingo. Oh, he was a frightened squarehead. All we could understand of his speech was the word "Nils."
The word was enough. We didn't need the commotion and consternation among Oscar's countrymen to help us interpret. He had seen Nils.
"What's the matter with you?" demanded Lynch.
Lindquist answered for Oscar. Nils was at the wheel. Oscar had gone aft to relieve Newman, and he had seen his dead shipmate at the wheel, steering the ship. He was afraid to relieve a ghost.
"Oh, rot!" says Lynch. "Here, come along aft with me, the lot of you.We'll lay this ghost."
Oscar did not want to go aft again, but he had to. It was better to face a ghost than disobey Bucko Lynch. That is what the rest of us thought, too. We were all afraid to go aft, but more afraid not to. So we huddled close upon the second mate's heels, and clumped noisily upon the deck, as though to rout the wraith with our racket.
Perhaps our racket did send Nils away. It certainly aroused the men sleeping in the cabin, and the roundhouse. But we saw Newman at the helm, not Nils.
"Well, m'son, where's your ghost?" demanded Mister Lynch.
Oscar was still too frightened to muster his scant English, but Lindquist talked for him. "He say like dis, sir, Nils ban at da wheel when he koom aft, oond den he yump vrom der wheel oond run for'ard yust like da time da captain thoomp him."
"Rot!" says Lynch. "My man, have you permitted a ghost stand your trick at the wheel?" This last to Newman.
"Hardly a ghost, sir," answered Newman. We could not see his face, but from his tone I knew he was smiling. "Do I look like one? Not yet, I hope. I was just about to turn over the wheel to the lad, sir, when he shied—at the shadow of the mizzen stays'l I think—and rushed away forward."
"What is wrong, Mister?" inquired the captain's soft voice. Aye, we all jumped as if it were the ghost talking. Captain Swope, with Mister Fitzgibbon behind him, had popped up from below as quietly as If he were a ghost.
"Nothing wrong, Captain," replied Mister Lynch. "One of my jaspers declared he saw the little squarehead's ghost dancing about the poop, and now the lot of them have nerves. I brought them aft to teach them better in a peaceful way."
This was a straight dig at the Old Man's "be gentle" orders, but it didn't pierce his skin. Swope laughed, genuinely amused, his soft, rippling laugh that always frightened us so much. "Peaceful, eh? By the Lord, Mister, it sounded like an army overhead. And it was no more than a ghost!" He peered aft, and discerned Newman at the wheel, recognizing him by bulk, I guess, for the binnacle lights were half shuttered and Newman's face invisible. But I'm sure he recognized him, for he pursed his lips in a way I had seen him do before when he looked at Newman. He strolled away forward, to the break of the poop, glancing this way and that, and back again to the hatch. "If it were moonlight, I'd say your man was touched," says he to Lynch. "But I suppose he was half asleep and dreaming."
"I'll wake him up and work the dreams out of him," promised MisterLynch.
"But no hazing, Mister. The men are in bad enough temper as it is."
Aye, thus to Lynch, as though the rest of us were beyond ear-shot. But all the time his eyes were upon us, measuring the effect of his words. Oh, he was a sly beast, a "slick one," as Beasley said.
"Which is the lad who beheld this—ghost?" he added.
The second mate shoved Oscar forward so that he stood in the light that streamed up from the cabin.
"So one little ghost scared you, eh?" says he to poor trembling Oscar. "Why, my man, if all the ghosts in this ship were to begin walking about, we living men would be crowded into the sea." With that he went below, laughing, as though he had just made a fine joke, and leaving us more frightened than ever.
The mate went below again also, but he wasn't laughing. We sensed that the news worried Fitzgibbon, and that strengthened our conviction. Blackjack Fitzgibbon had cause for worry. So we thought. Wasn't it he, as well as Swope, who mishandled the boy to his death?
That ended the scene aft. Oscar relieved the wheel; he had to. Lynch put the rest of us to work again, and during the balance of the watch we saw ghosts in every corner.
When we went below at eight bells, we held a grand talk in the foc'sle, a parliament that practically all hands attended. Aye, we were quite convinced that the ghost was abroad. Oscar stuck to his yarn, and embellished it, and left no room in our minds for doubt. Newman laughed at us, and denied the presence of a spook on the poop; that done he turned in and slept. But his evidence didn't shake our belief. Oscar gave too many particulars.
The compass had not been shuttered when he went aft to relieve the wheel, and he had seen Nils standing in the light. He couldn't be mistaken. "Yust as plain like a picture." He knew him by his boyish stature, by his beardless features, by his clothes. He was wearing his Scotch-plaid coat and red tam-o'-shanter; Oscar couldn't be mistaken in them, because he had helped Nils pick them out in a Glasgow slops shop "last ship." Didn't his mates remember those togs?
His mates remembered them. So did the rest of us. That coat and cap had hung on the wall opposite Nils' bunk all during his illness. He was very proud of these colorful garments. Of course, we told each other, he would appear in them after death. And, of course, he was bound to come back. Didn't murdered men always come back? So we assured each other; and the older men began spinning yarns about other ghosts in other ships. Aye, we talked so much we were afraid to turn in. Captain Swope's words about the ghost crew in theGolden Boughimpressed us mightily. We told each other that many men must have died cruel deaths in this notorious hooker; very likely Nils' spirit was but one of many. Some of the lads recalled mysteries of the night that they had encountered in this ship, shadowy things melting into darkness, strange noises, and the like; and always they had seen or heard these things aft, around the break of the poop or beneath the boat skids—in just about the spot where Nils had been beaten up, first by the skipper and then by the mate. Aye, Nils gave us the creeps. Another herald of storm, I felt.
Next night Nils did not walk, though the lads in both watches insisted they saw and heard things that were not right or natural. The night following in the midwatch—our midwatch—half the watch swore they saw him flit across the main deck and disappear behind the roundhouse.
The next night marked Nils' last and most startling appearance. In the heart of the middle watch, while my mates were sound asleep, the ghost walked into the empty port foc'sle.
That is, the port foc'sle should have been empty, since the mate had the watch out. But it happened that Nigger, coming from the wheel, seized an opportunity to slip into the deserted room for a quiet smoke-O. It was a liberty he was safe in taking, now that the bucko mate had reformed.
My bunk in the starboard foc'sle was handy to the door connecting the two rooms, and when he burst terror-stricken through that door my unconscious head was right in front of him. I awakened abruptly to discover Nigger clawing my hair; aye, and when I looked up and saw his convulsed face and gleaming, bulging eyes, I knew at once he had seen Nils.
He was too scared to talk; he could only stutter. "Gug-gug-gug-God!"But he pointed into the other foc'sle.
Well, my bowels were water, as the saying is, but nevertheless I turned out promptly. I had to. Other men were waking up. Even Newman, in the bunk opposite, had his eyes open; and he was regarding me in a very curious way. So I couldn't hold back. I was bully of the crowd, and I would not let the crowd think I was afraid to face anything, even a ghost.
Out I rolled, and into the doorway I stepped. There I stopped. God's truth, I was frozen to the spot with terror. For Nils' shadow lay athwart the floor of the port fo'sle, his moving shadow. It was this shadow coming in through the deck door that had frightened Nigger. He recognized the shadow as Nils because a tam-o'-shanter crowned the silhouette, and Nils had owned the only tam on board.
I recognized that awful shadow, too. But I saw more than the shadow. I saw a white hand appear on the door jamb. A ghost-like hand, it was so white and small, a patch of plaid cloth, a little bare, white foot lifting above the sill, and then the tam and the white face beneath it. Aye, that white face with its great, staring eyes!
So much I saw during the instant I stood in the doorway. Then Newman pushed past me and crossed the port foc'sle in a bound. He joined the white face in the other doorway, and disappeared with it into the outer darkness.
Not a man save I—and Newman—had had nerve enough to turn out. Not a man save I—and Newman—had seen that white face. Even Nigger had not seen it; he had run out on deck through the starboard door. But my watch-mates were awake and eager. "Is it gone?" they chorused.
"Yes," I answered gruffly. I rolled into my bunk, and turned my face to the wall. My wits were still spinning from shock, and I didn't want to answer questions.
"Where did Big 'Un go?" came from Blackie's bunk.
"How do I know? Stow the guff, the lot of you; I want to sleep."
But I didn't sleep. I lay there thinking about the face I had seen. Nils' shadow, Nils' clothes—and the lady's face! The ghost that had scared all hands was the lady dressed in Nils' clothes!
The lady brought Newman bad news. As I afterwards learned, the steward overheard a conversation between the captain and the mate, and reported it to her, and she immediately risked her masquerade forward to carry the tale to Newman.
During the morning Newman said to me, "Watch your step to-day, Jack.Trouble brewing."
I watched my step, but not until the middle of the afternoon watch, when I went aft to relieve Newman at the wheel, did I see any indications of a coming breach of the afterguard's own peace. I sensed it then, before I saw it. Aye, as soon as I stepped upon the poop I smelled the old air. The very carriage of the officers said that the old times were back again.
Newman gave me the course. I repeated it aloud, as is the custom.Then he whispered, hurriedly.
"I think he intends to lock me up. Help Deakin keep peace for'ard.Remember, lad, my life—and hers—may depend upon it."
He started forward. I wanted to call after him, run after him, ask him a score of questions and directions.
But I was chained to my task. I dare not leave the wheel. Neither dare I call out. For Captain Swope had appeared on deck. He stood lounging against the companion hatch, staring aft, in our direction. Bucko Fitzgibbon stood by his side. They had suddenly appeared from below as the helm was changing hands.
Aye, and as soon as I clapped eyes upon them I knew that at last hell was about to bubble over. They had thrown off the masks of meekness that so ill fitted them. Fitzgibbon was truculence personified. The expression in Swope's face when he looked at Newman was so terrible it might almost of itself make a lad stop breathing—an expression of gloating, pitiless, triumphant cruelty.
Lynch, in charge of the deck, stood apart from the others, but he too was looking aft, not at me, but at Newman. There was something in his bearing also which declared plainly that some ugly thing was about to happen.
Yet Newman was permitted to pass the companion hatch without interference. In fact, the pair turned their backs to him. I had, for an instant, the wild hope that Newman was mistaken in his fears. But only for an instant. Because, when Newman neared the forward end of the poop, the two tradesmen of the port watch suddenly popped up from the ladder and confronted him. Sails carried a sawed-off shotgun in the crook of his arm, and Chips had a pair of handcuffs dangling in his grasp.
Newman stopped short. Who would not, with the muzzle of a shotgun carelessly pointed at his breast? No order to halt was needed.
Suddenly I saw through the skipper's game. Aye, and the devilish craft of it horrified me, and wrung a cry of warning from my throat. For when Newman halted, Swope and Fitzgibbon turned towards him, and, while Swope continued to lounge against the hatch, the mate closed in behind Newman, and I saw a revolver in his hand. At the same time, the man with the shotgun said something to Newman, something that angered the big fellow, I could tell from the way his shoulders humped and his body tensed. Squarely behind him stood the mate.
Oh, it was a clever murder Yankee Swope had planned, a safe murder! If Newman made any motion that could be interpreted as resisting arrest, and was shot in the back and killed—why, the officer who shot him was performing his duty, and an unruly sailor had received his deserts! That is the way the log would put it, and that is the way folks ashore would look at it.
The second mate saw through the scheme, also. I am sure he had no previous knowledge of it, for an expression of surprise and consternation showed in his face, and he threw up his arm in a warning gesture. But it was I who warned Newman. I sang out lustily,
"Look out—behind you!"
Newman looked behind him. He threw back his head and laughed. It amused him to see the mate standing there so sheepishly, with his pistol in his hand. But I did not laugh, for Yankee Swope was staring at me, and there was fury in his face. God's truth, my hair stood up, and my toes crawled in their boots! Oh, I knew I had let myself in for it with that warning shout.
But if Newman laughed, he did not venture to move. He, too, saw through the skipper's plan, and by his action promptly defeated it. He laughed, but he also elevated his hands above his head to show his unarmed condition and his pacific intent. Then, ignoring the mate, he spoke to Captain Swope.
"Am I to consider myself under arrest, Captain?"
Swope turned his face to the speaker, and glad I was to be free of his gaze. He was a furious man that moment; I could see him biting his lips, and clenching and unclenching his hands from excess of anger. Yet he answered Newman in a soft, even voice, and in the same half-bantering vein the big fellow had used. He was a strong man, was Swope; he could control his temper when he thought it necessary.
"Yes, my man, you may consider yourself under arrest!" he said.
"Then you will notice I offer no resistance," added Newman. "I am unarmed, and eager to obey all legal commands of my captain. Shall I lower my arms, and permit this gentleman to fasten the irons upon my wrists?"
"No less eager to break into limbo, than to break out of it—eh?" commented the captain. "Yes, I grant you permission to be handcuffed—but not that way!—turn around, and place your hands together behind your back."
Newman promptly complied with the directions, and the carpenter stepped forward and slipped on the cuffs.
"Lock those irons tightly, Connolly," Swope directed the tradesman. "We have to deal with a desperate man, a tricky man, a damned jail-bird, Connolly. Squeeze those irons down upon his wrists. It doesn't matter if they pinch him."
From where I stood I could not see, but I could imagine the steel rings biting cruelly into my friend's flesh. I felt a rage against the captain which overcame the sick fear of what he might do to me. But my rage was impotent; it could not help Newman.
Mister Lynch tried to help him; and by his action indicated plainly what was his position in the matter of the arrest. He crossed the deck, and examined the prisoner's wrists.
"These irons are too tight, and will torture the man," he said to the captain. "In my judgment, sir, it is not necessary to secure him in this fashion."
"In my judgment it is," was Swope's bland response. Then he added, "And now, Mister Fitzgibbon, and you, Mister Lynch—if you will escort this mutinous scoundrel below to the cabin, I'll see that this affair is properly entered in the logbook, and then we will put him in a place where he cannot work further mischief. Connolly, you and your mate may go for'ard."
A moment later I was alone on the poop. So quickly and quietly had the affair been managed that none of the watch on deck seemed to be aware of it. They were busied about the fore part of the ship at the various jobs Lynch had set them to. But the tradesmen of the watch were not in sight, and I had no doubt they were forewarned, and had joined the port watch tradesmen before the cabin, to guard against any possible trouble.
I wondered what to do. Do something, I felt I must. If I sang out and informed the watch, the afterguard would reach me and squelch my voice long before my mates could lay aft. And indeed, laying aft in a body was what the crew must not do. That would be trouble, mutiny perhaps, and Newman's injunction was to keep the peace.
I could do nothing to help my friend. But I felt I must do something. The cabin skylights were open, for it was tropic weather, and a murmur of voices ascended through the opening. I could not distinguish words, but I felt I must know what they were saying to Newman, or about him. So I took a chance. I slipped the wheel into the becket, and crept to the edge of the skylights.
I could peek into only a narrow section of the saloon, for I did not dare shove my face into the opening. They would have seen me. But I could hear every voice, every word, and my ears gave me an accurate picture of the scene below.
The first voice I heard was the voice of one of my foc'sle mates, and he was giving testimony against Newman.
"'E was in the syl-locker mykin' hup to 'er," the speaker said, "an' tellin' as 'ow 'e'd lead the crew arft, and kill the hofficers, and tyke charge 'imself. That's wot 'e says, s' 'elp me!"
"Ah, yes, he was making up to her, eh? And plotting mutiny? And my wife lent herself to such a scheme, did she?" This came in Swope's voice, soft, purring, the very tone an insult. "So my wife was in the sail-locker with this convict, and he was making up to her? Well, well!"
"You know that creature is lying, Angus!" broke in another voice. Aye, and I very nearly gave myself away by craning my head to see the speaker. For this was the lady's voice, hot with anger and resentment and loathing. "You know very well why I met Roy in the sail-locker; you know very well we were planning to avoid bloodshed, not cause it."
"What are you doing here?" exclaimed the captain, with a savage edge to his words. "This is a man's business, madam! Return to your room at once. Mister Fitzgibbon, take her to her room!"
There was the sound of movement below. A chair scraped. Then Lynch's voice rang out sharply, "Stop that, Fitz!" The lady's voice said, "You need not touch me, I am going." A second later she spoke again, from a different point, and I judged her to be in the doorway of her stateroom. "You, at least, Mister Lynch, will bear witness that I deny these charges against myself and against—against him. They are lies. This spy is lying, my husband is lying. I know the truth. Do you hear me, Angus? I know the truth, and you cannot silence me with lies!" A door closed.
"Now we will continue our examination," said Captain Swope.
Just then I heard a faint slatting of canvas aloft. I sped for the wheel, and when, an instant later, the tradesman, Morton, poked his head above the level of the poop, and looked aft, I had the ship steady again. Morton's head disappeared, and after waiting a few moments to make sure he did not intend coming up on the poop, I returned to the skylight.
My precious shipmate was talking again. "Hi 'eard 'im sy in theKnitting Swede's 'ow 'e was shipping in this ship just to ryse 'ell."
"He said that, did he?" commented Captain Swope. "Now what have you to say to that, Newman?"
For the first time I heard my friend's voice. His words were cool, contemptuous. Aye, they heartened me; they told me he was far from being defeated.
"The rat lies, of course, as all of you know."
"And you say that Newman has persistently endeavored to stir up the crew to acts of disobedience and violence?" continued the captain.
"Yes, sir," was the answer. "'E would sy as 'ow there was a lot o' money in the lazaret, and if we would follow 'im arft 'e would give hit to us."
"Now I know that is a lie," broke in Lynch. The second mate's voice was also contemptuous, but not cool; I could tell he was excited and angry. "I've watched this crowd, Captain; I know them like I know the back of my hand. This man, Newman, is the best sailor for'ard, and the strongest influence for peace. He, and the little Holy Joe the crimp gave us, prevented a riot the night the boy died. I know this fellow is lying, Captain!"
"That will do, Mister Lynch," exclaimed Swope. "I did not ask your opinion in this matter. I would suggest, sir, that it is your watch on deck, and the ship may need your attention."
"Very good, sir," retorted Lynch. "But I wish to tell you this, Captain—I know this man is innocent of these charges, and I will not be a party to your action against him."
"Have a care, sir; I am captain of this vessel," cried Swope.
"I recognize your authority, but that does not alter my stand in this case," said Lynch.
"That will do, sir; go on deck!" was the captain's command.
I was at the wheel, and the ship was on her course, when the second mate appeared. Oh, but he was in a towering rage! He stamped the deck like a full watch. He sang out to me, "Damn your eye, man, watch your wheel; the wake is like a snake's track!" I answered meekly, "Yes, sir," and held her nose true. He looked at me sharply, and I knew that he guessed what I had been up to. But he said nothing more; instead, he stormed for'ard, and worked out his rage among the stiffs.
I overheard no more of the proceedings in the cabin, for I did not dare leave the wheel while Mister Lynch was on deck. But I was easier in my mind concerning Newman's fate, for what I had overheard convinced me the big fellow stood in no immediate danger of his life. That Swope meant to kill, I had not the least doubt—Newman, himself, said as much—but the time was not ripe for that act.
So I occupied myself with thoughts about the traitor in the crew. At that moment Captain Swope was not the only man on board with murder in his heart! My fingers pressed the spokes as though they had hold of the Cockney's throat.
I cursed myself for a stupid fool not to have known Cockney was the spy. I should have known. He was that sort, a bully and a boot-licker by turns. In the foc'sle he was more violent than any other in his denunciation of the buckos; on deck he cringed before them. He had always fawned upon Newman, but I suspected he hated my friend, because of what happened in the Knitting Swede's. But I had not suspected him of treachery to his foc'sle mates, because he was an old sailor and a good one, and there were plenty of stiffs on board more fitted, I thought, for spy's work. But Cockney was the man. I could not mistake his voice for another's. He was even now down below bearing false witness against my friend.
I watched the deck closely, and pretty soon I saw Cockney go forward. So I knew that the farcical examination of Newman was ended, and that he was probably locked up with the rats in the lazaret. I promised myself I would have a heart-to-heart talk with Cockney just as soon as eight bells released me from the wheel.
But when eight bells did go, I had something else to think about.Indeed, yes! My own skin, no less.
All hands were mustered aft when the port watch came on deck. This was unusual, a break in routine, for it was not customary to call the crew aft at the close of the day watches. Moreover, the men were herded aft by the tradesmen, who were armed. Mister Lynch came up on the poop, and was obviously taking no part in the proceedings. Oh, it was the end of the easy times, and all hands knew it.
When the men were collected by the main mast, the little parson was plucked out of the crowd and ushered into the cabin, where the skipper and the mate awaited him. Aye, that was the reason for the muster; Holy Joe must be punished for his defiance of Fitzgibbon. Five minutes after he entered the cabin, he was thrown out upon the deck, bruised, bleeding and unconscious, and his mates were told to pick him up and carry him forward.
The Old Man and the mate appeared on the poop immediately afterwards. The instant I clapped eyes upon Swope, I knew that my turn was next. I saw it in his eyes, in his face and carriage. He looked and behaved just as he had that day he attacked Nils. He looked at me with a bright, cruel glare; he smiled, and licked his lips with his tongue. Oh, I was frightened; worse, I felt sick and weak. And I felt anger, too; aye, there was rising in me a wild and murderous rage, which, if I let it go, would, I knew, master both fear and caution. I kept repeating to myself during the few minutes of grace allowed me, "I must not lose my temper, I must not lose my temper." For if I did lose my temper, and defy my masters with fist and tongue, I knew I should be beaten until I was physically disabled, perhaps fatally disabled. And then who would hold the crew in check, who would labor to save Newman?
The Cockney came aft to relieve the wheel. There was a smirk on his face, and a swagger in his walk, as he came along the lee side of the poop. I noticed him leer confidentially at the mate, as he passed that worthy. That Cockney thought himself a very clever fellow, no doubt, having been taken into the confidence of the ship's masters, having been assigned to do their secret dirty work. It was all I could do to keep from flying at his throat, when he came within reach of my arms.
He murmured some hypocritical words as he stepped into my place. He was a good dissembler.
"My heye, but poor 'Oly Joe caught it," says he. "They bloomin' near skinned 'im alive. They 'arve Newman in the lazaret. Blimme, Shreve, we got to do somethink abaht it!"
The answer he got was a grunt. My mind and eyes were on the officers.I started forward, saying to myself, "I must not lose my temper."
"Not so fast, my lad. I think I should like to look you over."
These were the words with which Captain Swope arrested my progress. He had permitted me to almost reach the ladder leading to the main deck, before he hailed. The cat and the mouse; aye, that was it! He must play with his prey. Such teasing gave him pleasure.
I stopped, of course, and turned, and faced him. Never did Captain Swope remind me more of a cat than that instant, when I met his glittering, pitiless eyes, and saw his smiling, red-lipped mouth, and listened to his soft, purring voice. I was his mouse, helpless, trapped. God's truth, I felt like one!
He looked me over slowly, from head to foot. The mate walked around behind me, and I knew the attack would come from that direction. Swope knew that I knew it; that is why he held my eyes to the front with his deliberate and insulting inspection. The cat and the mouse—he would enjoy my nervousness.
I think I disappointed him, for I tried hard to appear unconcerned. So, finally, he spoke again.
"What is your name?"
"Jack S-hreve, sir," I answered.
"Shreve? Now, what signboard did you rob? Shreve is a good name, too good for a foc'sle rat. Did you come by it honestly? Did you have a father by that name? I dare say not. A gutter product would not know his father,eh, my lad?"
There was no mistaking the deliberate intent of the insult, or its foul meaning. Despite my efforts, I felt the blood in my cheeks, and my fingers clenched of their own accord. I thought how white was Yankee Swope's neck, and how near, and how easily I could reach out and choke the vile words in his throat. I very nearly lost my temper—and with it, my life, and, I think, the other two lives, which I actually valued above my own.
The thing which saved me was the glimpse of a cold, speculative gleam in my tormentor's eyes. It was the mere shadow of an expression, but it acted like cold water upon my hot thoughts. I divined, suddenly, that something more than sport was behind the captain's insults. He wanted me to blow up in a great rage, and attack him, or the mate. I suddenly knew this was so, and the danger of my losing my temper was past.
I lowered my eyes, afraid their expression would betray my knowledge, and said submissively, "Yes, sir, I guess so, sir."
"I was told you had a long tongue, but you do not seem very glib this minute," Captain Swope went on. "You've taken a reef in it,eh, Shreve?"
I said, "Yes, sir."
"But you forgot to take a reef in it awhile back, didn't you?"
I knew he was referring to the shout that warned Newman. I did not venture a reply.
"So now you have put your tongue in gaskets," he commented, after a pause. "Too bad you didn't do it before. A long tongue is a very bad habit, my lad, and I do not allow my hands to have bad habits. I correct them—so!"
He struck me then, not a heavy, stunning blow, but a short-armed, slashing uppercut, which ripped the flesh of my cheek, and sent me stumbling backwards against the mate's body. I took that blow meekly, I took Fitzgibbon's harder blow meekly. I stood there and let the two of them pummel me, and knock me down and kick me, and I made no show of resistance. I buried my head in my arms, and drew up my knees, and let them work their will on me.
Oh, it was a cruel dressing down they gave me! My face became raw meat, my body a mass of shooting pains. I took it meekly. I tried to guard my vitals, and my addled, star-riddled wits clung to the one idea—"I must not lose my temper!"
I took my medicine. I did not lift a hand against them. I grovelled on the deck like a cur, and did not fight back.
It was hard to behave like that. It was the hardest thing I had ever done—keeping my temper, and taking that beating without show of resistance. I was a fighting animal; never before in my life had I tamely turned the other cheek. Long afterwards I came to realize that those few moments, during which I lay on the deck and felt their boots thud into my flesh, were educative moments of vital importance in my growth into manhood. I was learning self-control; it was being literally kicked into me. It was a lesson I needed, no doubt—but, oh, it was a bitter, bitter lesson.
They gave over their efforts, finally. I had not much wit left in me, but I heard the captain's voice, faintly, as though he were at a distance, instead of bending over me.
"There's no fight in this rat," he said. "Might as well boot him off the poop, Mister, and let him crawl into his hole. He's not dangerous, and the ship needs him as beef."
No sooner said than done. I had obligingly saved them the trouble of booting me very far, for I had been inching myself forward ever since the onslaught. When the captain spoke, I was almost at the head of the ladder to the main deck—an instant after he spoke, I was lying on the main deck at the foot of the poop ladder, and all the stars in the universe were dancing before my eyes.
I got dizzily to my hands and knees, and then to my feet, and staggered forward. Captain Swope's soft voice followed me.
"Next time reef your tongue before you open your mouth!" he called.
I made my way into the foc'sle, and my watchmates grabbed me, and swabbed and kneaded my hurts, and swore their sympathy. My injuries were not very severe—some nasty gashes about the head and face, and innumerable bruises upon the body. Fortunately I was in no way disabled. My bones were intact. I was in far better case, they told me, than poor Holy Joe. He was lying in his bunk unconscious, that very moment; he had a broken arm, and most of his teeth were gone.
I saw at once that the men were quite wild with rage and anxiety. From the sounds that came in the foc'sle door, I knew that the mate was hazing his men. Aye, he was going after them in the good old way, quite as if there had been no peaceful interlude. I did not have to see the mates' men to know their temper; I could tell from the temper of my own watch how the other watch felt.
It was a terrific shock to most of them, that sudden return of brutality. Aye, just in that I saw the devilish cunning of Captain Swope. He knew what the effect would be upon the minds of the men of slackening his hell-ship discipline, and then, when the habit of passive endurance was weakened, suddenly tightening the reins. He knew that then the bit would be well nigh unendurable. Oh, Swope had calculated shrewdly; he foresaw the effect not only of an outburst of promiscuous brutality, but of the arrest of Newman, and the beating up of Holy Joe.
I could see the effect at a glance. The stiffs were panicky. These valorous stiffs were glowering, really dangerous at last. The squareheads were hysterical with rage. The squareheads knew why Holy Joe had suffered—because of them, because of Nils. Because of Newman, too, but they did not guess that. Then, the knowledge that Newman was trapped was a heavy blow to sailors and stiffs alike. They had all, consciously or unconsciously, depended upon Newman's sane strength. With him taken from them they felt—every man-jack—that their backs were to the wall.
Just as soon as the blood was washed out of my eyes, and I could see my mates' faces, just as quickly as the ringing in my ears subsided, and I could hear their voices, I knew that the moment was past when the peace could be kept in that foc'sle. Perhaps Newman could have composed the crowd, but I doubt it. The captain had succeeded in driving them too far and too hard, in frightening them too much. He had won, I thought despairingly; he would get his mutiny.
For it was now the elemental instinct of self-preservation that swayed the men and determined their actions. Oh, there was plenty of sympathy for me, and for Holy Joe and Newman; there was rage on our account; but underlying the sympathy and rage was a very terrible fear. It was a fear of death, a fear that each man felt for himself. Self-preservation, that's it!
My shipmates, sailors and stiffs, had reached a point where they were afraid not to take some violent and illegal action against the men in command of the ship. Their long misuse, the wrongs and indignities each man had suffered, the fate of Nils, the events of the afternoon, had all culminated in the belief these men now had—good men and bad men both, remember!—that they must revolt, that they must kill the men aft before the men aft killed them! There were other factors at work, of course, greed for gold and lust of revenge, but this simple, primal fear for their own skins was the determining factor in the situation.
"By God, I never go on deck but I'm scared o' my life!" swore one of the stiffs, named Green. And he voiced the common feeling.
I was, of course, much concerned for the parson. I went into the port foc'sle to look at him—and he looked bad, lying there unconscious. The squareheads had washed his face, but had not ventured to touch his arm. His face was in a shocking state, and I feared his body might be broken, as was Nils' body. He was much worse off than I; for he had not my iron muscles, to withstand hard knocks, nor my skill in rough-and-tumble fighting, which had enabled me to protect the vital parts of my body.
"We'll have to get him aft, where the lady can attend to him—or else get her for'ard," I declared.
"No chance," answered Boston.
"If we take him aft dey ban kill him," asserted one of the squareheads.
"She can't come for'ard; she's locked in her room," said another.
"How do you know that?" I cried.
"Cockney says so. He was there when the skipper locked her in," saidBoston.
For an instant I forgot Holy Joe, and his evil plight.
"What yarn did that Cockney bring for'ard with him?" I demanded.
"Why, he was there when they got the Big 'Un," answered Blackie. "He was helpin' the steward break out a cask o' beef from the lazaret, when they brought Big 'Un into the cabin, cuffed up, and with the drop on him. He says the hen squawked, and the Old Man shut her in her room. Then they kicked him out on deck, so he wouldn't see too much o' what was goin' on. He says they put the Big 'Un down in the lazaret, and they're goin' to croak him sure, and if we got any guts we'll go aft tonight and turn him loose. That's what Cockney says."
Well, I let myself go, verbally. I said things about that Cockney, and I was only sorry Cockney was not there to hear them. I knew most of the hard words of three languages, and I used them all. Oh, it was a relief to give even verbal release to the ocean of hate and rage in my soul! I told the crowd what I thought of Cockney. Then I told them why. I told them what had really happened in the cabin, what Cockney really was.
They believed me. They knew me; they knew I would not lie in such a case, they could not help but sense the sincerity of my loathing. They knew Cockney, also. They knew he was the sort to spy and perjure—a good many of them were that sort themselves!—and as soon as I paused for breath, this man and that began to recall certain suspicious acts of Cockney he had noticed. Aye, they believed me, and the curses heaped on Cockney's head were awful to the ear.
They had good reason to curse. My disclosure gave them a fresh fear. Consternation was in their faces and voices, especially in the faces and voices of the stiffs. I knew very well what frightened them. Cockney had been most violent and outspoken among those advocating mutiny, far more outspoken than the cautious Blackie or Boston, and the disaffected had naturally confided in him. I knew that every man in the crew who had expressed a willingness to revolt was known by name to Cockney (and without doubt to Yankee Swope) and these men now could not escape the feeling that they were marked men. If anything had been needed to settle the conviction of the foc'sle that mutiny was necessary, this unmasking of Cockney supplied the need.
I felt this, rather than thought it out. It was in the air, so to speak. At the moment, I was too much concerned for the little parson to reason coolly. Oh, I reasoned about it a little while later, not coolly perhaps, but certainly quickly, and leaped helter-skelter to a momentous decision. But just then I thought about Holy Joe.
I wanted to get his arm set, and his body examined. I, myself, was not competent to do either. The squarehead had spoken truth—it would be madness to carry the man aft for treatment; and I judged Cockney had spoken truly, too, when he said the lady was locked up. That agreed with what I, myself, had heard, I appealed to the crowd.
"We've got to get Holy Joe fixed up. Any of you know anything about bone setting? Who'll lend a hand?"
To my surprise, Boston volunteered. "I worked in a hospital once," he said.
He set to work immediately in an efficient, businesslike manner. I was astonished. His fingers were as deft—though not as gentle—as Newman's. I thought, as I tore a blanket into strips, under his direction, how characteristic it was of the fellow to let a hurt shipmate lie unattended when he possessed the skill to help him. Aye, that was the sort of scut Boston was!
"A clean break; no trick to set it," he announced, after examining the arm. Nor was it. We cut up a bunkboard for splints, used the blanket for bandages, and triced the injured member in short order. Boston was deft, but he didn't try to spare his patient any pain; when he snapped the ends of the bone together, Holy Joe came out of his swoon with a cry of agony.
He half raised himself, and looked at us. "Let there be no trouble, boys—for God's sake, no fighting!" he said. Then he fainted away again.
We undressed him, and Boston pronounced his ribs sound. Then we carried him into the starboard foc'sle, and placed him in my bunk, which had a comfortable mattress.
"Now you see what he got?" said Boston, wiping his hands on his greasy pants. "And you see what you got. And you know what happened to Big 'Un. Well, how about it, Shreve? Do you stand with us?"
"With the crowd, sink or swim—that's what we want to know?" addedBlackie.
I sized them up. Sailors and stiffs, they stood shoulder to shoulder. There was no longer a division in that crowd. And they looked to me to lead them.
I was thinking, desperately trying to discover a course that would helpNewman. So I tried to put the crowd off.
"You heard what Holy Joe said?" I asked.
"He's balmy—and besides what d'ye think a Holy Joe would say?" retorted Boston. "Now, here's the lay, Shreve—we got to put a stop to this sort o' work." He pointed to the bunk that held Holy Joe. "That means we got to take charge of this hooker," he went on. "All hands are agreed to it. But where do you stand—with us, or against us?"
I made my plea for peace, knowing beforehand it was useless. "How about Newman?" I said. "You know as well as I that the skipper is out to kill him. And I have Newman's word for it that the Old Man wants to kill the lady, too. He's just waiting for an excuse. That's why he's dressing us down this way, and hazing us raw—so we'll mutiny, and give him the excuse he needs. Can't you see that?"
"He'll croak 'em anyway—and maybe we can save them," retorted Boston.
"No, Lynch won't allow it," said I. "He's for Newman and the lady. The Old Man will not dare do it unless we give him the chance by attacking the cabin, because Lynch would testify against him at the Inquiry. The Old Man has logged Newman as a mutineer, and our going aft would make him out one. As it is, Lynch is standing up for him—and for us."
But this was too much for the crowd to swallow. Too many of them had felt the weight of the second mate's fist.
"Lynch for us? By God, when I have my knife in his gullet—then he'll be for us!" swore Blackie, and the chorus of approval which followed this statement showed what the rest thought.
"The last thing Newman said to me, when I relieved him," I went on, "was a command to prevent this trouble. He said his life, and hers, depended on our keeping quiet."
"And how about us, how about our lives?" demanded Boston. "That damned murderer aft is out to croak us, too, ain't he—all of us he can spare? Look what he's done already! No, by God, we're going to put a stop to it—and we want to know if you are with us?"
I tried sarcasm. "I suppose you'll end it by walking aft and letting them empty their shotguns into you! I suppose you'll chase them overboard, guns and all, with your cute little knives, and your belaying-pins! Good Lor', men, have you gone crazy? If I hadn't overheard Cockney, I suppose he'd have led you aft, and got half of you filled with shot. As it is, they know you are talking mutiny, and they will be expecting you. You can't surprise them—and what can you do against their guns?"
Blackie cursed Cockney in a way to curdle the blood. Then he made plain the fear that was driving the men.
"They know we are talking mutiny—yes, and what's more, they knowwho'stalking mutiny."
"We got to do it now, guns or no guns—ain't that right, mates?" said the man, Green.
"And the money, too!" added Blackie, artfully. "Enough of it aft there to set us all up for gents."
Boston plucked me by the sleeve. "Me and Jack are goin' to have a few words private," says he to the rest. "He's with us—no fear—a feller like Jack Shreve stands by his mates. Come on, Jack."
I went with him willingly. I was anxious to hear what he had to say "private." I was even more anxious to get away from the crowd for a few moments, and think out some scheme whereby I could avert the impending catastrophe.
Boston led me up on the foc'sle head, and we sat down upon an anchor stock.
"We ain't such fools as you think, Blackie and me," he commenced abruptly. "We ain't goin' to face guns with knives—not us. But guns to guns—well, that's different now, ain't it?"
"What do you mean?" I demanded. "Have you got a gun?"
In answer, he lifted my hand and placed it over his dungaree jacket, I felt something hard, of irregular shape, beneath the thin cloth, the outline of a revolver.
"It ain't the only one," he assured me. "Two brace we came on board with—and we weren't drunk, you bet. We hid them safe before them fellers aft went through the dunnage. And Cockney didn't find out about them, either. They don't know aft that we're heeled. The rest o' the gang ain't acquainted with the fact yet, either. We'll let them know when the time comes."
He paused, and looked at me inquiringly. "Well?" I asked.
"Well!" he echoed. "Well, just this—a gang that has guts enough to face shotguns with sheath-knives is a pretty tough gang, ain't it? And it'll be a lot tougher when it finds out it has four guns of its own, and plenty o' shells. And it kind of evens up the chances, doesn't it?"
I was thinking fast. All chance to keep the peace was gone, I realized.Unless——
"We ain't goin' to let them fellers slaughter us; don't you worry none about that," went on Boston. "This ain't the first gun-play me and Blackie has took part in, you bet! He's a dead shot, and I'm a good one. We got it all planned out, Blackie and me. We never intended going aft like the Cockney wanted us to. We're goin' to lay low, behind cover, and pick 'em off—the mates, and old Swope, too, if he shows his blasted head. Then, where will them sailmakers and carpenters be, with their boss gone? They'll be rattled, they'll be up Battle Creek, that's where they'll be. We can rush 'em then. And if a few of our fellers swaller lead—why, there'll be the fewer to share the swag."
"Newman—" I began.
"We'll do the best we can for Big 'Un," says Boston. "We need him. We'll try and get the Old Man first pop—and if we have decent luck plunkin' the mates, it'll be over so quick nobody can hurt Big 'Un."
I thought, and was silent.
"What's holdin' you back?" demanded Boston. "I know you ain't afraid. Look here, Shreve, you know you can't hold the crowd back. You and Blackie and me could all be against it, and still they'd go aft. They're goin' to get Swope before Swope gets more o' them. And if it's Big 'Un you're worryin' about—why, we got to do this to save him. Look here—let me give you a tip, if the Big 'Un hasn't: When Big 'Un come on board this ship he found out somethin' from the skipper's Moll that he wanted to find out, and now, if he gets ashore alive with what he found out, there'll be a sheriff's necktie party for Yankee Swope. That's what all this bloody business has been about. You can lay your last cent that Swope will get Big 'Un, if we don't get Swope."
"Boston, give me that gun," I said.
He took a look at my face, and smiled, satisfied. He drew the weapon from under his clothes, a long-barreled, heavy caliber service Colt's, and passed it to me. I thrust it out of sight, beneath my own waist-band.
"Now, I'm boss," I said. "I'll give the word."
His smile widened. This was what he wanted, as I well knew. Boston and Blackie could plan and instigate. But they could not lead that crowd. The sailors despised them, the stiffs hated and feared them second only to the afterguard. They needed me as leader. They flattered themselves, I dare say, that they could control me—or extinguish me when the time came.
For my part, I had made my decision. It was a desperate, a terrible decision. It was necessary that I pretend to fall in with Boston's plans if I were to execute my decision.
"When it gets dark, I am going aft—alone," I told him. "You and Blackie keep the crowd quiet, and forward of the house, until I return."
"What you goin' to do?" he asked.
"Make sure that Newman will be safe when we make the attack," I explained. "We must make sure of that—he's our navigator."
"That's so," he agreed. "But how'll you do it?"
"I'll kill Captain Swope," I said.
I was in earnest. I meant to do the murder. Aye, murder is what the law of man would call it, and murder is the right term. I planned the deed, not in cold blood perhaps, but certainly with coolness and foresight. I intended to creep aft in the night and shoot down the captain.
But you must understand my motive before you judge. More than that, you must bear in mind my environment, my character and its background, and the dilemma which faced me. I intended to become an assassin—but not for hate, or greed, or, indeed, any personal satisfaction or gain.
I was, remember, a nineteen-year-old barbarian, The impressionable, formative years of my youth had been spent in deepwater foc'sles, among men who obeyed but one law—fear. The watch, the gang, was my social unit; loyalty to a shipmate was the one virtue I thoroughly understood and respected. And it was loyalty to Newman that determined me to kill.
Newman was my friend—aye, more than that, he was in my youthful eyes a demi-god, a man to revere and worship above all others. He was prisoner, helpless. The crew were bent on mutiny; I could not stop them. The mutiny was planned and expected by the captain; and its outbreak would be the needed excuse for the slaying of Newman, and, Newman said, of the lady.
How could I save Newman? That was my problem. How indeed? The evil choice was inevitably mine; and I considered it the lesser evil. If I killed Swope, Newman would be safe. Perhaps the mutiny would collapse, would never come off. This last was something Boston and Blackie, blinded by their greed, quite overlooked. But I knew it was hate and fear of Swope, rather than greed, that impelled the squareheads to revolt. If Swope were killed, they might not go on with it, and what the sailors decided, the stiffs must agree to. And in any case, Newman would be safe.
I did not approach my task in a spirit of revulsion and horror. Indeed, no. Why should I have felt thus? In my experience I had not yet gathered the idea that human life was sacred. Certainly, my experience in theGolden Boughhad not taught me that. I confess, the job I planned was distasteful, extremely so—but, I thought, necessary.
I planned Yankee Swope's murder in spite of self-sacrifice. Aye, truly I did! I dare say few acts in my life have had a finer, cleaner, less selfish motive.
I did not expect to escape after firing the shot. I expected the mates or the tradesmen would kill me. True, I thought of hiding on the dark deck, and picking off the captain when he appeared on the poop. That is what Boston and Blackie expected me to do. But I dismissed this thought without serious consideration. It was uncertain, and I meant to make sure of the brute. Besides, it was, I felt, cowardly, and I would not be a coward. I intended to get into the cabin and shoot Swope in his own arm-chair, so to speak. Afterwards—well, they could do what they pleased with me. My friend would be safe.
So I lived through a few very exalted hours before the first night watch came. Unhappy? Not I. In moments I touched the skies in exaltation.
For I was the sacrifice. I was the center of the drama. I was Fate. I was a romantic-minded young ass, and the situation flattered my generous conceit. I was tossing away my life, you see, with a grand gesture, to help my friend. I was dying for my friend's sake. My imagination gave my death nobility. I imagined Newman and the lady remembering me sadly all their lives long, thinking of me always as their saviour. I imagined my name on sailors' lips, in ships not yet launched; they would talk of me, of Jack Shreve, the lad who killed Yankee Swope so his shipmate might live.
My resolution did not weaken; rather, it grew firmer with the passage of the hours. Of course, I did not take the crew into my confidence (there might be, I thought, another Cockney among them), but I laid down the law to Boston and Blackie, and they promised faithfully to obey my injunctions. They promised they would keep the men in check until I had completed my task. They promised also to mislead the spy, and see that no man laid violent hands upon him.
This last I considered important. The crowd was eager for vengeance upon Cockney. He had committed the unpardonable sin, he had betrayed his mates. Blackie wanted to slit his throat, and drop him over the side; and the men voted an emphatic aye to the suggestion. Sentence would have been executed as soon as Cockney came forward from the wheel had I not interposed my veto and given my reasons.
It was not solicitude for the spy's life that influenced me. I, too, considered he had forfeited his right to life by his act. But I pointed out that offering immediate violence to Cockney might alarm the afterguard, and change their plan of action; moreover, we might use the spy to carry false tales of our intentions to the enemy.
So when Cockney breezed into the foc'sle, at four bells, his reception in no way aroused his suspicions. Everything seemed going his way. He sympathized volubly with me, and would have awakened Holy Joe (who had dropped into a healing sleep, after regaining consciousness) to sympathize with him, had I permitted. Aye, he was a good dissembler, was Cockney—but we matched him. His mouth dripped curses on Swope and his minions, he exhorted us to "'arve guts" and rush the poop at muster time. He was willing to risk his own skin by leading the rush. "Wot did we think abaht it?"
Boston told him we thought early evening a bad time for the adventure. We were going to wait until morning, until the beginning of the "gravvy-eye" watch, just before dawn. That was the hour in which to strike. Men slept soundest just before dawn; those who were awake were less alert. The mutiny was timed for four A. M.
"Hi cawn't 'ardly wyte that long, Hi'm that eager to get my knife 'twixt that myte's bleedin' ribs," said Cockney.
The Nigger had come in during the discussion. He seated himself, and recommenced his favorite task of stropping his knife upon a whetstone. At the Cockney's last words he lifted his head.
"Don' yoh touch de mate," he said to Cockney. "Dat man's mah meat, yes, suh, mah meat!"
Cockney disputed this. He raved, and swore, and even threatened Nigger. Aye, he made a fine bluster. "'E wasn't goin' to give hup 'is chawnce at the bleedin' myte, not 'im! 'E 'ad a score to settle with that blighter, so 'e 'ad. The Nigger could 'arve the bloomin' second myte, that's wot."
Nigger was so incensed he got up and left the foc'sle, leaving the last word to the spy. Nigger had brooded so much over his wrongs he was a bit cracked; he took no part in the councils of the crew, and did not know, I am sure, that Cockney had been unmasked as a traitor. Else he would never have acted as he later did.
It came down night. It was a good night for my purpose, dark and shadowless, with a mere sliver of a new moon in the sky. I had little difficulty in gaining entrance to the cabin.
After the eight o'clock muster, when my watch was sent below, I slipped around the corner of the roundhouse, where the tradesmen lived (it was on the maindeck, between the mainmast and the after-hatch) and crouched there in the darkness while my mates trooped forward. This roundhouse (which was really square, of course, like most roundhouses on board ship) was very plentifully supplied with ports. Designedly so, no doubt, for it was the cabin's outpost. There were two portholes in its forward wall, commanding the foredeck, and three portholes in either of the side walls. The door to the house was in the after wall. It was built like a fortress, and used as one.
As I lay there on the deck, pressed against the forward wall, I saw the muzzles of shotguns sticking out of the portholes above my head. There was no light showing in the roundhouse, but the tradesmen were in there just the same. Aye, and prepared and alert. They were covering the deck with guns; and I knew they would continue to cover the deck throughout that night.
Oh, Swope was canny, as canny as he was cruel. He would provoke mutiny, but he would run no chance of losing his ship or his life. He was prepared. What could a few revolvers do against these entrenched men? My shipmates' revolt could have but one end—mass murder and defeat!
So I thought, as I lay there on the deck, watching my chance to slip aft. Swope's plan, Swope's mutiny, I thought. Swope was the soul of the whole vile business. His plan—and I was going to spoil it! I was going to put a bullet in his black heart.
I might have picked him off at that very moment, if I aimed carefully. For, as my mates' footsteps died away forward, I edged around the corner of the roundhouse, and saw the enemy standing on the poop. The three of them were there, both mates, with the skipper standing between them. I picked him out of the group easily, even in the darkness, for he was of much slighter build than either of his officers, and besides I heard his voice.
"The rats have discovered some courage—but they'll lose it soon enough, when they face our reception," I heard him say. "But—no nodding to-night, Misters! Keep your eyes and ears open!"
Fitzgibbon mumbled something. The captain laughed his soft, tinkling laugh.
"I'm going down to take a look at him now," he said, and the three of them moved aft, out of sight.
Aye, I might have picked him off then. But I didn't even entertain the thought. It was no part of my plan to slay from concealment. I was the hero, the avenger, the saviour! I meant to face him in his own lighted cabin.
The door of the roundhouse was closed, so I did not fear the inmates would observe me entering the cabin. The break of the poop seemed clear of life. I scuttled on my hands and knees until I was past the booby-hatch; then I arose to my feet and flitted noiselessly to the cabin door. I opened it just wide enough to admit my body, and stepped into the lighted cabin alleyway.
My bare feet made no noise as I crept toward the saloon. This was the first time I had set foot within the sacred precincts of the quarterdeck. From the gossip of those who had been aft to sick-call, or to break out stores, I had some notion of the lay of the land, but not a very clear one.
There were three doors opening upon the alley-way; the one on the port side was the inner door of the sail-locker, the two on the starboard side let into the mates' rooms. That much I knew. I also knew that I need not fear these doors, since both mates were on deck.
But at the end of the alleyway was the saloon, the great common room of the cabin. I paused uncertainly upon the threshold; I didn't know which way to turn for concealment, and I had to get out of the alleyway quickly, for any moment a tradesman might come in behind me.
There were several doors on each side of the saloon. To starboard, I knew, lay the captain's quarters, and, from the sounds, the pantry. To port, I knew, lay the lady's quarters, and the steward's room. But which door was which, I did not know. I decided I had best duck into the captain's room.
But before I could act upon this decision the forward door on the port side slowly opened, and Wong, the steward, stepped out. I shrank back into the alleyway as the door opened, and the Chinaman did not glance in my direction. His whole attention was riveted upon the companion stairs; Swope's voice sounded up there in the entrance to the hatch.
Wong softly closed the door behind him, and ran on tiptoe across the saloon, disappearing into the pantry. I did not hesitate an instant. Wong had not locked the door behind him, and his room would be handy enough for my purpose. From it I could command the interior of the big room, and step forth when the moment arrived. I crossed the corner of the saloon in a bound, and turned the doorknob as silently as had Wong.
I opened the door and stepped in backwards. My eyes assured me I was unseen. I closed the door, all save a crack, through which I meant to watch for the coming of my victim.
I heard a gasp behind me. I shut the door tight and wheeled about—and found myself staring into the wide-open eyes of the lady.