CHAPTER X.—The Finding of a Man.
Shame and Horror Follow Disobedience. A Violent Outbreak and Its Result. The Heads That Struck a Wall. A Frightened Face Among the Trees.
THE president said nothing, but gave a signal to Christopher, who brought up a basket containing rope-ends and strips of cloth, of native manufacture. I understood what I was next to do, and under ordinary circumstances should have thought of nothing but the doing; but now a coldness seized my heart, for I thought of Beelo, as a horrified witness.
There was a craning to see what the basket held, and then came a quick drawing of the breath and afterward a hiss as the truth dawned on those of quick perception.
Picking up a rope-end, I stood facing the crowd in silence until perfect stillness had come. Then I went to Lenardo, the first in line, and said to the guard:
“Are any of you experienced in tying a man’s hands?”
A head-shake was the response of each.
“Then observe how this is done,” I said. And to Lenardo, “Turn your back and cross your wrists behind you.”
All the blood fled his face. He glanced about with a shamed, beseeching helplessness, his eyes wide with horror and his look an appeal for protection from the outrage.
“Turn, and cross your wrists,” came my command as evenly as before.
The prisoner obeyed, his hands trembling.
“Cross your wrists.” My tone was such as a farrier might use to a horse he was shoeing.
Lenardo crossed them.
“Observe,” I repeated to the guards, as I quickly wound the cord and knotted it.
Hobart watched the proceeding narrowly, his face growing more livid, his eyes bulging farther, his breathing uneven. Once he sent a flaming glance at Mr. Vancouver, who winced under it, and sat with a sickly, shrunken look. I knew that the supreme test of discipline lay ahead, and I was warming to the situation.
“Tie the next one,” I said to two of the guards, handing them a strip. At the same time, no longer able to resist a glance at Beelo, I found in his stricken face so strange a look that it disconcerted me for a moment. It looked to be both horror and appeal. But my duty was plain.
I stood by and observed the clumsy work of the two guards in tying the second man, who, meeker than Lenardo,—although both were manly fellows,—submitted more promptly.
Hobart’s turn came next. He was looking about as a trapped beast, and he swayed and muttered. It was clear that under the approaching degradation he was letting his wits tangle.
Some women, sickened by the scene, and fearing a tragedy from Hobart, slipped away, a few softly crying, others very white. They hid in a huddle behind the storehouse, the mothers taking their children.
“One more turn. Tighter. Work faster,” I ordered the guards tying the second man.
They obeyed with nervous eagerness.
Then came Hobart’s turn. I stood before him. He knew what to do without my order, and I was silent.
“Haven’t we any friends among you people?” he bellowed, stepping back and hardening every muscle. “Are you all cowards, to let these brutes ride roughshod over you?”
“Submit, Hobart,” cut Mr. Vancouver’s voice.
I turned upon him, but said nothing, and his cadaverous face whitened still more under my stare.
“We need no assistance from you, sir,” Captain Mason coldly said.
He started; a momentary flash enlivened his sunken eyes.
“Step up here in line,” I said to Hobart.
He wavered toward submission under Mr. Vancouver’s order, but my prompt suppression of that intervention thrust upon him an angry despair. “To hell with you!” he shouted to me. “You bully! You cur! Here, fellows,” addressing his comrades in line, “don’t be whipped dogs! We are free American citizens, we are! Break away!” He stepped still farther back and edged toward the table. “Stand by me! Be men! We’ll settle this thing! Come on!” The line swayed.
“Guard, re-form the prisoners in line,” I ordered. They stepped forward.
“Fight, boys! Arm yourselves at the tables!” Hobart’s fierce words thrilled the camp.
“Lively there!” I snapped to the guards. “Seize Hobart first.”
“The tables, boys!” shouted Hobart. “Romer,” he added to a husky young man of the party, “tackle Captain Mason. I’ll attend to Tudor!”
Hobart sprang at Romer, gave him a shake, and shouted, “Get to work!” and then advanced toward me as Romer was hardening for assault.
As Hobart had rudely calculated, the moment was snatched by the other prisoners for a rush on the guard and the tables, and they broke on the bound as Hobart hurled himself upon me. But he was too precipitate, and lacked training.
It is doubtful that any in the camp except myself saw how the next thing happened. There was a muffled crack, and Hobart’s feet cleared the ground, his limbs whipped the air as though he were drowning, and he sprawled on the earth in a disorganized, quivering heap. A glance showed me that Romer had been stopped two yards from Captain Mason by a look such as he had never encountered before, and he stood staring like an imbecile.
A low cry broke from fifty feminine throats when Hobart’s body made its impact with the ground. But the entire rush had been paralyzed; it was clearly the impression that Hobart had been killed, and all were staring from him to me. The guard had responded; the prisoners were in subjugation, some by a collar-grip of the guard, others panting on the ground under urgent knees, still others standing inert.
“Hands off the prisoners. Re-form the line,” I ordered.
When this had been done, the young men sullen, sheepish, and silent, and viewing with awe the still body of Hobart on the ground, I looked round upon the circle till I found the man I wanted. My glance had included Captain Mason and found him stolid and motionless as he observed my procedure.
“Dr. Preston, come forward,” I said.
He instantly responded.
“Please examine Hobart’s jaw and neck,” I directed. “One or the other may be broken.”
As he was turning away to obey he discovered a red trickle from my right hand.
“Are you hurt?” he inquired.
“No.”
He carefully examined the heap on the ground.
“Only a contusion and a slight brain-concussion,” he announced.
“You two,” I promptly said to two of the guards, “buck and gag Hobart. Do you know how?”
They shook their heads, but under my direction accomplished what appeared to be a disagreeable task. The process consisted in tying Hobart’s hands and feet, flexing his knees, slipping his arms over them, and thrusting a stick under his knees and over his arms, thus reducing him to a helpless knot. Then they thrust a towel between his teeth and tied it at the back of his head.
“Shall I do anything to revive him, sir?” asked the doctor. It was interesting to hear the “sir” slip from his tongue.
I looked to Captain Mason for directions, but his face remained void.
“No,” I said. Then to two of the guards, “Take him to the shade over there, on the ground,” indicating a tree near by and in full view of the camp.
Meanwhile, the tying of the other prisoners had gone on rapidly and smoothly. When it was finished, I ordered the men taken to the shade and lined up behind Hobart, who lay on his side, the guards standing by. The prisoners were a very sober-looking crowd.
Then came a lull. I had regarded the subjugation of the men as merely the lighter preparatory work for some grave procedure which Captain Mason would direct after that was accomplished. At first I was doubtful of my wisdom in withholding restorative measures from Hobart, but I had done so hoping that it would have the effect both of softening Captain Mason and of impressing the other prisoners and the camp at large. Now I had to face unknown plans, but Captain Mason still remained mute. It was evident that, since quiet had come, it was from him rather than me that the camp awaited the next move; it was his crushing mastery that all felt; it was his iron hand that lay on every heart. He quietly seated himself, and without a glance at me waited, his face wearing the undisturbed calm that distinguished it always in dramatic situations.
The women in hiding peered out cautiously, and then joined those on the scene. A slight stir, accompanied with murmurs, rose in a spot where the women stood thickest, and a shrill voice came angrily.
“Yes, I will! You can’t stop me! I say it’s an outrage, and I’m going to untie that boy and take that strangling thing out of his mouth.” She was advancing, a middle-aged woman, with a determined air, and she walked straight toward Hobart, ignoring me as I stood near him. “I just want to say to you, Mr. Tudor, that it was enough to knock the senses out of him, and that it’s inhuman and brutal to keep him tied up like an animal. If the men in this camp can be bullied and scared, I’ll let you know that there’s a woman who can’t. I’m going to untie that lad, and———”
I had stepped forward and laid a kindly hand on her arm as she spoke, but she threw it off.
“Let me alone!” she cried. “If you want to strike a woman dead, you murdering bully, do it! I dare you!”
Nodding to two of the guards, I said: “Take her to her hut, and keep her there. If she makes the least noise, bind and gag her.”
“You brute! You coward!” she cried, making a dash forward.
The guards gingerly seized her, and she talked and struggled wildly. But they dragged her away, and no sound came from the hut. Captain Mason gave not the slightest attention to the incident, which greatly deepened the depression on the camp.
Hobart’s slow, heavy breathing became regular, then fluttered; his eyes opened, and rolled unseeing. Intelligence began to dawn in his face, and with it came an unconscious straining at his bonds. That hastened his recovery. A wild, clear look that roved a moment and settled malignantly on me, showed that he had come to himself. His astonished glance at his helpless state preceded an effort for speech that his gag turned to a growl, and he made a mighty tug to snap the cords. That failing, he twisted his head to see the line of prisoners standing bound. Then his gaze found Captain Mason, who was not observing him, and he savagely growled and champed his gag.
I looked furtively round for Beelo, and found him staring at me as at something strange and monstrous. It was more than I could bear, and on looking away I discovered the gathering of clouds, and then heard low thunder in the distance.
Hobart’s fury wore itself out. Humiliation took its turn. Toward the end came a humbled spirit and dumb pleading. A quickening ran through the crowd, and eager, appealing eyes were upon me from every direction; but I waited. From humility Hobart sank lower, for the pain of his cramped muscles grew worse and worse, making him writhe and groan and strain. Still the moment had not come. I knew that many a life hung on the precision of my conduct, and Captain Mason did not interfere to the slightest extent. At last, when Hobart’s dumb pleading had settled on my face and did not rove, I said to Dr. Preston:
“The gag—nothing else—may come away.”
He removed it, and Hobart panted:
“Thank you, Doctor. Take the others off, please.”
The physician looked to me, but I gave no sign. That started a movement in the crowd, and I had to quell that with a look.
“Let him take ‘em off, Mr. Tudor,” the prisoner begged.
I nodded, and he was free. He labored weakly to a sitting posture, Dr. Preston assisting. His head rolled, but he breathed deeply, and steadied himself. Dr. Preston felt his pulse.
“May he have water and a wet towel, sir?” he asked me.
I nodded. Hobart drank greedily. Dr. Preston mopped his head and face, and bound the wet towel over his forehead.
“Bring a seat for Hobart,” I said to a guard.
Hobart was lifted to it, and thus sat facing the crowd. He had a finer look than I had ever seen from him; he had passed through purgatory. He looked openly at the people, and at last his glance rested on Mr. Vancouver. It seemed to hold a deep meaning. Mr. Vancouver shrank even more than when he had seen the iron hand come down.
I went up to Captain Mason and reported that Hobart was conscious.
The captain nodded, came forward, I beside him, and looked down on the beaten man, who anxiously returned the look.
“May I say a word, Captain?” Hobart asked.
“Certainly.”
Hobart turned to me. “You are a hard man,” he said, “but square and brave. So are you, Captain Mason. I deserved what I got, and a good deal more. But I’m sorry for what I did, and I ask you to forgive me.”
There was frank admiration in Captain Mason’s face, for he was observing another strong man emerge from the first hard lesson in a discipline that the sailor had known for many a year.
“May I say something to the boys?” asked Hobart.
“Of course.”
Hobart worked round to face his fellow-conspirators. In silence he looked at one after another.
“Boys,” he said, “we made a mistake, and are beginning to pay. I don’t know what’s going to be done with us, but, whatever it is, we must bear it like men. We made an agreement when we came into this valley, and we violated it. What we did might have cost the life of every member of this colony.”
He paused, for he was weak, and a deep emotion tore him.
“Boys, if I had been Captain Mason and Mr. Tudor, and had protected and trusted the people as they have done, and they had tried to undermine me, and to benefit themselves to the harm of the others, I would have them taken to the nearest tree, and, God help me! I would have them hanged.”
Not a word of that astonishing speech missed an ear in the crowd. When Hobart had ended, his head dropped in dejection.
After a long minute of silence Captain Mason gave me a look. I went to Hobart, who raised a sad face to mine. But when he saw my smile and my extended hand, a glad surprise leaped in him, and his clasp was that of a drowning man.
I walked away. Dr. Preston next received Captain Mason’s glance, and the scene was repeated. I did not observe the hint that the president must have given; but while some of the guard came and took Hobart’s hand, others were untying the prisoners, and they also came in their turn.
There were tears in Hobart’s eyes, and his speech had fled by the time Captain Mason came up and took his hand.
“You are a man, Hobart,” said he, and without noting the effect turned to the other conspirators. “Young men,” he went on, “you are at liberty. The incident is closed.”
Without a glance at the assembled colony, he turned away and went to his hut.
I looked for Beelo, and saw his signal to follow him. A buzzing rose from the crowd. A hard, fixed look was in Mr. Vancouver’s ashen face. Annabel’s head rested in her arms on the table, and she was sobbing. From every direction I found furtive glances upon me, and wondered whether I had become a Pariah. The idea was dispelled by the friendly responses that my advances found, but I was uneasy on the score of Beelo.