CHAPTER VI
“Die life, fly soul, tongue curse thy fill, and die!”
—Marlowe, in The Jew of Malta.
The trial of the pilot for the instigation of mutiny was conducted in the fly-boat’s main cabin with strict secrecy, in order that faint-hearted ones might be spared the disheartening anxiety which a knowledge of the conspiracy would have brought to them. The ship’s commander, Captain Pomp by name, who had appeared greatly flurried and genuinely amazed on hearing Vytal’s story, presided at the inquiry. Beside him at the long table sat Vytal on the one hand and Ananias Dare, now sober but forlorn, on the other.
The pilot, brought in by Hugh Rouse, came stolidly, without a struggle, and during the trial faced his judges with defiance, turning now and then an expectant look on Ananias Dare. For, preceding this investigation, the assistant had gone to the deck at sunrise and held a conversation in whispers with the guilty man, telling Hugh, who would have questioned his authority, that he but sought to elicit further information from the captive. What he had actually said was this: “An you betray me, we’re both lost. Make no accusation at the trial. Even though I testify against you, I will save you in the end.”
But the pilot’s eyes gazed at him with little trustfulness. “You swear it?”
“I swear it.”
“So be it, then. But at the last an you fail me, Master Sot, look to your own salvation.”
The trial proceeded in a perfunctory manner, and would have been but a routine affair save for the increasing nervousness of Ananias, who concealed the cause by holding both hands to his head as though only the night’s intemperance had unstrung him; and by the sudden appearance of Roger Prat, who, with the captain’s permission, held a whispered conference with Vytal. “I pray you, captain, make no charge against the others. I have charmed them with a flute and tabor. They are hot against the pilot, being but hirelings, and, like sheep, easily led. We can count our force the richer by a score. ‘I have saved your necks,’ said I,’and have talked with Captain Vytal. An we oppose him we surely dangle from the yard-arm. Welladay, welladay, I know what I know,’ and I sang them a song, then played at dice, and lost three angels a-purpose, then drank and warmed their chicken hearts. In another week they will be ready to die for us,” and, making a grimace at the sullen pilot, as who should say,“Be more cheerful, sir,” Roger swaggered from the cabin.
On the testimony of Vytal, who told of St. Magil’s conversation with Ferdinando concerning his bribe to the pilot, and on the oath of Ananias Dare, who testified to having heard the defendant plotting with St. Magil, the culprit was speedily condemned. The pale face of Dare, the faltering voice, the nervous effort with which he forced himself to stand erect while bearing witness, were readily set down to his bibulous tendencies, already well known to the fly-boat’s captain.
In a grandiose manner Captain Pomp arose and drew himself up to his full height.
“Incarcerate the prisoner,” he said to Rouse, “in the hold. At midnight I shall send for him. Our sentence is that he shall be hanged at the yard-arm until dead.” Whereupon, with an important air, not devoid of true dignity, he bowed to Vytal.
“It is well,” said the soldier. And the three judges filed slowly from the room.
At the hour of midnight, when the voyagers were sleeping in their cabins, a sailor appeared in the hatchway of the hold, and soon the pilot stood beneath the main-mast, guarded by two dusky figures with drawn swords. A third approached him gravely. It was the Oxford preacher, offering consolation. But his offices were undesired. The pilot greeted him with a low curse, then laughed scornfully.
Vytal, who had come hither, realized the stubborn nature of the condemned man, and drew the pastor aside.
The moon, now full, had risen high, eclipsing with her brilliancy a host of stars. The sea lay glassy, a pool of shining mercury, its currents gliding on in silence, faster than the ship herself. The stillness was profound, broken only by the far-off cry of an unseen gull.
The night was a night for serenades of love, for lutes, for ardent whispers, for anything but work like this.
The noose was thrown over the pilot’s head carelessly, as though the sailor were casting a quoit upon a peg. The captive opened his lips as though to speak, but the rope was tight-drawn, and the effort ended in a gulp, vainly. Suddenly there was a guttural, inarticulate cry, a choking sound, and a bulky form went up half-way to the yard-arm. In that instant, hurrying, uncertain footsteps scraped along the deck, and Ananias Dare reeled into the silent circle. He gesticulated and moved his arms, striving to point steadily at the swaying figure in the moonlight. But he uttered only a gibberish of broken, unmeaning syllables, and then, lurching to the bulwark, went deathly sick in unrestrainable nausea.
The figure above, still rocking slightly from the upward swing, held out a thick forefinger and pointed to the new-comer, while a smile, ghastly in the moonshine, and triumphant even in the last agony, crossed its bestial face.
Vytal turned and looked at Ananias, who was now but a mumbling, terror-stricken heap upon the deck. Vytal had looked at the man before, but now for the first time seemed to gaze into him.
“Ugh!” muttered Roger Prat, shuddering. “Goodman Thong did his work well, but the pilot has done his duty even better.”
The sun, several hours later, peering through the grayness, saw a heavy thing, limp and motionless, depending from the yard-arm of a lonely ship. It was a man of revolting countenance, black from strangulation, and pitted with the marks of a disease. Over the brow a shock of coarse red hair hung in strands like streaks of fire, and from the chin a ruddy beard flared across the chest. On one of the broad shoulders sat a great white gull, its beak buried in the flame.
But soon a sailor appeared on deck, whistling cheerily in the morning watch. He cut the thing down, and, grumbling over its weighty bulk, cast it headlong into the sea.