'Unkindness can never be best, James; wrong can never be right. You must think better of it and do the boy justice.' But the captain was unwilling to retrace his steps, for reasons of which his sensible and prudent wife knew nothing. So he left the matter where it was, saying to himself, 'What must be, must.'
The darkening shadows had fallen for hours that night, when a party more numerous than usual took possession of the taproom of the Jolly Tar, in one of the narrow streets of Appledore. The ruddy glow of the log fire on the hearth was warmly reflected on the faces of the motley group as they sat around the settle, and gave to their features a bloated appearance, which too well read out the sottish habits of most of them. Night after night they congregated in that beery repository of gossip and scandal, of drunkenness and brawling; and many were the hapless wives and children who paid in hunger, nakedness, tears, and crime, for their bacchanalian selfishness and revelry. The company was varied occasionally by casual visitors, who were constrained to 'stand a treat,' and tempted to aspire after that maudlin condition denominated 'three sheets in the wind.' Such a visitor on the evening in question was Sam Pickard, who became the hero of the night, and escaped the ordinary requirement of 'glasses round,' from the sympathy awakened by his escape from a watery grave. Jim Ortop's father a wild, cadaverous-looking shoemaker, and a noted tippler, appeared to be the leading spirit; and from the twinkling of his eyes, and the rapidity with which he swallowed his potations, it was evident that he was unusually excited.
By general request, Sam Pickard proceeded to give them the history of the loss of the Sarah Ann, which he did with much feeling, and amidst a silence which was only broken occasionally by unsympathetic grumblings from the restless, angry-looking shoemaker.
'What's become of the six poor fellows who drifted away in the jolly-boat?' asked a grim-looking blacksmith.
'Who knows?' said Pickard; 'I heard this afternoon that part of a boat had been picked up over to Braunton, and that'—
'Just before I came here,' broke in one of the party, 'Bill Berry told me that four of the bodies had been found at the back of the Burrows.'
'They've been murdered, then,' said Ortop fiercely. 'I tell you they never came to their end by fair means. Their blood lies at the door of Cap'n Stauncy, who scuttled the brig, as sure as I'm a living man; and if there's any justice in England, it ought to follow him like a bloodhound.'
'It's false!' said Pickard, rising, with a flow of blood in his face which threatened mischief. 'What should the cap'n want to scuttle the vessel for? He did his best to keep her up during the gale, and I'll sew your mouth up for you if you spread such a lying report any further.'
'I say,' vociferated the shoemaker, smashing his pipe on the table, 'that they're murdered men; and before you try to sew my mouth up, you'd better slacken the noose that's tightening round your own neck!'
The ex-cook rushed forward to take summary vengeance on the representative of the gentle craft, who rose to defend himself, and a fearful fight would have ensued had the evening been farther advanced. As it was, they were most of them tolerably sober, and managed to separate the combatants.