Aye, Red Pawl had killed him—Red Pawl, his son.
The Captain felt no surge of anger at Red Pawl, with this conclusion. He was not surprised. For—Red Pawl was as he, Black Pawl, had made him. He had shown Red the ways of violence and ruthlessness. He had taught Red never a virtue of them all, save bravery, perhaps. He had taught the boy strength, and brutality, and outrage; he had taught him cruelty; he had taught him to hate the world. He had taught him to bully men and despise all women. He had made Red into the man he was. And if Red had killed him, that too was Black Pawl’s teaching. He had shown Red how to kill.
Red would be master of the Deborah now. He would step into Black Pawl’s shoes as captain. He would enter this incident in the log. No doubt he would make it most favorable to the man Spiess. And no doubt Spiess would have a chance to escape before ever they reached port. That was to be expected; that was an essential part of the whole. Red had moved Spiess to kill Black Pawl; now Red must save Spiess from the consequences. So be it! Black Pawl had no grudge against Spiess. He hated him as little as he hated the knife Spiess had thrust between his ribs. Spiess was the instrument; Red Pawl was the murderer.
Black Pawl’s senses clouded for a little; his life was ebbing. Silence still held the ship. The sun climbed higher, striking into Black Pawl’s face. The wind soothed him; the circling birds squawked their unmusical cries. The men whispered by the mainmast. Spiess scrubbed on. Red Pawl leaned against the rail, watching his father die.
But Black Pawl was not yet ready to die. There were still problems to be solved; there was still life to be met and conquered. He could not die. He came slowly back to consciousness again, his mind keen and lucid and unswerving.
Red Pawl would be master of the Deborah. He would save Spiess from punishment. What else would he do?
Black Pawl nodded his weary head. Now he was coming to it, the crux of it all. Ruth? What of her? What would her life be, with Red the master of the schooner’s tiny and constricted world? What would come to her?
There was no mercy in Red Pawl. The Captain knew that. There was no scruple in him to stay his hand. And that was Black Pawl’s doing. Red was dark peril personified. He was a living threat, a red danger to the girl.
The missionary? That is to say, God? Perhaps. But—men must do their share. He had promised that he would do his share. Must God do everything?
Dan Darrin, then? Could Dan guard the girl who loved him? Perhaps—perhaps not. Dan was brave enough, strong enough. But—he was straightforward, fearless, strong, and that was all. There was no craft in him. Red Pawl might easily befuddle him, blind his eyes, strike when Dan was off guard. And—Red had killed his father; he would scarce scruple to kill Dan Darrin.