The leader still lay insensible on the hearth; and the blood had run from him the whole length of the room. The one Ben had flung against the wall lay on the bed, the sheets and pillows of which were soaked in blood that issued from his nose and mouth. The one he threw into the fireplace still lay on his back across the andirons, with his head in the ashes, for Ben told them, if one of them moved, when he came back he’d make an end of them.
“Here, boy,” said Ben, giving him the key of the cuddy, “go and let those fellows loose, and tell them to come up here and take away their comrades, and bear a hand about it, too, or I shall be after them.”
The men came, pale and trembling, bringing with them a hand-barrow, such as is used by fishermen to carry fish. On this they laid the captain, and carried him on board. The others were able, with assistance, to stagger along. Sally wanted to wash the captain’s face, and pour some spirit down his throat, to bring him to; but Ben would not allow her, saying, “He is not fit for a decent woman to touch; and if he dies there’ll be one villain less in the world.”
“But he’s not fit to die, Ben.”
“That’s his lookout,” was the stern reply; “away with him.” The boy still lingered, though he eyed Ben with evident distrust, and shrunk himself together every time he spoke. But as soon as the men were all out of the house, Ben assumed an entirely different appearance; his voice lost its stern tone, the flush faded from his face, his muscles relaxed, and he asked the trembling boy to sit down, as it would be some time before the vessel would float that he came in.
Sally now gave him some water to wash his hands, that were bloody from handling his comrades, combed his hair, and gave him a piece of bread and butter.
“Here comes John Strout,” said Ben, looking out at the door.
“O, dear!” said Sally, “what a looking place for anybody to come into!”
“What’s all this?” said John, looking at the blood on the floor and bed-clothes; “have you been butchering?”
“Almost,” replied Sally.