“No,” said Lyons. “But we’ve killed the skipper and the mate, and the captain’s brother has got away somewhere. We want you to work the ship to somewhere. Will you do it?”
For a moment or so Taffir thought. To say “Yes” was to lend himself to the crime; to say “No” was to ask for death. And, after all, refusing would do nothing for the men who had been killed, whereas to agree might lead to the bringing of the ruffians to justice.
“All right,” he said presently, and the party went on deck again.
Going to the main cabin, Taffir saw that Captain Smith’s body had a rope round it, and that Watto, the Turk, was going to haul it up on deck to heave it overboard.
“Hold! Let me sew it up in canvas,” cried Taffir, with all the sailor’s reverence for the dead; and the mutineers, knowing that, after all, they must humour the mate, consented. Taffir performed his sad office, and Captain Smith had a decent burial at sea, minus the service.
It was five o’clock before Taffir went up on deck, and as he did so he passed Santos, who flourished a big knife at him, as though he would much like to do with Taffir as he had done with the captain.
Having seen that the ship was going all right, Taffir went back to the cabin, and remained there till about eight o’clock, when all the hands except the man at the wheel came down to interview him.
“Come into the captain’s cabin,” said Lyon sternly.
“What for?” Taffir asked, though he had already guessed what was afoot.
“We want to see what money and clothes he’d got,” was the reply; and although he did not say so, Lyons’s idea was that, if they got Taffir there, and made him share with them, they could say that he was a party to the whole affair.