It was done, but it was hardly necessary, for they were all so badly hurt that they could not make their escape, Pepe and Louis especially being recognized at once by Merritt, although their features were battered into shapelessness, and their stertorous breathing pointed to brain concussion. Of the other five only one belonged to the ship, the third mate’s harponeer Carlo, the rest were beach-combers of the worst repute. There was not a Kanaka among them. As usual the Kanakas crowded around, volubly discussing the affair in all its possible details, but when the news spread among them that the attack had been made upon the man whom they had agreed to honour, almost worship, very ugly sounds began to arise, and but for the arrival of the surgeon, accompanied by the captain and a posse of police, the lives of those murderous wretches would hardly have been worth a moment’s purchase. Certainly Merritt would have joyfully egged the Kanakas on to do any deed they thought fit.
But with the coming of the police order was soon restored and the offenders were carried off under strong guard to the calaboose, or lock-up, where with scantiest ceremony they were flung into a cell and left to recover or not as it might please them. C. B., though almost at the last extremity from loss of blood, made a magnificent rally, and in an hour had so far recovered as to be able to tell the simple story of his waylaying. He could not identify any of his assailants, for the attack had been so sudden and the night was so dark; but here Merritt stepped in and took up the tale, filling in all the later details of which C. B. had been unconscious, and winding up grimly with the words—“An’ we’ve got ’em all by the heels now. Besides, I guess they’ve got enough punishment to last ’em till next time. But if I’d had my way I’d a killed every last one of ’em. A little killin’ ’d do that gang a power of good.”
The captain’s sympathy with his wounded harponeer was very great, but it must be sorrowfully admitted that his annoyance was greater. It would have given him much satisfaction if he could have blamed C. B. or Merritt, but they were both utterly blameless. And so he had no one upon whom he could expend the rage he felt at what he now realized would mean considerable delay and expense, as well as alteration in the personnel of his ship. Again and again the cowardly thought arose, “I must get rid of this fellow, I shall never have any peace in this ship until I do,” and he remembered Winsloe’s attitude as well as that of the now discomfited harponeers. But in any case he feared that they would be in no shape to resume the voyage from what he had heard of their injuries.
Whichever way he looked he could see nothing but trouble, and he weakly put it down to the presence in his ship of a man who, he fretfully muttered to himself, was too good for this world. At last, with a sigh, he rose to his feet saying—
“Well, doctor, I s’pose I can leave the patient to you; you’ll oblige me by seeing that he’s looked after, an’ I’ll be ashore again early in the mornin’ to see him.”
But before the doctor could reply Merritt stepped forward and said respectfully but firmly—
“I’ll stay and look after him, sir, if you please.”
“Ah, certainly not,” testily returned the skipper. “I can’t have any more of you ashore. It’s bad enough as it is. You’ll come aboard with me now.”
Merritt looked keenly at his commander and replied in a deeper tone—