“Do you hear me, sir,” roared the captain.
“If you please, your honour, I’d rather take my disrating—I—don’t wish to be chief boatswain’s mate in this here business.”
“Obey your orders, immediately, sir,” cried the captain; “or, by God, I’ll try you for mutiny.”
“Well, sir, I beg your pardon; but what must be, must be. I mean no disrespect, Captain Hawkins, but I cannot flog that man—my conscience won’t let me.”
“Your conscience, sir?”
“Beg your pardon, Captain Hawkins, I’ve always done my duty, foul weather or fair; and I’ve been eighteen years in His Majesty’s service, without ever being brought to punishment; but if I am to be hung now, saving your pleasure, and with all respect, I can’t help it.”
“I give you but one moment more, sir,” cried the captain: “do your duty.”
The man looked at the captain, and then eyed the yard-arm. “Captain Hawkins, I will do my duty, although I must swing for it.” So saying, he threw his cat down on the quarter-deck, and fell back among the ship’s company.
The captain was now confounded, and hardly knew how to act: to persevere, appeared useless—to fall back, was almost as impossible. A dead silence of a minute ensued. Everyone was breathless, with impatience, to know what would be done next. The silence was, however, first broken by Jones, the Joe Miller, who was seized up.
“Beg your honour’s pardon, sir,” said he, turning his head round: “but if I am to be flogged, will you be pleased to let me have it over? I shall catch my death a-cold, naked here all day.”