"What! are you a convict?" someone would ask of butler, washerwoman, syce, coxswain or coolie. "What are you in for?"
"Murder, Thakin" (Englishman, sir), would be the calm reply, with a polite gesture and fascinating smile.
The convicts seemed to think no more of such a crime than of crushing heaps of cockroaches. Oh, that he could be equally dense!
They were detained at Port Blair but a very short time, when they once more embarked for Moulmein. Upon nearing the port, the first figure which he descried among the groups on shore was that of Mr. Gilchrist. He stared as if he had seen a ghost,—but it was an avenging spectre. Within the first five minutes of their landing, Mr. Gilchrist accused him of the crime of cutting the raft adrift; all shrank from him with detestation, no one stood forth to say "I do not believe the charge."
Wills and Osborn confirmed Mr. Gilchrist's accusation; the two ordinary seamen, Price and Simpson, gave testimony against him; even Ralph, upon whose forgiving nature he fastened hope, said, "Oh, Kirke, how could you have done such a thing!"
He was put into the police guardroom, and a watch set over him.
What could be done to him he had no idea, and imagination played strange pranks with his fears. Should he be sent back to England, in irons, to be tried there, where his father would be broken-hearted, his sisters disgraced; where all would appear in the papers; and, whatever the event, he could never hold up his head again?
Would they send him back to the Andamans, to herd with those half-savage convicts, mutineers from Delhi, the scum of Rangoon?
Would they shoot him, or hang him, or flog him?
Image after image of terror succeeded each other, while the guard gossipped, laughed, and dozed. These men were careless of their charge. Where should a European go if he did escape? They paid little heed to him, and he began to perceive that escape was possible.