In spite of it all—of his life in jail, of his stark mutiny, of the oppression of the governor, he had not been beaten down, but had prospered in spite of all. He had by his will, wisdom and military skill, saved the island in its hour of peril, saved its governor from condemnation; and here he was facing the worst enemy of his life with the cards of success in his hands.
“You have done the island and England great service, Mr. Calhoun,” said the governor at last.
“It is the least I could do for the land where I have made my home, where I have reaped more than I have sown.”
“We know your merit, sir.”
A sharp satirical look came into Calhoun’s face and his voice rang out with vigour. “And because you knew my merit you advised the crown to confine me to my estate, and you would have had me shot if you could. I am what I am because there was a juster man than yourself in Jamaica. Through him I got away and found treasure, and I bought land and have helped to save this island and your place. What do I owe you, your honour? Nothing that I can see—nothing at all.”
“You are a mutineer, and but that you showed your courage would have been hung at the yard-arm, as many of your comrades in England were.”
A cold smile played at Calhoun’s lips. “My luck was as great as my courage, I know. I have the luck of Enniscorthy!”
At the last words the governor winced, for it was by that touch Calhoun had defeated him in the duel long ago. It galled him that this man whom he detested could say such things to him with truth. Yet in his heart of hearts he had for Calhoun a great respect. Calhoun’s invincible will had conquered the worst in Mallow’s nature, had, in spite of himself, created a new feeling in him. There was in Mallow the glimmer of greatness, and only his supreme selfishness had made him what he was. He laid a hand on himself now, though it was not easy to do so.
“It was not the luck of Enniscorthy that sent Erris Boyne to his doom,” he said, however, with anger in his mind, for Dyck’s calm boldness stirred the worst in him. He thought he saw in him an exultancy which could only come from his late experiences in the field. It was as though he had come to triumph over the governor. Mallow said what he had said with malice. He looked to see rage in the face of Dyck Calhoun, and was nonplussed to find that it had only a stern sort of pleasure. The eyes of Calhoun met his with no trace of gloom, but with a valour worthy of a high cause—their clear blue facing his own with a constant penetration. Their intense sincerity gave him a feeling which did not belong to authority. It was not the look of a criminal, whatever the man might be—mutineer and murderer. As for mutineer, all that Calhoun had fought for had been at last admitted by the British Government, and reforms had been made that were due to the mutiny at the Nore. Only the technical crime had been done by Calhoun, and he had won pardon by his bravery in the battle at sea. Yes, he was a man of mark, even though a murderer.
Calhoun spoke slowly. “Your honour, you have said what you have a right to say to a man who killed Erris Boyne. But this man you accuse did not do it.” The governor smiled, for the assumption was ridiculous. He shrugged a shoulder and a sardonic curl came to his lip.