“Ay, ay, Ned; you’re right, bo’; that’s just exactly how’t was,” was the reply.
“Nevertheless,” answered Captain Arnold sternly, “you are as much murderers, every one of you, as if you had hanged the man—as you seemed about to do—or had taken him up and flung him over the side with your own hands. You drove him to his death; his blood is upon your hands; and you will individually be called upon to answer for your accursed deed, if not in this world, certainly in the next.”
The men cowered like whipped hounds before the captain’s denunciation, which they knew in their inmost souls to be just; for an instant they stood appalled before the awful conviction that they were indeed murderers, none the less guilty because their crime was unintentional; and, but for the swift intervention of Rogers, they would there and then, in their horror and remorse, have yielded up possession of the ship, and returned to their duty. But the boatswain, taking in at a glance the critical state of affairs, and fully realising his own perilous position as the ring-leader in the mutiny, rallied his men by exclaiming—
“There now, belay all that, you Arnold; we wants none of your preachin’, and, what’s more, we won’t have it. And, shipmates, don’t you take no notice of what he says; we never meant to take the second mate’s life; we’d ha’ stopped him from drownin’ hisself if we could; and so it’s just all gammon to talk about our bein’ his—his—murderers. Now march the pris’ners down into the fo’c’s’le again; clap the bilboes on ’em; shut down the scuttle upon ’em; and then come aft into the cabin, all hands, and we’ll ‘freshen the nip.’”
This proposal to “freshen the nip”—or take another glass or two of grog—was eagerly welcomed by the mutineers, who felt that they must have something to dispel those qualms of conscience which so greatly disturbed them; and in another quarter of an hour they were all—with the exception of two men at the wheel and one on the poop, who was supposed to be acting as lookout—once more assembled round the saloon-table, busily endeavouring to drown their sense of guilt in a flood of liquor.
The ladies—who had long before effected a retreat to their own state-rooms, where they had locked themselves in—were for some time allowed to remain unmolested; but when the libations in which the mutineers liberally indulged had at last achieved their desired effect, and the spirits of the men began to rise, one of the most reckless of them proposed that the ladies should be invited to grace the revel with their presence. The proposal was received with acclamation, and the unhappy women were forthwith ordered into the saloon. The poor terrified creatures at first made no response, hoping that if no notice were taken of them the intoxicated mutineers would forget all about them, and leave them in peace. But this hope was of short duration, for the mutineers, drinking deep and rapidly, soon grew excited, and, finding their repeated demands of no avail, staggered to their feet, and, breaking open the state-room doors, dragged forth their victims, compelling them to seat themselves at the same table and partake with them of the liquor with which it was bountifully supplied. The scene which followed is simply too shameful for detailed description. The men, inflamed by drink and rendered reckless by a feeling which none of them could entirely shake off—that they had already offended past all forgiveness—speedily grew more and more outrageous in their behaviour, until the orgie became one of such unbridled licence that one of the ladies—the young and lovely wife of one of the passengers imprisoned in the forecastle—in her desperation drew a pistol from the belt of the man nearest her, and, quickly cocking it, placed the muzzle to her breast, pulled the trigger, and sank upon the saloon floor a corpse, shot through the heart.
This second fatality, more sudden if possible than the first, brought the unholy revel to an abrupt conclusion; the mutineers, thoroughly horrified at the occurrence, notwithstanding their drunken condition, staggering to their feet with one accord, and making the best of their way out on deck, where they sought to sober themselves by plunging their heads into buckets of water.
Having to some extent succeeded in this endeavour, they next bethought themselves of the desirability of putting the ship to rights. It was still blowing very heavily, and the sea was higher than ever—dangerously so indeed, as the ship had more than once narrowly escaped being pooped—but the sky looked a trifle less wild than before, and the glass was rising. Rogers therefore determined, as a first step, to get up a new foresail, bend, and set it. The sail-room was accordingly opened, and then, in pursuance of their resolution to do as little work as possible themselves, the prisoners in the forecastle were brought up on deck, and ordered, first to rouse out the sail, and then to go aloft and bend it. This the unfortunate passengers, aided and directed by the captain, at length accomplished, though it was at the imminent risk of their lives, the violent motion of the ship momentarily threatening to send them—unaccustomed as they were to such work—whirling off the yard into the sea. The sail being bent, it was loosed and set, close-reefed; after which the disabled ship not only steered more easily, but also became more steady; all further danger, too, of being pooped was at an end.
The spare spars were next cast adrift, and preparations made for getting new topmasts on end as soon as the weather should moderate sufficiently; and thus passed that eventful day.
Walford was soon found to be so exceedingly timid when aloft, that he was not only of no use there, he was absolutely a clog and hindrance to the efforts of the others; he was accordingly relegated to the ignominious post of cook’s mate, in which an abundance of the dirtiest work was carefully provided for him.