“Who’s talkin’ of murder? Thet’s an ugly word,” he stammered out, evidently frightened at the result of his rage against poor Sam, and the way in which the crew regarded it. “I—I only shot thet nigger because he pizened me an’ the first-mate.”
“You should have put hims in ze irons,” interposed the second-mate, Jan Steenbock, speaking in his deep, solemn tones from the poop above. “Ze mans vas murdert in ze cold blood!”
I could see Captain Snaggs shiver—all his coarse, bullying manner and braggadocio deserting him, as Jan Steenbock’s accents rang through the ship, like those of an accusing judge; the index finger of the second-mate’s right hand pointing at him, as he leant over the poop rail, like the finger of Fate!
“I did not mean to shoot the coon like to kill him, I only meant to kinder frighten the life out of him, thet’s all,” he began, in an exculpatory tone, regaining his usual confidence as he proceeded. “The durned cuss brought it on hisself, I reckon; fur, if he hedn’t climb’d into the riggin’ he wouldn’t hev dropped overboard!”
“But, you vas shoot him ze first,” said Jan Steenbock, in reply to this, the men on the other side of the captain giving a murmuring assent to the accusation, “you vas shoot him ze first!”
“Aye, thet’s so; but I didn’t mean fur to hit him, only to skear him. Guess I don’t think I did, fur the ship rolled as I fired, an’ the bullet must hev gone over his woolly head, an’ he let go from sheer frit!”
“Dat might be,” answered the second-mate, whom the men left to do all the talking; “but ze—”
“Besides,” continued the captain, interrupting him, and seeing he had gained a point, “the darkey pizened my grub. He sea he put jalap in it. Ye heerd him say so y’rselves, didn’t ye?”
“Aye, aye,” chorussed the group of men in front of him, with true sailor’s justice, “we did. We heard him say so.”
“Well, then,” argued Captain Snaggs, triumphantly, “ye knows what a delicate matter it is fur to meddle with a chap’s grub; ye wouldn’t like it y’rselves?”