The words were clear enough. All that Margaret saw was Olivia’s face, laughing and happy, her great eyes bright, as the boat swept alongside.
“It’s a hanging matter, Charles,” said Perrin, biting his thumbs till the blood came.
“I don’t care if they hang me fifty times,” said Margaret. “They fired at her.”
“Oh, all right. All right,” said Perrin resignedly. “Now we’re in for trouble,” he added angrily. “Oh, damn it. Damn it. I knew how it would be.”
“Hands clear boat,” said Cammock to the boatswain.
Olivia and Stukeley tripped up the gangway to the quarter-deck.
Margaret greeted them; but Stukeley pushed past him to Cammock and Perrin.
“Here,” he said, drawing them aside. “We’re coming with you. I’m wanted. And I’m coming with you. She thinks I’m coming to help—to help the Indians.” He seemed to choke with laughter. He was out of breath from rowing.
Cammock did not answer, but walked to the rail, and called to the boatmen in the boat. “Hook on these boxes lively now,” he said. “You’d best come aboard, all four of you, unless you want a taste of gaol.”
Two of the men hooked on the trunks in one sling; the other two cast off the boat and dropped astern, as the tackle swept the trunks over the side. It was all done in a moment.