“‘Now, my man, how do you want to die?’
“‘It doesn’t make much difference to me,’ the boatswain answered. ‘At least, it will not an hour hence.’
“‘True,’ replied the commanding Kantoon; ‘but there are all sorts of deaths. I’d recommend drowning. I may be prejudiced in its favor, but it’s about the easiest form in which to take your medicine. Out of consideration for your courage, I’ll have you drowned on deck, here, if I can find a barrel filled with water. But you must make your mind up in a few minutes. We can’t fool with you all night.’
“‘Very well,’ replied the boatswain, indifferently. ‘I suppose I had better take your advice. Suit your own convenience,’ and he bowed, just as if receiving a command.
“The order was at once given, and the head was knocked out of an empty water cask. It was placed upright on the deck, and in three minutes it was filled with water—a line of bucket passers having been formed. There were some mutterings, many Sargassons protesting against all this trouble about one captive; but nobody dared openly to oppose the whim of the Commander.
“I went over and shook hands with the boatswain, as well as was possible under the circumstances, his wrists being tightly bound together. He gave my hand a firm, hearty pressure, and I then turned my back in order to avoid witnessing his last agonies.
“He was seized by six men, pitched head foremost into the water butt, and held there until life was extinct. His struggles were not violent, and he died with the complacency that could be expected of a man who was naturally a philosopher, and who regarded the end merely in the light of an incident. The poor fellow’s body was then committed to the sea with considerable consideration. Thus ended a duty that to most people would be thought very disagreeable. Among the Sargassons, however, we feel no compunction at taking life. We regard existence as something unwillingly thrust upon us—the loss of which is of very little moment.
“While this scene had been enacting upon deck, a part of our men had been ordered to the furnaces, fires had been replenished with coal, and by daylight we had steam enough to get under way. If you will cast your eyes in that direction,” continued the Kantoon, pointing off to the eastward, “you will see that your ship is safely moored in a berth, where she will remain until our good mother, the Sea, takes her in final and loving embrace. Perhaps you would care to use these glasses, with which no doubt, you are familiar,” saying which the scoundrel had the audacity to hand me my own binoculars, taken from my own cabin.
Right here, however, I want to say that petty theft was unknown among the Sargassons. The very reason that my sea glasses were in the possession of the Kantoon of my ship was that they had been committed to his care in trust for me. I found the same thing to be true regarding my articles of jewelry, wearing apparel and even books in the library that contained my name. I may anticipate far enough to state that in due time I received all these things, none of them the worse for wear or misuse.
I took the glasses from the Kantoon’s hand, and soon located the Caribas among the vast assemblage of vessels that swung with the ocean swell. She lay at least six miles away, but I was aided in my search by a fine film of smoke that still ascended from her funnels. The fires were dying out under her boilers, and in another day she would be as incapable of movement as the oldest water-logged craft in the community.