The captain, holding the pannikin in his hand, continued to gaze silently at the boatswain and the uneasy, sullen mob behind that plaintive officer.
“Men,” said he, presently, “you know as well as I do that I have nothing to do with the victualling. You know that while we’re at sea we must eat what there is, good or bad, simply because there’s nothing else to be got. When we fetch up in port, I can promise you fresh provisions. Now go forward—and take this with you.” He would have returned the stinking tin to the boatswain, but the boatswain put his hands behind him and backed a step or two.
“Captain Shargeloes,” said he, “what you say is true and fair, when the whole ship’s company goes on short allowance. But now it is not so. Let the officers mess aft the same as what the seamen mess forward, is what we says, and we’ll go back to our duty, and say no more about it.”
“You’ll go back now, and smart,” says the captain, darkening. “This is a plot. I knew it. I see what you would be at, you——”
The boatswain made a rush forward, but Dawkins was too quick for him, striking him heavily on the head with a pistol-butt, so that he tumbled sideways. The rest of the mutineers hesitated a moment; the watch on deck, their wavering minds decided, probably, by the fall of the boatswain, came running aft; there was a scuffle, and the thing was over, the deputation being hustled below into irons. The captain was still holding the pannikin in his hand. He looked at it, hove it over the rail, and spat after it. Then he invited the intrepid Dawkins to drink with him, and the two, going below, stayed there a long time.
The boatswain and his following were flogged. They had six dozen apiece, and were disabled for a fortnight afterwards. When their backs were healed enough to bear their coats, they were had upon the quarterdeck, where they made humble submission; and the captain forgave them.
“I knew there was a plot brewing,” says he, “before ever we were clear of the river. You can’t hide it from me, my men—don’t hope to do it. I can smell it—smell it in the air, like a dashed thunderstorm. Now all’s clear again—I know that without your telling me. I would have every jack-rabbit of you swinging at the yard-arm else, as sure as sunrise.”
The captain’s words were bold enough; but there was something about the man that told another story. His long, lean neck, like a fowl’s, twisted uneasily at every sound as he paced the quarterdeck; his brown fingers were for ever hovering at his mouth; he was continually drinking. I believe Captain Shargeloes to have been as brave a man as ever stepped; but he was haunted by the ineradicable conviction that the world was in a conspiracy against him, and weakened by the suspicion that his wits were dull. I say that he was brave; I believe he never ceased to combat this fatal prepossession; it was the real Captain Shargeloes fighting the false. Liquor was his chief weapon—the worst he could have chosen. And, lest he should want encouragement, Mr Dawkins was ever at his elbow to suggest a tot of rum, a drop of French brandy, a glass of Schiedam. Dawkins had a head like the bitts; he was seldom the worse for liquor; but the captain grew as limp as a swab. You could see that his burden grew heavier upon him; but he stuck to it with a kind of hopeless patience.
“You young men should be happy,” he once said, addressing Pomfrett and myself. Pomfrett looked at him with his serious blue eyes. Brandon was asking himself, conscientiously, if he were happy, or not.
“You don’t command a water-logged ship,” continued Shargeloes, gloomily. “I mean,” he explained, “you have no wife and no nine children depending on you. Not that that would matter, if a man had a chance. But what chance do these owners give their captains?—saving your presence, Mr Agent. The ship stuffed with rotten provisions, the crew a set of mutinous rake-hells, nothing square, nothing aboveboard, the whole voyage a speculation, and the captain responsible for all.”