It was remarked that Dawkins had himself suggested Hispaniola on the former occasion.
“Yes, I did so. And for why? Because I reckoned it might save a mutiny. Well, you knew better than me—what have sailed the South Seas for twenty year—most on you, by your account of it, and a mutiny we had. Now it’s over, and the course is set to Barbadoes, and to Barbadoes this ship goes,” says Dawkins, stubbornly.
“Put it to the vote, captain,” said one.
Captain Dawkins arose from his seat, leaned forward on the table, supporting himself on his hands, and glared upon us.
“Another word like that,” says he, “and I’ll clap you in the bilboes! You elected me captain, all on you. I didn’t ask you for to do it, I didn’t want it, nor I don’t; but you done it free and spontaneous. Now, I reckon I know my duty, and, what’s more, I know your duty. Enough said. Gentlemen, this council is dis—solved!”
There was an end of opposition; it was not worth risking a quarrel on the point, with our formidable commander. At this time, Hispaniola lay some six hundred miles out of our course; but neither Brandon nor I understood at the time why Mr Dawkins put himself in such a heat. We were presently to discover the reason.
Meanwhile, Captain Dawkins served double rations to the crew, and crowded sail most extravagantly. As long as the trade-wind held we walked along at full seven knots, day and night, in safety. But when it dropped, we spread every stitch of canvas to catch the light airs; and then a blot no bigger than a man’s hand would rise on the sky-line to windward; the watch would be sent rushing aloft to shorten sail; and before they had done, the squall would burst shrieking upon us with a solid weight of wind and a blinding smother of water. Sails would be torn from the bolt-ropes with a noise of cannon, and a man or two, very likely, carried overboard. Then the storm would sweep away to leeward and the sun shine out; and out would go the sails again, the ship staggering and heeling through the surge. Those were dispiriting days for the landsman. There was never an hour when he could lie down to sleep without the dismal possibility of awaking in the next world. As for Dawkins, he scarcely quitted the deck. “You ever seen a ship sailed the way she ought?” he would say. “Well, I’ll show you, my son.”
But the exhibition roused no admiration in the conscientious breast of the owners’ agent. Pomfrett had been deeply mortified by the failure of the stores, for which he was responsible. He had put an innocent confidence in the honesty of Mr Gamaliel; and I have little doubt that the owners winked at the amiable Jew’s transactions, or they would never have set a green hand like Brandon to overlook the business. Gamaliel supplied the stores cheaper than anyone else, and that was all the pious merchants of Bristol cared for. The crew might starve to the bone and rot with scurvy,—crews did, as a rule—but the investors got their percentage, and the ship would come into port somehow. Meanwhile, the owners’ agent took upon himself to suffer along with the men. After the mutiny, and the boatswain’s challenge, Brandon would have no more of the cabin provisions. He had his rations brought from the forward galley; what was fit for the crew, said he, was fit for him. The officers called him a fool for his pains; they told him he was for currying favour with the mariners, and that he would die. But he kept his health by a miracle, for a dog would have turned from the putrid concoctions he fed on. As for the men, they merely added contempt to the dislike and suspicion in which they held the unfortunate agent. And now, on the top of his miseries, came the persuasion that Captain Dawkins was in danger of throwing away the ship by his reckless conduct of her. It is probable that, in his ignorance of the sea, Pomfrett saw more peril than there really was; and so I told him.
“Very likely,” said he. “I care nothing about that. I’m responsible, and I won’t have this foolish risk. I shall speak to Dawkins.”
“He’ll put you in irons. He’s a born pirate, you know as well as I.”