“Fear of the ship’s company? There’s some of ’em would be almost called honest.”
“Pass again,” said Brandon.
“Well, you’re hard to please, commander, so help me. What,” said Mr Dawkins, “if I were to swear a oath on the Book, now?”
“That’s better,” said Brandon, “and the least you can do.”
“Oh, that’s better, is it?” said Dawkins, evidently discomfited. “Well what must be, must, I reckon. Fetch aft the Book, commander.”
Brandon took a Testament from the locker where his kit was stowed, and there and then administered a terrific oath to Mr Dawkins, binding him, under the most blasting penalties in this world and the next, to perform his share of our mutual agreement. A pirate has a certain respect for an oath taken on the Bible; and although it is always doubtful how far it will bind him when the pinch comes, this thin strand of superstitious faith was all we had to trust in.
“Well an’ good,” said Dawkins, drawing the back of his hand across his lips. “Now it’s my turn, commander. Take the Book in your right hand and say after me.”
And he launched into an apocalyptic imprecation beside which Brandon’s attempt at a sacrament paled its ineffectual fire. To Morgan Leroux, and to me, did Mr Dawkins, not sparing us a single jot, then administer this tremendous compact.
“And now,” said Mr Dawkins, filling his glass for the first time since we had entered the cabin, “a glass all round to wet the agreement, shipmates, and then—as there ain’t to be no hanging at sunrise—why, I’ll turn in for a stretch off-shore on this here locker, commander, by your kind leave.”
He lay down, wrapped in his boat-cloak, and slept instantly. A sentry was stationed at the door of the cabin, and we three went on deck. As we emerged into the dusky glimmer of moonlight shining diffused behind clouds, the watch challenged loudly. “Boat ahoy!” But there was no boat to be seen. “I could ’a’ sworn there was a boat, too,” said the man. “Yonder, out by the headland.”