“Turned him over to the sergeant for safe-keeping, sir,” returned the officer.
“Leg-irons?” asked Casement.
“Leg-irons, handcuffs, and a dog-chain,” returned Facey, with a grin. “He’s cost too much to take any chances of his getting off.”
The first thing next morning, old Jibberik was brought aboard with his two companions. He was a disgusting old gorilla of a man, with a hairy chest and a cold, leering eye—a mere scarecrow of humanity, of a type incredibly cruel and debased. He had worked up enough courage overnight to beg for everything within sight, and he fingered the clothes and accoutrements of the seamen like a greedy child. His two friends were not a whit behind him, either in manners or appearance. They clicked and chattered like monkeys, and showed extraordinary fearlessness in that armed ship amid the swarming whites; the only man they seemed to dread was old Jibberik himself; and they wilted under his piercing glance like flowers in the sun, whenever his baleful attention fell their way.
Four bells was the time set for the court martial; at nine o’clock Casement sent for Facey and told him he must prepare to defend the prisoner.
“Burder will prosecute for the Queen,” he said. “Pickthorn will act as clerk. Sennett, Roche, and I will compose the court.”
The first lieutenant was overcome. “I don’t think I can, sir,” he said feebly. “I never did such a thing in my life; I wouldn’t know where to begin, or to leave off, for that matter.”
“You can leave off when we hang your prisoner,” Casement returned, with his bull-doggish air. “Of course, it’s all a damned farce,” he went on. “Somebody’s got to act for the nigger; it’s printed that way in the book.”
“I’ll move for an adjournment,” said Facey.
“I’ll be hanged if you will,” said the captain. “It’s a beastly business, and we have got to put it through.”