“White fellow no good; I kill—”
“You be damned!” cried his legal adviser.
At ten o’clock the court martial was assembled on the quarter-deck. The captain, with his brawny shoulders thrown forward, and his hands deep in his trouser pockets, had all the air of a man in the throes of indigestion. On either side of him were Sennett and Roche; and in front, beside a table covered with a flag, was Pickthorn, with a clerkly outfit and a Bible. Billy stood in chains beside a couple of marines, looking extremely depressed. The old gorillas, their filthy kilts bulging with what they had begged or pilfered, were in charge of the sergeant, who had all he could do to prevent their spitting on the deck.
Facey was the first one sworn. He deposed as to the capture and identity of the prisoner. Then Billy was led up to the table and told to plead.
“Kiss the book and say whether you murdered the trader or not,” said the captain.
“White fellow no good; I kill him,” quavered the prisoner.
“Pleads guilty,” said Casement to the clerk.
“What did you do it for?” demanded the court.
Billy reiterated his stock phrase.
“Take him away,” said the captain.