“Martin,” continued the chief, “who was Martin’s friend?” Another pirate stepped forward, and, raising his right hand, in the same manner, declared that he was Martin’s friend.
The captain went on in this manner, calling over the names of the lost comrades, and requiring to know their friends, until he came to the last of the men.
“Francis,” he cried, “Francis’s friend.” Two men simultaneously stepped forward, and, raising their hands, each declared that he was Francis’s friend. “How is this?” the captain asked, “it is not impossible to have more than one friend, but you know, my men, that it is the custom, on board this schooner, to have but one man to whom his friend may bequeath his share?”
The men then looked at each other: and each looked round at his comrades, as if appealing to them in testimony of his right to be considered the friend of the dead Francis.
“He was my friend,” each said, and looked again at their comrades, in corroboration of his claim; but the pirates uttered not a word in answer to this silent appeal.
“My men,” said the captain, “this has never happened here before: either Francis forgot his honor, when he charged both of you to be his friends, when dead, or one of you forgets his, when he asserts that he is Francis’s friend. Now, Francis is no more, and cannot answer for this; the responsibility of this breach of honor, my men, rests, therefore, upon you: one of you must lie.” The two men looked fierce when the chief coolly pronounced this word. “You know the law—choose your weapons—at six o’clock this evening you must fight: the survivor shall receive the share of Francis.”
A low murmur of approbation rang along the line of the assembled sailors, and the two pretenders to the favour of the departed pirate stepped aside.
After the shares of the wounded had been duly allotted, and those of the dead scrupulously delivered into the hands of their friends; or, if there were no friends of the deceased, carefully set apart for the purpose of having masses said for them, the lots of the other pirates were shared out to them.
The officers of the schooner received theirs first, and those who might be called the common seamen, theirs afterwards. When the distribution was completed, the prisoners and strangers on board were ordered to appear. First came the surviving sailors of the prize ship. Out of the complement of thirty-five men, who had formed the crew of that vessel, five only had escaped death in the engagement. These came forth, pale and haggard, expecting, apparently, to hear every moment the dreadful command which, in some horrible way, should put an end to their existence. The five English sailors, with the exception of one, whose years might be more mature, were in the prime of life, and wore that hue of health which their calling imparts: howbeit the anxiety of the position in which they were placed had had its temporary effect on them.