And one does this—a ruffian of unmitigated type, whose breast is not stirred by the slightest throb of humanity. It is the second mate, Padilla. Breaking silence, he says:
“Let us cut their throats, and have done with it!”
The horrible proposition, more so from its very laconism, despite the auditory to whom it is addressed, does not find favourable response. Several speak in opposition to it; Harry Blew first and loudest. Though broken his word, and forfeited his faith, the British sailor is not so abandoned as to contemplate murder in such cool, deliberate manner. Some of those around him have no doubt committed it; but he does not feel up to it. Opposing Padilla’s counsel, he says:
“What need for our killin’ them? For my part, I don’t see any.”
“And for your part, what would you do?” sneeringly retorts the second mate.
“Give the poor devils a chance for their lives.”
“How?” promptly asks Padilla.
“Why; if we set the barque’s head out to sea, as the wind’s off-shore, she’d soon carry them beyond sight o’ land, and we’d niver hear another word o’ ’em.”
“No, no! that won’t do,” protest several in the same breath. “They might get picked up, and then we’d be sure of hearing of them—may be something more than words.”
“Carrai!” exclaims Padilla scornfully; “that would be a wise way. Just the one to get our throats in the garrota. You forget that Don Gregorio Montijo is a man of the big grandee kind. And should he ever set foot ashore, after what we’d done to him, he’d have influence enough to make most places—ay, the whole of the habitable globe—a trifle too hot for us. There’s an old saw, about dead men telling no tales. No doubt most of you have heard it, and some have reason to know it true. Take my advice, camarados, and let us act up to it. What’s your opinion, Señor Gomez?”