“Oh, have you seed the skipper o’ the schooner Sink or Swim?
We’ll use a rope what’s long an’ strong, when we cotches him.
He’ve a case o’ smallpox for’ard,
An’ we’ll hang un, by the Lord!
For he’ve traded every fishin’ port from Conch t’ Harbour Rim.
”T’ save the folk that dreads it,
We’ll hang the man that spreads it,
They’s lakes o’ fire in hell t’ sail for such as Skipper Jim!“
“Skipper Billy, sir,” said Docks, hoarsely, leaning into the light of the forecastle lamp, “does you say hang? Was they goin’ t’ hang Skipper Jim if they cotched him?”
“Was we?” asked Skipper Billy. “By God,” he roared, “we is!”
“My God!” Docks whispered, staring deep into the skipper’s eyes, “they was goin’ t’ hang the skipper!”
There was not so much as the drawing of a breath then to be heard in the forecastle of the Greased Lightning. Only the wind, blowing in the night—and the water lapping at the prow—broke the silence.
“Skipper Billy, sir,” said Docks, his voice breaking to a whimper, “was they goin’ t’ hang the crew? They wasn’t, was they? Not goin’ t’ hang un?”
“Skipper t’ cook, lad,” Skipper Billy answered, the words prompt and sure. “Hang un by the neck ’til they was dead.”
“My God!” Docks whined. “They was goin’ t’ hang the crew!”
“But we isn’t cotched un yet.”
“No,” said the boy, vacantly. “Nor you never will.”