Dash, or Rice (I understood afterwards the latter was his real name), gave a leap backward and ran into the deck-house. The officer turned.
"Bring that man out," he said to two of his bullies.
Before they had crossed the deck something happened, and no one who witnessed it can ever shake it from his memory. The tall sailor appeared at the doorway. His hands were behind his back, and his blue eyes were absolutely rolling in his head.
"No, by the God of Heaven, you shall not be served!" he cried. "There is something you cannot command, at least, to do your bidding!" With a swift motion he drew his left arm from behind his back and flung something on the deck. It was his right hand, severed at the wrist!
Such a horror possessed us all that not a word was said. The planter's wife went in a heap to the deck, and as for myself, I went sick with the misery of it, and reeled to the side of the ship. The Lieutenant fell back as if struck a blow over the heart, and without a word, followed by his men, he clambered weakly down to his boat and shoved off. Dash lifted the bloody stump above his head; a curse broke from him, and then he fell into the arms of one of the black seamen. They carried him into the deck-house, and all hands followed, even the wheel being left deserted. As for myself, I crawled below into my bunk and wound the blankets about my head—Mrs. Chaffee was screaming in hysterics. Then and there was born in my heart such a hatred for the sight of the cross of St. George that I have never confounded my prejudice with patriotism, and this may account for some of my actions subsequently.
No one referred to the happening in our talk after this—it might not have occurred.
However, in such ways as we could we made the poor fellow comfortable; but John Dash, seaman, existed no longer; a poor, maimed, half-crazed hulk of a man was left of a gallant, noble fellow. But he had lived to teach a lesson.
A day later we sighted Sandy Hook, and beating up the bay, anchored in New York Harbor, where the planter and his wife and the heroic seaman were put on shore.
As the wind and tide were ripe to take us up the East River and through the narrows of Hell Gate into the Sound, we tarried but long enough to drop anchor and get it in again, and I caught only a panorama of houses and spires and the crowded wharfs of the city.
The voyage up the Sound was uneventful, and my landing in Connecticut and what followed I shall make another chapter.