The island was about three hours astern of us, distant about ten or twelve miles, a pile of sapphire, and the sea was of the same beautiful hue. The sky in the north was frosted with snow-white cloud running in links like chains, with a little plumy shooting as of mares’ tails along the advanced brow of the delicately compacted stuff. The wind blew out of that quarter; it was a dead-on-end wind for us; but the brig, under topsails and foresail, looked well up; and now that Will had loosed the fore and main topgallant-sails, which had been sheeted home and the yards hoisted whilst I was in the galley, the little vessel was beginning to buzz over the wide blue heave of swell, and the wrinkles from her cutwater broke into thin lines of snow abreast of the gangways, as her nimble and metalled forefoot ate its way to windward.
I spied a white sail down in the south-west. She looked to be standing for the island. It was as likely as not we had been just in time to secure Messrs. Rotch and Nodder.
The discipline of the little ship had been settled by the hour I had done with my cooking. We were now four sailors and a girl who could make herself generally useful.
Whilst I was dishing the dinner, Will told me he had carried a pannikin of rum and some bread and meat into the forecastle. Nodder drained the pannikin, but refused the food. Will accosted him civilly, having received his cue from Tom. The brute, after drinking, sat up and asked how it was that Captain Butler was out of quod. ‘He was transported for fourteen years,’ he said. ‘He’s got eleven or twelve year to sarve yet. Who’s the smothered bloke that was down here a-calling of hisself Captain Butler?’ Will answered: ‘Rotch knows.’ ‘What’s been done to him?’ ‘He’s locked up just now,’ says Will. ‘Are they a-going to hang him?’ ‘If he don’t confess.’ On this Nodder lay back and turned his face to the brig’s side, and Will came away.
When we sat down to dinner, Collins being at the helm, Tom cut some beef and filled a tumbler half full of wine, and sent the meal by Mr. Bates to Rotch. Bates was some time in the cabin with the villain; indeed, his own dinner was cooling. Suddenly Tom jumped up, and, going to my berth, which he used when he worked out his sights, the navigating instruments and charts being there, fetched some writing-paper, pen and ink. Bates at that moment appeared at the end of the cabin; Tom called to him, ‘Oblige me by putting these things into Rotch’s berth.’
Bates did so, locked the door, sat down, and fell to his meal.
‘Did he speak?’ said Tom.
‘Yes,’ said the mate. ‘He has an evil eye. He’s aged ten years, too. He said: “Captain Butler talks of hanging me. Does he mean it?” “Yes,” said I; “but you know how to save your life.” “He hang me! That ’u’d be murder! Curse him! You’re a brother sailor. Would you stand by and allow it to be done?” “I’m no brother sailor of yours,” said I. “Right the man you’ve diabolically wronged by making a clean breast of your wickedness. If you don’t, there’s never a brother sailor aboard this brig that won’t pull all his beef into the rope that yardarms ye!” I thought he’d fling himself upon me. His face was as full of devilish malice as you could have squeezed out of all hands aboard the convict ship. I put down his grub and came away. He didn’t speak when I took in the paper and ink.’
The subject was changed, and the talk that followed mainly concerned the routine to be adopted.
When I had cleared the table I stepped out to look at the island, and saw no more than a large, faint shadow seventeen or eighteen miles away. The wind had veered a trifle, and we were making a better course for the northern climb, though where we were bound to I no more knew than how this wild, strange adventure was to end. I felt weary, and, entering the deck-house, sat down at the foremost end of the table close to Tom’s cabin-door. I leaned my cheek on my hand and gave myself up to thought. Strange as it may seem, I was sensible of a secret grievous disappointment that the island scheme was closed. I longed to be Tom’s wife. Had we arranged with Governor Glass to settle at Tristan, I might in a few weeks have been Tom’s bride. At this rate, when were we to be married? If my sweetheart waited for Rotch to speak, the villain might keep us sailing about for months; unless, indeed, Tom hanged him, which was less likely to happen as time cooled his blood and mine. And, certainly, to hang the man would be to murder him, as already I understood; though assuredly had Tom put the yardarm rope into my hand and bade me pull, I’d have dragged—on that or on any other day—with less compunction than I’d have squashed a spider.