I put the loaded rifle in Captain Nelson’s hands, and stood to one side.
“Foretopsail yard, there!” he hailed. “You Smith!”
Smith looked up.
“Lay in off that yard!”
Smith insolently put his hand behind his ear, as if he had not heard. His hearing was particularly good, and the captain knew it.
“Lay in off that yard!” the captain roared. There could be no excuse for not understanding that.
I do not know whether Smith was simply crazy, or whether he thought no captain would dare to shoot a man. I did not really believe it would come to that, but when I saw Smith deliberately put his thumb to his nose, and wiggle his fingers at the captain, I knew that it was the end of him. And the captain raised his rifle, and shot Smith through the head. What else could he do? It was a flagrant case of mutiny. All pretense of discipline, all authority would have been at an end if he had not. To many it may seem like murder. I never knew the rights of the matter, but nothing was ever done about it.
The crew had stopped work for the moment, to see how the contest was coming out. When the shot rang out—Spencers did not ring out; it was more like a blow of a sledge—and through the smoke I saw Smith throw up his hands, I gasped. As the body fell like lead into the sea, a gasp went up from the men; then I heard a sort of murmuring from them. They were thrown into consternation. Some went to work again with shaking hands, others stopped work entirely. Those on deck stirred and moved about uncertainly. I was reminded of the ripples which cross and recross when a stone is thrown into a corner of a dock.
Captain Nelson called to them sharply. “To your duty, men! In with that topsail!” He tapped his rifle as he spoke.
“Are n’t you going to lower a boat for him?” The question came from the group of men about the foremast.