“No. He ’s a dead man, and a mutineer. I lower no boat for him.”
The men on the yard were at their work again, and the murmurings quickly died out. In five minutes more they were all as busy as though nothing had happened. Captain Nelson surprised everybody by ordering a boat lowered. Mr. Baker gave the captain a curious look, but said nothing, and proceeded to lower.
“Poor devil!” said the captain, whose burst of anger had exhausted itself. “I had to do it. Follow us in to anchorage, Mr. Baker, and if you find the body we ’ll attend to it.”
On my wall above the model, as I sit here now, hangs Smith’s knife: the one to which Peter owed his life. I got possession of it—honestly—later, and I kept it for—well, because I wanted to keep it. There are associations connected with that knife. The idea of getting possession of it seized me as Mr. Baker lowered and dropped astern to search for Smith’s body.
We left him quartering the water carefully in the search, and drifted down to our anchorage less than a half-mile from a little beach. Three scarecrows stood upon that beach, and watched us come to anchor. They were clad in rags, and had ragged, bushy beards. I was looking at them through my glass, but I did not know them, and did not expect to. They stood quite still on the beach waiting for our boat, which had been dropped as soon as we rounded to, and before the anchor was let go.
Captain Nelson stood by the after house, looking after the boat, and waiting for it to come back. It came at last, and the three men came easily over the side. The first was a big man, as big as my father, with a smile like his. He advanced toward the captain, with his hand out, and the captain went to meet him.
“Glad to see you, Cap’n,” he said in a big, gentle voice.
“How are you, Fred?” said Captain Nelson, with a hearty grip of his hand. “Kind o’ thought I might find you somewhere about.”
It was Captain Coffin of the Annie Battles.