_Shame and Horror Follow Disobedience. A Violent Outbreak and Its
Result. The Heads That Struck a Wall. A Frightened Face Among the
Trees._
THE president said nothing, but gave a signal to Christopher, who
brought up a basket containing rope-ends and strips of cloth, of native
manufacture. I understood what I was next to do, and under ordinary
circumstances should have thought of nothing but the doing; but now
a coldness seized my heart, for I thought of Beelo, as a horrified
witness.
There was a craning to see what the basket held, and then came a quick
drawing of the breath and afterward a hiss as the truth dawned on those
of quick perception.
Picking up a rope-end, I stood facing the crowd in silence until perfect
stillness had come. Then I went to Lenardo, the first in line, and said
to the guard:
“Are any of you experienced in tying a man’s hands?”
A head-shake was the response of each.
“Then observe how this is done,” I said. And to Lenardo, “Turn your back
and cross your wrists behind you.”
All the blood fled his face. He glanced about with a shamed, beseeching
helplessness, his eyes wide with horror and his look an appeal for
protection from the outrage.
“Turn, and cross your wrists,” came my command as evenly as before.
The prisoner obeyed, his hands trembling.
“Cross your wrists.” My tone was such as a farrier might use to a horse
he was shoeing.
Lenardo crossed them.
“Observe,” I repeated to the guards, as I quickly wound the cord and
knotted it.
Hobart watched the proceeding narrowly, his face growing more livid,
his eyes bulging farther, his breathing uneven. Once he sent a flaming
glance at Mr. Vancouver, who winced under it, and sat with a sickly,
shrunken look. I knew that the supreme test of discipline lay ahead, and
I was warming to the situation.
“Tie the next one,” I said to two of the guards, handing them a strip.
At the same time, no longer able to resist a glance at Beelo, I found
in his stricken face so strange a look that it disconcerted me for a
moment. It looked to be both horror and appeal. But my duty was plain.
I stood by and observed the clumsy work of the two guards in tying
the second man, who, meeker than Lenardo,--although both were manly
fellows,--submitted more promptly.
Hobart’s turn came next. He was looking about as a trapped beast, and he
swayed and muttered. It was clear that under the approaching degradation
he was letting his wits tangle.
Some women, sickened by the scene, and fearing a tragedy from Hobart,
slipped away, a few softly crying, others very white. They hid in a
huddle behind the storehouse, the mothers taking their children.
“One more turn. Tighter. Work faster,” I ordered the guards tying the
second man.
They obeyed with nervous eagerness.
Then came Hobart’s turn. I stood before him. He knew what to do without
my order, and I was silent.
“Haven’t we any friends among you people?” he bellowed, stepping back
and hardening every muscle. “Are you all cowards, to let these brutes
ride roughshod over you?”
“Submit, Hobart,” cut Mr. Vancouver’s voice.
I turned upon him, but said nothing, and his cadaverous face whitened
still more under my stare.
“We need no assistance from you, sir,” Captain Mason coldly said.
He started; a momentary flash enlivened his sunken eyes.
“Step up here in line,” I said to Hobart.
He wavered toward submission under Mr. Vancouver’s order, but my prompt
suppression of that intervention thrust upon him an angry despair. “To
hell with you!” he shouted to me. “You bully! You cur! Here, fellows,”
addressing his comrades in line, “don’t be whipped dogs! We are free
American citizens, we are! Break away!” He stepped still farther back
and edged toward the table. “Stand by me! Be men! We’ll settle this
thing! Come on!” The line swayed.
“Guard, re-form the prisoners in line,” I ordered. They stepped forward.
“Fight, boys! Arm yourselves at the tables!” Hobart’s fierce words
thrilled the camp.
“Lively there!” I snapped to the guards. “Seize Hobart first.”
“The tables, boys!” shouted Hobart. “Romer,” he added to a husky young
man of the party, “tackle Captain Mason. I’ll attend to Tudor!”
Hobart sprang at Romer, gave him a shake, and shouted, “Get to work!”
and then advanced toward me as Romer was hardening for assault.
As Hobart had rudely calculated, the moment was snatched by the other
prisoners for a rush on the guard and the tables, and they broke on the
bound as Hobart hurled himself upon me. But he was too precipitate, and
lacked training.
It is doubtful that any in the camp except myself saw how the next
thing happened. There was a muffled crack, and Hobart’s feet cleared
the ground, his limbs whipped the air as though he were drowning, and he
sprawled on the earth in a disorganized, quivering heap. A glance showed
me that Romer had been stopped two yards from Captain Mason by a look
such as he had never encountered before, and he stood staring like an
imbecile.
A low cry broke from fifty feminine throats when Hobart’s body made its
impact with the ground. But the entire rush had been paralyzed; it was
clearly the impression that Hobart had been killed, and all were
staring from him to me. The guard had responded; the prisoners were in
subjugation, some by a collar-grip of the guard, others panting on the
ground under urgent knees, still others standing inert.
“Hands off the prisoners. Re-form the line,” I ordered.
When this had been done, the young men sullen, sheepish, and silent, and
viewing with awe the still body of Hobart on the ground, I looked round
upon the circle till I found the man I wanted. My glance had included
Captain Mason and found him stolid and motionless as he observed my
procedure.
“Dr. Preston, come forward,” I said.
He instantly responded.
“Please examine Hobart’s jaw and neck,” I directed. “One or the other
may be broken.”
As he was turning away to obey he discovered a red trickle from my right
hand.
“Are you hurt?” he inquired.
“No.”
He carefully examined the heap on the ground.
“Only a contusion and a slight brain-concussion,” he announced.
“You two,” I promptly said to two of the guards, “buck and gag Hobart.
Do you know how?”
They shook their heads, but under my direction accomplished what
appeared to be a disagreeable task. The process consisted in tying
Hobart’s hands and feet, flexing his knees, slipping his arms over them,
and thrusting a stick under his knees and over his arms, thus reducing
him to a helpless knot. Then they thrust a towel between his teeth and
tied it at the back of his head.
“Shall I do anything to revive him, sir?” asked the doctor. It was
interesting to hear the “sir” slip from his tongue.
I looked to Captain Mason for directions, but his face remained void.
“No,” I said. Then to two of the guards, “Take him to the shade over
there, on the ground,” indicating a tree near by and in full view of the
camp.
Meanwhile, the tying of the other prisoners had gone on rapidly and
smoothly. When it was finished, I ordered the men taken to the shade and
lined up behind Hobart, who lay on his side, the guards standing by. The
prisoners were a very sober-looking crowd.
Then came a lull. I had regarded the subjugation of the men as merely
the lighter preparatory work for some grave procedure which Captain
Mason would direct after that was accomplished. At first I was doubtful
of my wisdom in withholding restorative measures from Hobart, but I had
done so hoping that it would have the effect both of softening Captain
Mason and of impressing the other prisoners and the camp at large. Now I
had to face unknown plans, but Captain Mason still remained mute. It was
evident that, since quiet had come, it was from him rather than me that
the camp awaited the next move; it was his crushing mastery that all
felt; it was his iron hand that lay on every heart. He quietly seated
himself, and without a glance at me waited, his face wearing the
undisturbed calm that distinguished it always in dramatic situations.
The women in hiding peered out cautiously, and then joined those on the
scene. A slight stir, accompanied with murmurs, rose in a spot where the
women stood thickest, and a shrill voice came angrily.
“Yes, I will! You can’t stop me! I say it’s an outrage, and I’m going to
untie that boy and take that strangling thing out of his mouth.” She was
advancing, a middle-aged woman, with a determined air, and she walked
straight toward Hobart, ignoring me as I stood near him. “I just want
to say to you, Mr. Tudor, that it was enough to knock the senses out
of him, and that it’s inhuman and brutal to keep him tied up like an
animal. If the _men_ in this camp can be bullied and scared, I’ll let
you know that there’s a _woman_ who can’t. I’m going to untie that lad,
and------”
I had stepped forward and laid a kindly hand on her arm as she spoke,
but she threw it off.
“Let me alone!” she cried. “If you want to strike a woman dead, you
murdering bully, do it! I dare you!”
Nodding to two of the guards, I said: “Take her to her hut, and keep her
there. If she makes the least noise, bind and gag her.”
“You brute! You coward!” she cried, making a dash forward.
The guards gingerly seized her, and she talked and struggled wildly.
But they dragged her away, and no sound came from the hut. Captain Mason
gave not the slightest attention to the incident, which greatly deepened
the depression on the camp.
Hobart’s slow, heavy breathing became regular, then fluttered; his eyes
opened, and rolled unseeing. Intelligence began to dawn in his face, and
with it came an unconscious straining at his bonds. That hastened his
recovery. A wild, clear look that roved a moment and settled malignantly
on me, showed that he had come to himself. His astonished glance at his
helpless state preceded an effort for speech that his gag turned to
a growl, and he made a mighty tug to snap the cords. That failing, he
twisted his head to see the line of prisoners standing bound. Then his
gaze found Captain Mason, who was not observing him, and he savagely
growled and champed his gag.
I looked furtively round for Beelo, and found him staring at me as at
something strange and monstrous. It was more than I could bear, and on
looking away I discovered the gathering of clouds, and then heard low
thunder in the distance.
Hobart’s fury wore itself out. Humiliation took its turn. Toward the end
came a humbled spirit and dumb pleading. A quickening ran through the
crowd, and eager, appealing eyes were upon me from every direction; but
I waited. From humility Hobart sank lower, for the pain of his cramped
muscles grew worse and worse, making him writhe and groan and strain.
Still the moment had not come. I knew that many a life hung on the
precision of my conduct, and Captain Mason did not interfere to the
slightest extent. At last, when Hobart’s dumb pleading had settled on my
face and did not rove, I said to Dr. Preston:
“The gag--nothing else--may come away.”
He removed it, and Hobart panted:
“Thank you, Doctor. Take the others off, please.”
The physician looked to me, but I gave no sign. That started a movement
in the crowd, and I had to quell that with a look.
“Let him take ‘em off, Mr. Tudor,” the prisoner begged.
I nodded, and he was free. He labored weakly to a sitting posture, Dr.
Preston assisting. His head rolled, but he breathed deeply, and steadied
himself. Dr. Preston felt his pulse.
“May he have water and a wet towel, sir?” he asked me.
I nodded. Hobart drank greedily. Dr. Preston mopped his head and face,
and bound the wet towel over his forehead.
“Bring a seat for Hobart,” I said to a guard.
Hobart was lifted to it, and thus sat facing the crowd. He had a finer
look than I had ever seen from him; he had passed through purgatory.
He looked openly at the people, and at last his glance rested on Mr.
Vancouver. It seemed to hold a deep meaning. Mr. Vancouver shrank even
more than when he had seen the iron hand come down.
I went up to Captain Mason and reported that Hobart was conscious.
The captain nodded, came forward, I beside him, and looked down on the
beaten man, who anxiously returned the look.
“May I say a word, Captain?” Hobart asked.
“Certainly.”
Hobart turned to me. “You are a hard man,” he said, “but square and
brave. So are you, Captain Mason. I deserved what I got, and a good deal
more. But I’m sorry for what I did, and I ask you to forgive me.”
There was frank admiration in Captain Mason’s face, for he was observing
another strong man emerge from the first hard lesson in a discipline
that the sailor had known for many a year.
“May I say something to the boys?” asked Hobart.
“Of course.”
Hobart worked round to face his fellow-conspirators. In silence he
looked at one after another.
“Boys,” he said, “we made a mistake, and are beginning to pay. I don’t
know what’s going to be done with us, but, whatever it is, we must bear
it like men. We made an agreement when we came into this valley, and
we violated it. What we did might have cost the life of every member of
this colony.”
He paused, for he was weak, and a deep emotion tore him.
“Boys, if I had been Captain Mason and Mr. Tudor, and had protected and
trusted the people as they have done, and they had tried to undermine
me, and to benefit themselves to the harm of the others, I would have
them taken to the nearest tree, and, God help me! I would have them
hanged.”
Not a word of that astonishing speech missed an ear in the crowd. When
Hobart had ended, his head dropped in dejection.
After a long minute of silence Captain Mason gave me a look. I went to
Hobart, who raised a sad face to mine. But when he saw my smile and my
extended hand, a glad surprise leaped in him, and his clasp was that of
a drowning man.
I walked away. Dr. Preston next received Captain Mason’s glance, and the
scene was repeated. I did not observe the hint that the president must
have given; but while some of the guard came and took Hobart’s hand,
others were untying the prisoners, and they also came in their turn.
There were tears in Hobart’s eyes, and his speech had fled by the time
Captain Mason came up and took his hand.
“You are a man, Hobart,” said he, and without noting the effect turned
to the other conspirators. “Young men,” he went on, “you are at liberty.
The incident is closed.”
Without a glance at the assembled colony, he turned away and went to his
hut.
I looked for Beelo, and saw his signal to follow him. A buzzing rose
from the crowd. A hard, fixed look was in Mr. Vancouver’s ashen face.
Annabel’s head rested in her arms on the table, and she was sobbing.
From every direction I found furtive glances upon me, and wondered
whether I had become a Pariah. The idea was dispelled by the friendly
responses that my advances found, but I was uneasy on the score of
Beelo.