I was in earnest. I meant to do the murder. Aye, murder is what the
law of man would call it, and murder is the right term. I planned the
deed, not in cold blood perhaps, but certainly with coolness and
foresight. I intended to creep aft in the night and shoot down the
captain.
But you must understand my motive before you judge. More than that,
you must bear in mind my environment, my character and its background,
and the dilemma which faced me. I intended to become an assassin--but
not for hate, or greed, or, indeed, any personal satisfaction or gain.
I was, remember, a nineteen-year-old barbarian, The impressionable,
formative years of my youth had been spent in deepwater foc'sles, among
men who obeyed but one law--fear. The watch, the gang, was my social
unit; loyalty to a shipmate was the one virtue I thoroughly understood
and respected. And it was loyalty to Newman that determined me to kill.
Newman was my friend--aye, more than that, he was in my youthful eyes a
demi-god, a man to revere and worship above all others. He was
prisoner, helpless. The crew were bent on mutiny; I could not stop
them. The mutiny was planned and expected by the captain; and its
outbreak would be the needed excuse for the slaying of Newman, and,
Newman said, of the lady.
How could I save Newman? That was my problem. How indeed? The evil
choice was inevitably mine; and I considered it the lesser evil. If I
killed Swope, Newman would be safe. Perhaps the mutiny would collapse,
would never come off. This last was something Boston and Blackie,
blinded by their greed, quite overlooked. But I knew it was hate and
fear of Swope, rather than greed, that impelled the squareheads to
revolt. If Swope were killed, they might not go on with it, and what
the sailors decided, the stiffs must agree to. And in any case, Newman
would be safe.
I did not approach my task in a spirit of revulsion and horror.
Indeed, no. Why should I have felt thus? In my experience I had not
yet gathered the idea that human life was sacred. Certainly, my
experience in the _Golden Bough_ had not taught me that. I confess,
the job I planned was distasteful, extremely so--but, I thought,
necessary.
I planned Yankee Swope's murder in spite of self-sacrifice. Aye, truly
I did! I dare say few acts in my life have had a finer, cleaner, less
selfish motive.
I did not expect to escape after firing the shot. I expected the mates
or the tradesmen would kill me. True, I thought of hiding on the dark
deck, and picking off the captain when he appeared on the poop. That
is what Boston and Blackie expected me to do. But I dismissed this
thought without serious consideration. It was uncertain, and I meant
to make sure of the brute. Besides, it was, I felt, cowardly, and I
would not be a coward. I intended to get into the cabin and shoot
Swope in his own arm-chair, so to speak. Afterwards--well, they could
do what they pleased with me. My friend would be safe.
So I lived through a few very exalted hours before the first night
watch came. Unhappy? Not I. In moments I touched the skies in
exaltation.
For I was the sacrifice. I was the center of the drama. I was Fate.
I was a romantic-minded young ass, and the situation flattered my
generous conceit. I was tossing away my life, you see, with a grand
gesture, to help my friend. I was dying for my friend's sake. My
imagination gave my death nobility. I imagined Newman and the lady
remembering me sadly all their lives long, thinking of me always as
their saviour. I imagined my name on sailors' lips, in ships not yet
launched; they would talk of me, of Jack Shreve, the lad who killed
Yankee Swope so his shipmate might live.
My resolution did not weaken; rather, it grew firmer with the passage
of the hours. Of course, I did not take the crew into my confidence
(there might be, I thought, another Cockney among them), but I laid
down the law to Boston and Blackie, and they promised faithfully to
obey my injunctions. They promised they would keep the men in check
until I had completed my task. They promised also to mislead the spy,
and see that no man laid violent hands upon him.
This last I considered important. The crowd was eager for vengeance
upon Cockney. He had committed the unpardonable sin, he had betrayed
his mates. Blackie wanted to slit his throat, and drop him over the
side; and the men voted an emphatic aye to the suggestion. Sentence
would have been executed as soon as Cockney came forward from the wheel
had I not interposed my veto and given my reasons.
It was not solicitude for the spy's life that influenced me. I, too,
considered he had forfeited his right to life by his act. But I
pointed out that offering immediate violence to Cockney might alarm the
afterguard, and change their plan of action; moreover, we might use the
spy to carry false tales of our intentions to the enemy.
So when Cockney breezed into the foc'sle, at four bells, his reception
in no way aroused his suspicions. Everything seemed going his way. He
sympathized volubly with me, and would have awakened Holy Joe (who had
dropped into a healing sleep, after regaining consciousness) to
sympathize with him, had I permitted. Aye, he was a good dissembler,
was Cockney--but we matched him. His mouth dripped curses on Swope and
his minions, he exhorted us to "'arve guts" and rush the poop at muster
time. He was willing to risk his own skin by leading the rush. "Wot
did we think abaht it?"
Boston told him we thought early evening a bad time for the adventure.
We were going to wait until morning, until the beginning of the
"gravvy-eye" watch, just before dawn. That was the hour in which to
strike. Men slept soundest just before dawn; those who were awake were
less alert. The mutiny was timed for four A. M.
"Hi cawn't 'ardly wyte that long, Hi'm that eager to get my knife
'twixt that myte's bleedin' ribs," said Cockney.
The Nigger had come in during the discussion. He seated himself, and
recommenced his favorite task of stropping his knife upon a whetstone.
At the Cockney's last words he lifted his head.
"Don' yoh touch de mate," he said to Cockney. "Dat man's mah meat,
yes, suh, mah meat!"
Cockney disputed this. He raved, and swore, and even threatened
Nigger. Aye, he made a fine bluster. "'E wasn't goin' to give hup 'is
chawnce at the bleedin' myte, not 'im! 'E 'ad a score to settle with
that blighter, so 'e 'ad. The Nigger could 'arve the bloomin' second
myte, that's wot."
Nigger was so incensed he got up and left the foc'sle, leaving the last
word to the spy. Nigger had brooded so much over his wrongs he was a
bit cracked; he took no part in the councils of the crew, and did not
know, I am sure, that Cockney had been unmasked as a traitor. Else he
would never have acted as he later did.
It came down night. It was a good night for my purpose, dark and
shadowless, with a mere sliver of a new moon in the sky. I had little
difficulty in gaining entrance to the cabin.
After the eight o'clock muster, when my watch was sent below, I slipped
around the corner of the roundhouse, where the tradesmen lived (it was
on the maindeck, between the mainmast and the after-hatch) and crouched
there in the darkness while my mates trooped forward. This roundhouse
(which was really square, of course, like most roundhouses on board
ship) was very plentifully supplied with ports. Designedly so, no
doubt, for it was the cabin's outpost. There were two portholes in its
forward wall, commanding the foredeck, and three portholes in either of
the side walls. The door to the house was in the after wall. It was
built like a fortress, and used as one.
As I lay there on the deck, pressed against the forward wall, I saw the
muzzles of shotguns sticking out of the portholes above my head. There
was no light showing in the roundhouse, but the tradesmen were in there
just the same. Aye, and prepared and alert. They were covering the
deck with guns; and I knew they would continue to cover the deck
throughout that night.
Oh, Swope was canny, as canny as he was cruel. He would provoke
mutiny, but he would run no chance of losing his ship or his life. He
was prepared. What could a few revolvers do against these entrenched
men? My shipmates' revolt could have but one end--mass murder and
defeat!
So I thought, as I lay there on the deck, watching my chance to slip
aft. Swope's plan, Swope's mutiny, I thought. Swope was the soul of
the whole vile business. His plan--and I was going to spoil it! I was
going to put a bullet in his black heart.
I might have picked him off at that very moment, if I aimed carefully.
For, as my mates' footsteps died away forward, I edged around the
corner of the roundhouse, and saw the enemy standing on the poop. The
three of them were there, both mates, with the skipper standing between
them. I picked him out of the group easily, even in the darkness, for
he was of much slighter build than either of his officers, and besides
I heard his voice.
"The rats have discovered some courage--but they'll lose it soon
enough, when they face our reception," I heard him say. "But--no
nodding to-night, Misters! Keep your eyes and ears open!"
Fitzgibbon mumbled something. The captain laughed his soft, tinkling
laugh.
"I'm going down to take a look at him now," he said, and the three of
them moved aft, out of sight.
Aye, I might have picked him off then. But I didn't even entertain the
thought. It was no part of my plan to slay from concealment. I was
the hero, the avenger, the saviour! I meant to face him in his own
lighted cabin.
The door of the roundhouse was closed, so I did not fear the inmates
would observe me entering the cabin. The break of the poop seemed
clear of life. I scuttled on my hands and knees until I was past the
booby-hatch; then I arose to my feet and flitted noiselessly to the
cabin door. I opened it just wide enough to admit my body, and stepped
into the lighted cabin alleyway.
My bare feet made no noise as I crept toward the saloon. This was the
first time I had set foot within the sacred precincts of the
quarterdeck. From the gossip of those who had been aft to sick-call,
or to break out stores, I had some notion of the lay of the land, but
not a very clear one.
There were three doors opening upon the alley-way; the one on the port
side was the inner door of the sail-locker, the two on the starboard
side let into the mates' rooms. That much I knew. I also knew that I
need not fear these doors, since both mates were on deck.
But at the end of the alleyway was the saloon, the great common room of
the cabin. I paused uncertainly upon the threshold; I didn't know
which way to turn for concealment, and I had to get out of the alleyway
quickly, for any moment a tradesman might come in behind me.
There were several doors on each side of the saloon. To starboard, I
knew, lay the captain's quarters, and, from the sounds, the pantry. To
port, I knew, lay the lady's quarters, and the steward's room. But
which door was which, I did not know. I decided I had best duck into
the captain's room.
But before I could act upon this decision the forward door on the port
side slowly opened, and Wong, the steward, stepped out. I shrank back
into the alleyway as the door opened, and the Chinaman did not glance
in my direction. His whole attention was riveted upon the companion
stairs; Swope's voice sounded up there in the entrance to the hatch.
Wong softly closed the door behind him, and ran on tiptoe across the
saloon, disappearing into the pantry. I did not hesitate an instant.
Wong had not locked the door behind him, and his room would be handy
enough for my purpose. From it I could command the interior of the big
room, and step forth when the moment arrived. I crossed the corner of
the saloon in a bound, and turned the doorknob as silently as had Wong.
I opened the door and stepped in backwards. My eyes assured me I was
unseen. I closed the door, all save a crack, through which I meant to
watch for the coming of my victim.
I heard a gasp behind me. I shut the door tight and wheeled about--and
found myself staring into the wide-open eyes of the lady.