WHEN Barbara Harding, with Miller before and Swenson behind her, had
taken up the march behind the loot-laden party seven dusky, noiseless
shadows had emerged from the forest to follow close behind.
For half a mile the party moved along the narrow trail unmolested.
Theriere had come back to exchange a half-dozen words with the girl and
had again moved forward toward the head of the column. Miller was not
more than twenty-five feet behind the first man ahead of him, and Miss
Harding and Swenson followed at intervals of but three or four yards.
Suddenly, without warning, Swenson and Miller fell, pierced with savage
spears, and at the same instant sinewy fingers gripped Barbara Harding,
and a silencing hand was clapped over her mouth. There had been no sound
above the muffled tread of the seamen. It had all been accomplished so
quickly and so easily that the girl did not comprehend what had befallen
her for several minutes.
In the darkness of the forest she could not clearly distinguish the
forms or features of her abductors, though she reasoned, as was only
natural, that Skipper Simms' party had become aware of the plot against
them and had taken this means of thwarting a part of it; but when her
captors turned directly into the mazes of the jungle, away from the
coast, she began first to wonder and then to doubt, so that presently
when a small clearing let the moonlight full upon them she was not
surprised to discover that none of the members of the Halfmoon's company
was among her guard.
Barbara Harding had not circled the globe half a dozen times for
nothing. There were few races or nations with whose history, past and
present, she was not fairly familiar, and so the sight that greeted
her eyes was well suited to fill her with astonishment, for she found
herself in the hands of what appeared to be a party of Japanese warriors
of the fifteenth or sixteenth century. She recognized the medieval arms
and armor, the ancient helmets, the hairdressing of the two-sworded men
of old Japan. At the belts of two of her captors dangled grisly trophies
of the hunt. In the moonlight she saw that they were the heads of Miller
and Swenson.
The girl was horrified. She had thought her lot before as bad as it
could be, but to be in the clutches of these strange, fierce warriors of
a long-dead age was unthinkably worse. That she could ever have wished
to be back upon the Halfmoon would have seemed, a few days since,
incredible; yet that was precisely what she longed for now.
On through the night marched the little, brown men--grim and
silent--until at last they came to a small village in a valley away from
the coast--a valley that lay nestled high among lofty mountains. Here
were cavelike dwellings burrowed half under ground, the upper walls and
thatched roofs rising scarce four feet above the level. Granaries on
stilts were dotted here and there among the dwellings.
Into one of the filthy dens Barbara Harding was dragged. She found a
single room in which several native and half-caste women were sleeping,
about them stretched and curled and perched a motley throng of dirty
yellow children, dogs, pigs, and chickens. It was the palace of Daimio
Oda Yorimoto, Lord of Yoka, as his ancestors had christened their new
island home.
Once within the warren the two samurai who had guarded Barbara upon
the march turned and withdrew--she was alone with Oda Yorimoto and his
family. From the center of the room depended a swinging shelf upon which
a great pile of grinning skulls rested. At the back of the room was a
door which Barbara had not at first noticed--evidently there was another
apartment to the dwelling.
The girl was given little opportunity to examine her new prison, for
scarce had the guards withdrawn than Oda Yorimoto approached and grasped
her by the arm.
“Come!” he said, in Japanese that was sufficiently similar to modern
Nippon to be easily understood by Barbara Harding. With the word he drew
her toward a sleeping mat on a raised platform at one side of the room.
One of the women awoke at the sound of the man's voice. She looked up at
Barbara in sullen hatred--otherwise she gave no indication that she saw
anything unusual transpiring. It was as though an exquisite American
belle were a daily visitor at the Oda Yorimoto home.
“What do you want of me?” cried the frightened girl, in Japanese.
Oda Yorimoto looked at her in astonishment. Where had this white girl
learned to speak his tongue?
“I am the daimio, Oda Yorimoto,” he said. “These are my wives. Now you
are one of them. Come!”
“Not yet--not here!” cried the girl clutching at a straw. “Wait. Give
me time to think. If you do not harm me my father will reward you
fabulously. Ten thousand koku he would gladly give to have me returned
to him safely.”
Oda Yorimoto but shook his head.
“Twenty thousand koku!” cried the girl.
Still the daimio shook his head negatively.
“A hundred thousand--name your own price, if you will but not harm me.”
“Silence!” growled the man. “What are even a million koku to me who only
know the word from the legends of my ancestors. We have no need for koku
here, and had we, my hills are full of the yellow metal which measures
its value. No! you are my woman. Come!”
“Not here! Not here!” pleaded the girl. “There is another room--away
from all these women,” and she turned her eyes toward the door at the
opposite side of the chamber.
Oda Yorimoto shrugged his shoulders. That would be easier than a fight,
he argued, and so he led the girl toward the doorway that she had
indicated. Within the room all was dark, but the daimio moved as one
accustomed to the place, and as he moved through the blackness the girl
at his side felt with stealthy fingers at the man's belt.
At last Oda Yorimoto reached the far side of the long chamber.
“Here!” he said, and took her by the shoulders.
“Here!” answered the girl in a low, tense voice, and at the instant that
she spoke Oda Yorimoto, Lord of Yoka, felt a quick tug at his belt, and
before he guessed what was to happen his own short sword had pierced his
breast.
A single shriek broke from the lips of the daimio; but it was so high
and shrill and like the shriek of a woman in mortal terror that the
woman in the next room who heard it but smiled a crooked, wicked smile
of hate and turned once more upon her pallet to sleep.
Again and again Barbara Harding plunged the sword of the brown man into
the still heart, until she knew beyond peradventure of a doubt that her
enemy was forevermore powerless to injure her. Then she sank, exhausted
and trembling, upon the dirt floor beside the corpse.
When Theriere came to the realization that Barbara Harding was gone he
jumped to the natural conclusion that Ward and Simms had discovered
the ruse that he had worked upon them just in time to permit them to
intercept Miller and Swenson with the girl, and carry her back to the
main camp.
The others were prone to agree with him, though the mucker grumbled that
“it listened fishy.” However, all hands returned cautiously down the
face of the cliff, expecting momentarily to be attacked by the guards
which they felt sure Ward would post in expectation of a return of the
mutineers, the moment they discovered that the girl had been taken
from them; but to the surprise of all they reached the cove without
molestation, and when they had crept cautiously to the vicinity of the
sleepers they discovered that all were there, in peaceful slumber, just
as they had left them a few hours before.
Silently the party retraced its steps up the cliff. Theriere and Billy
Byrne brought up the rear.
“What do you make of it anyway, Byrne?” asked the Frenchman.
“If you wanta get it straight, cul,” replied the mucker, “I tink youse
know a whole lot more about it dan you'd like to have de rest of us
tink.”
“What do you mean, Byrne?” cried Theriere. “Out with it now!”
“Sure I'll out wid it. You didn't tink I was bashful didja? Wot fer did
you detail dem two pikers, Miller and Swenson, to guard de skirt fer if
it wasn't fer some special frame-up of yer own? Dey never been in our
gang, and dats just wot you wanted 'em fer. It was easy to tip dem off
to hike out wid de squab, and de first chanct you get you'll hike after
dem, while we hold de bag. Tought you'd double-cross us easy, didn't
yeh? Yeh cheap-skate!”
“Byrne,” said Theriere, and it was easy to see that only through the
strength of his will-power did he keep his temper, “you may have cause
to suspect the motives of everyone connected with this outfit. I can't
say that I blame you; but I want you to remember what I say to you now.
There was a time when I fully intended to 'double-cross' you, as you
say--that was before you saved my life. Since then I have been on the
square with you not only in deed but in thought as well. I give you the
word of a man whose word once meant something--I am playing square with
you now except in one thing, and I shall tell you what that is at once.
I do not know where Miss Harding is, or what has happened to her, and
Miller, and Swenson. That is God's truth. Now for the one thing that
I just mentioned. Recently I changed my intentions relative to Miss
Harding. I was after the money the same as the rest--that I am free
to admit; but now I don't give a rap for it, and I had intended
taking advantage of the first opportunity to return Miss Harding to
civilization unharmed and without the payment of a penny to anyone. The
reason for my change of heart is my own affair. In all probability
you wouldn't believe the sincerity or honesty of my motives should
I disclose them. I am only telling you these things because you have
accused me of double dealing, and I do not want the man who saved my
life at the risk of his own to have the slightest grounds to doubt my
honesty with him. I've been a fairly bad egg, Byrne, for a great many
years; but, by George! I'm not entirely rotten yet.”
Byrne was silent for a few moments. He, too, had recently come to the
conclusion that possibly he was not entirely rotten either, and had in
a vague and half-formed sort of way wished for the opportunity to
demonstrate the fact, so he was willing to concede to another that which
he craved for himself.
“Yeh listen all right, cul,” he said at last; “an' I'm willin' to take
yeh at yer own say-so until I learn different.”
“Thanks,” said Theriere tersely. “Now we can work together in the search
for Miss Harding; but where, in the name of all that's holy, are we to
start?”
“Why, where we seen her last, of course,” replied the mucker. “Right
here on top of dese bluffs.”
“Then we can't do anything until daylight,” said the Frenchman.
“Not a ting, and at daylight we'll most likely have a scrap on our hands
from below,” and the mucker jerked his thumb in the direction of the
cove.
“I think,” said Theriere, “that we had better spend an hour arming
ourselves with sticks and stones. We've a mighty good position up here.
One that we can defend splendidly from an assault from below, and if we
are prepared for them we can stave 'em off for a while if we need the
time to search about up here for clews to Miss Harding's whereabouts.”
And so the party set to work to cut stout bludgeons from the trees about
them, and pile loose fragments of rock in handy places near the cliff
top. Theriere even went so far as to throw up a low breastwork across
the top of the trail up which the enemy must climb to reach the summit
of the cliff. When they had completed their preparations three men could
have held the place against ten times their own number.
Then they lay down to sleep, leaving Blanco and Divine on guard, for it
had been decided that these two, with Bony Sawyer, should be left behind
on the morrow to hold the cliff top while the others were searching for
clews to the whereabouts of Barbara Harding. They were to relieve each
other at guard duty during the balance of the night.
Scarce had the first suggestion of dawn lightened the eastern sky than
Divine, who was again on guard, awakened Theriere. In a moment the
others were aroused, and a hasty raid on the cached provisions made. The
lack of water was keenly felt by all, but it was too far to the spring
to chance taking the time necessary to fetch the much-craved fluid and
those who were to forge into the jungle in search of Barbara Harding
hoped to find water farther inland, while it was decided to dispatch
Bony Sawyer to the spring for water for those who were to remain on
guard at the cliff top.
A hurried breakfast was made on water-soaked ship's biscuit. Theriere
and his searching party stuffed their pockets full of them, and a moment
later the search was on. First the men traversed the trail toward the
spring, looking for indications of the spot where Barbara Harding had
ceased to follow them. The girl had worn heelless buckskin shoes at the
time she was taken from the Lotus, and these left little or no spoor
in the well-tramped earth of the narrow path; but a careful and minute
examination on the part of Theriere finally resulted in the detection of
a single small footprint a hundred yards from the point they had struck
the trail after ascending the cliffs. This far at least she had been
with them.
The men now spread out upon either side of the track--Theriere and Red
Sanders upon one side, Byrne and Wison upon the other. Occasionally
Theriere would return to the trail to search for further indications of
the spoor they sought.
The party had proceeded in this fashion for nearly half a mile when
suddenly they were attracted by a low exclamation from the mucker.
“Here!” he called. “Here's Miller an' the Swede, an' they sure have
mussed 'em up turrible.”
The others hastened in the direction of his voice, to come to a
horrified halt at the sides of the headless trunks of the two sailors.
“Mon Dieu!” exclaimed the Frenchman, reverting to his mother tongue as
he never did except under the stress of great excitement.
“Who done it?” queried Red Sanders, looking suspiciously at the mucker.
“Head-hunters,” said Theriere. “God! What an awful fate for that poor
girl!”
Billy Byrne went white.
“Yeh don't mean dat dey've lopped off her block?” he whispered in an
awed voice. Something strange rose in the mucker's breast at the thought
he had just voiced. He did not attempt to analyze the sensation; but it
was far from joy at the suggestion that the woman he so hated had met a
horrible and disgusting death at the hands of savages.
“I'm afraid not, Byrne,” said Theriere, in a voice that none there would
have recognized as that of the harsh and masterful second officer of the
Halfmoon.
“Yer afraid not!” echoed Billy Byrne, in amazement.
“For her sake I hope that they did,” said Theriere; “for such as she it
would have been a far less horrible fate than the one I fear they have
reserved her for.”
“You mean--” queried Byrne, and then he stopped, for the realization of
just what Theriere did mean swept over him quite suddenly.
There was no particular reason why Billy Byrne should have felt toward
women the finer sentiments which are so cherished a possession of those
men who have been gently born and raised, even after they have learned
that all women are not as was the feminine ideal of their boyhood.
Billy's mother, always foul-mouthed and quarrelsome, had been a
veritable demon when drunk, and drunk she had been whenever she
could, by hook or crook, raise the price of whiskey. Never, to Billy's
recollection, had she spoken a word of endearment to him; and so
terribly had she abused him that even while he was yet a little boy,
scarce out of babyhood, he had learned to view her with a hatred as
deep-rooted as is the affection of most little children for their
mothers.
When he had come to man's estate he had defended himself from the
woman's brutal assaults as he would have defended himself from another
man--when she had struck, Billy had struck back; the only thing to
his credit being that he never had struck her except in self-defense.
Chastity in woman was to him a thing to joke of--he did not believe
that it existed; for he judged other women by the one he knew best--his
mother. And as he hated her, so he hated them all. He had doubly hated
Barbara Harding since she not only was a woman, but a woman of the class
he loathed.
And so it was strange and inexplicable that the suggestion of the girl's
probable fate should have affected Billy Byrne as it did. He did not
stop to reason about it at all--he simply knew that he felt a mad and
unreasoning rage against the creatures that had borne the girl away.
Outwardly Billy showed no indication of the turmoil that raged within
his breast.
“We gotta find her, bo,” he said to Theriere. “We gotta find the skirt.”
Ordinarily Billy would have blustered about the terrible things he would
do to the objects of his wrath when once he had them in his power; but
now he was strangely quiet--only the firm set of his strong chin, and
the steely glitter of his gray eyes gave token of the iron resolution
within.
Theriere, who had been walking slowly to and fro about the dead men, now
called the others to him.
“Here's their trail,” he said. “If it's as plain as that all the way we
won't be long in overhauling them. Come along.”
Before he had the words half out of his mouth the mucker was forging
ahead through the jungle along the well-marked spoor of the samurai.
“Wot kind of men do you suppose they are?” asked Red Sanders.
“Malaysian head-hunters, unquestionably,” replied Theriere.
Red Sanders shuddered inwardly. The appellation had a most gruesome
sound.
“Come on!” cried Theriere, and started off after the mucker, who already
was out of sight in the thick forest.
Red Sanders and Wison took a few steps after the Frenchman. Theriere
turned once to see that they were following him, and then a turn in the
trail hid them from his view. Red Sanders stopped.
“Damme if I'm goin' to get my coconut hacked off on any such wild-goose
chase as this,” he said to Wison.
“The girl's more'n likely dead long ago,” said the other.
“Sure she is,” returned Red Sanders, “an' if we go buttin' into that
there thicket we'll be dead too. Ugh! Poor Miller. Poor Swenson. It's
orful. Did you see wot they done to 'em beside cuttin' off their heads?”
“Yes,” whispered Wison, looking suddenly behind him.
Red Sanders gave a little start, peering in the direction that his
companion had looked.
“Wot was it?” he whimpered. “Wot did you do that fer?”
“I thought I seen something move there,” replied Wison. “Fer Gawd's sake
let's get outen this,” and without waiting for a word of assent from his
companion the sailor turned and ran at breakneck speed along the
little path toward the spot where Divine, Blanco, and Bony Sawyer were
stationed. When they arrived Bony was just on the point of setting
out for the spring to fetch water, but at sight of the frightened,
breathless men he returned to hear their story.
“What's up?” shouted Divine. “You men look as though you'd seen a ghost.
Where are the others?”
“They're all murdered, and their heads cut off,” cried Red Sanders. “We
found the bunch that got Miller, Swenson, and the girl. They'd killed
'em all and was eatin' of 'em when we jumps 'em. Before we knew wot had
happened about a thousand more of the devils came runnin' up. They
got us separated, and when we seen Theriere and Byrne kilt we jest
natch'rally beat it. Gawd, but it was orful.”
“Do you think they will follow you?” asked Divine.
At the suggestion every head turned toward the trail down which the
two panic-stricken men had just come. At the same moment a hoarse shout
arose from the cove below and the five looked down to see a scene of
wild activity upon the beach. The defection of Theriere's party had
been discovered, as well as the absence of the girl and the theft of the
provisions.
Skipper Simms was dancing about like a madman. His bellowed oaths rolled
up the cliffs like thunder. Presently Ward caught a glimpse of the men
at the top of the cliff above him.
“There they are!” he cried.
Skipper Simms looked up.
“The swabs!” he shrieked. “A-stealin' of our grub, an' abductin' of that
there pore girl. The swabs! Lemme to 'em, I say; jest lemme to 'em.”
“We'd all better go to 'em,” said Ward. “We've got a fight on here sure.
Gather up some rocks, men, an' come along. Skipper, you're too fat to do
any fightin' on that there hillside, so you better stay here an' let
one o' the men take your gun,” for Ward knew so well the mettle of his
superior that he much preferred his absence to his presence in the face
of real fighting, and with the gun in the hands of a braver man it would
be vastly more effective.
Ward himself was no lover of a fight, but he saw now that starvation
might stare them in the face with their food gone, and everything be
lost with the loss of the girl. For food and money a much more cowardly
man than Bender Ward would fight to the death.
Up the face of the cliff they hurried, expecting momentarily to be
either challenged or fired upon by those above them. Divine and his
party looked down with mixed emotions upon those who were ascending in
so threatening a manner. They found themselves truly between the devil
and the deep sea.
Ward and his men were halfway up the cliff, yet Divine had made no move
to repel them. He glanced timorously toward the dark forest behind from
which he momentarily expected to see the savage, snarling faces of the
head-hunters appear.
“Surrender! You swabs,” called Ward from below, “or we'll string the
last mother's son of you to the yardarm.”
For reply Blanco hurled a heavy fragment of rock at the assaulters. It
grazed perilously close to Ward, against whom Blanco cherished a keen
hatred. Instantly Ward's revolver barked, the bullet whistling close
by Divine's head. L. Cortwrite Divine, cotillion leader, ducked behind
Theriere's breastwork, where he lay sprawled upon his belly, trembling
in terror.
Bony Sawyer and Red Sanders followed the example of their commander.
Blanco and Wison alone made any attempt to repel the assault. The
big Negro ran to Divine's side and snatched the terror-stricken man's
revolver from his belt. Then turning he fired at Ward. The bullet,
missing its intended victim, pierced the heart of a sailor directly
behind him, and as the man crumpled to the ground, rolling down the
steep declivity, his fellows sought cover.
Wison followed up the advantage with a shower of well-aimed missiles,
and then hostilities ceased temporarily.
“Have they gone?” queried Divine, with trembling lips, noticing the
quiet that followed the shot.
“Gone nothin', yo big cowahd,” replied Blanco. “Do yo done suppose dat
two men is a-gwine to stan' off five? Ef yo white-livered skunks 'ud
git up an' fight we might have a chanct. I'se a good min' to cut out yo
cowahdly heart fer yo, das wot I has--a-lyin' der on yo belly settin'
dat kin' o' example to yo men!”
Divine's terror had placed him beyond the reach of contumely or
reproach.
“What's the use of fighting them?” he whimpered. “We should never have
left them. It's all the fault of that fool Theriere. What can we do
against the savages of this awful island if we divide our forces? They
will pick us off a few at a time just as they picked off Miller and
Swenson, Theriere and Byrne. We ought to tell Ward about it, and call
this foolish battle off.”
“Now you're talkin',” cried Bony Sawyer. “I'm not a-goin' to squat up
here any longer with my friends a-shootin' at me from below an' a lot
of wild heathen creeping down on me from above to cut off my bloomin'
head.”
“Same here!” chimed in Red Sanders.
Blanco looked toward Wison. For his own part the Negro would not have
been averse to returning to the fold could the thing be accomplished
without danger of reprisal on the part of Skipper Simms and Ward; but
he knew the men so well that he feared to trust them even should
they seemingly acquiesce to any such proposal. On the other hand, he
reasoned, it would be as much to their advantage to have the deserters
return to them as it would to the deserters themselves, for when they
had heard the story told by Red Sanders and Wison of the murder of the
others of the party they too would realize the necessity for maintaining
the strength of the little company to its fullest.
“I don't see that we're goin' to gain nothin' by fightin' 'em,” said
Wison. “There ain't nothin' in it any more nohow for nobody since the
girl's gorn. Let's chuck it, an' see wot terms we can make with Squint
Eye.”
“Well,” grumbled the Negro, “I can't fight 'em alone; What yo doin'
dere, Bony?”
During the conversation Bony Sawyer had been busy with a stick and a
piece of rag, and now as he turned toward his companions once more they
saw that he had rigged a white flag of surrender. None interfered as he
raised it above the edge of the breastwork.
Immediately there was a hail from below. It was Ward's voice.
“Surrenderin', eh? Comin' to your senses, are you?” he shouted.
Divine, feeling that immediate danger from bullets was past, raised his
head above the edge of the earthwork.
“We have something to communicate, Mr. Ward,” he called.
“Spit it out, then; I'm a-listenin',” called back the mate.
“Miss Harding, Mr. Theriere, Byrne, Miller, and Swenson have been
captured and killed by native head-hunters,” said Divine.
Ward's eyes went wide, and he blew out his cheeks in surprise. Then his
face went black with an angry scowl.
“You see what you done now, you blitherin' fools, you!” he cried, “with
your funny business? You gone an' killed the goose what laid the golden
eggs. Thought you'd get it all, didn't you? and now nobody won't get
nothin', unless it is the halter. Nice lot o' numbskulls you be, an'
whimperin' 'round now expectin' of us to take you back--well, I reckon
not, not on your measly lives,” and with that he raised his revolver to
fire again at Divine.
The society man toppled over backward into the pit behind the breastwork
before Ward had a chance to pull the trigger.
“Hol' on there mate!” cried Bony Sawyer; “there ain't no call now fer
gettin' excited. Wait until you hear all we gotta say. You can't
blame us pore sailormen. It was this here fool dude and that scoundrel
Theriere that put us up to it. They told us that you an' Skipper Simms
was a-fixin' to double-cross us all an' leave us here to starve on
this Gawd-forsaken islan'. Theriere said that he was with you when you
planned it. That you wanted to git rid o' as many of us as you could
so that you'd have more of the ransom to divide. So all we done was in
self-defense, as it were.
“Why not let bygones be bygones, an' all of us join forces ag'in' these
murderin' heathen? There won't be any too many of us at best--Red
an' Wison seen more'n two thousan' of the man-eatin' devils. They're
a-creepin' up on us from behin' right this minute, an' you can lay to
that; an' the chances are that they got some special kind o' route into
that there cove, an' maybe they're a-watchin' of you right now!”
Ward turned an apprehensive glance to either side. There was logic in
Bony's proposal. They couldn't spare a man now. Later he could punish
the offenders at his leisure--when he didn't need them any further.
“Will you swear on the Book to do your duty by Skipper Simms an' me if
we take you back?” asked Ward.
“You bet,” answered Bony Sawyer.
The others nodded their heads, and Divine sprang up and started down
toward Ward.
“Hol' on you!” commanded the mate. “This here arrangement don' include
you--it's jes' between Skipper Simms an' his sailors. You're a rank
outsider, an' you butts in an' starts a mutiny. Ef you come back you
gotta stand trial fer that--see?”
“You better duck, mister,” advised Red Sanders; “they'll hang
you sure.”
Divine went white. To face trial before two such men as Simms and Ward
meant death, of that he was positive. To flee into the forest meant
death, almost equally certain, and much more horrible. The man went to
his knees, lifting supplicating hands to the mate.
“For God's sake, Mr. Ward,” he cried, “be merciful. I was led into this
by Theriere. He lied to me just as he did to the men. You can't kill
me--it would be murder--they'd hang you for it.”
“We'll hang for this muss you got us into anyway, if we're ever caught,”
growled the mate. “Ef you hadn't a-carried the girl off to be murdered
we might have had enough ransom money to have got clear some way, but
now you gone and cooked the whole goose fer the lot of us.”
“You can collect ransom on me,” cried Divine, clutching at a straw.
“I'll pay a hundred thousand myself the day you set me down in a
civilized port, safe and free.”
Ward laughed in his face.
“You ain't got a cent, you four-flusher,” he cried. “Clinker put us next
to that long before we sailed from Frisco.”
“Clinker lies,” cried Divine. “He doesn't know anything about it--I'm
rich.”
“Wot's de use ob chewin' de rag 'bout all dis,” cried Blanco, seeing
where he might square himself with Ward and Simms easily. “Does yo' take
back all us sailormen, Mr. Ward, an' promise not t' punish none o' us,
ef we swear to stick by yo' all in de future?”
“Yes,” replied the mate.
Blanco took a step toward Divine.
“Den yo come along too as a prisoner, white man,” and the burly black
grasped Divine by the scruff of the neck and forced him before him down
the steep trail toward the cove, and so the mutineers returned to the
command of Skipper Simms, and L. Cortwrite Divine went with them as a
prisoner, charged with a crime the punishment for which has been death
since men sailed the seas.