It was as though the blade of the knife touched a spring of life within
Black Pawl. He came to his feet with a swift, fierce movement that flung
Spiess off his back and sent the man sprawling to one side. Then Black
Pawl turned, and stared down at him, and Spiess got up, the red knife in
his hand. He watched Black Pawl; and he crouched a little, his knees
bent for a spring.
Black Pawl looked at Spiess, and then he looked at his son. The mate was
standing on the quarter, watching as though what passed did not concern
him. Black Pawl understood, then. Red had planned this, permitted it.
Black Pawl laughed at Spiess; and then he walked slowly past the man,
toward the quarter-deck. He paid no more attention to Spiess; and when
the man saw this, he wiped his knife on the leg of his trousers and
thrust it back into its sheath. Then he looked at Red Pawl; and when
the mate said nothing, did nothing, Spiess got down on his hands and
knees and went back to his scrubbing.
The other seamen, who had been sharing this work with him, and who had
sprung to their feet at the first hint of the tragedy, stood in a little
whispering group now, watching. All had passed so quietly; there was no
word spoken now. The ship was as still as death; for Death was hovering
over the <i>Deborah’s</i> decks in that hour.
Black Pawl walked to the quarter; and the men saw a red stain spreading
through the coat upon his back. He climbed the steps to the
quarter-deck; he hesitated for a little, then turned aside and sat down
on the deck, his back against the rail. Then his eyes half closed, and
his head lolled on one shoulder. He might have been dead even then, for
all seeming.
But he was not dead. His mind had never been so clear, so acute. His
body was numb; but his brain was vividly alive. He felt no pain, felt no
sensation except a warm, moist stickiness that spread down his back.
Also it was a little hard to breathe. There was a bubbling in his
throat, and something wet upon his lips; and when he touched his lips
with a weak hand, the fingers came away red.
He saw this through half-closed eyes, still sitting there, head drooping
on one side.
All had passed so quietly. This was the horror of it. There had been an
instant’s scuffle, then nothing. The work of the schooner was going on
now. Spiess was scrubbing the deck, not looking toward Black Pawl. The
mate stood against the rail idly, as though nothing had happened. The
little group of men by the mainmast whispered together, their faces
white. They were the only jarring note in the peaceful scene.
Black Pawl was thinking. He was thinking hard and swiftly, considering
what had been done, what must be done. His thoughts covered vast spaces
in seconds of time. They were racing like trained runners.
He decided that he was dying. He would be dead very soon. So! Well, he
was not afraid to die--not afraid to die, so he died with clean books.
But--were his books clean? There was Red Pawl--his son.
Red Pawl had killed him. This was as certain and as true as though
Red’s own hand had whipped that knife between his shoulder-blades. Red
had encouraged Spiess; no doubt he had promised the man protection. If
proof of this were needed, the proof lay in Red’s attitude now. If there
were any innocence in the man, he would have struck Spiess down.
Or--Black Pawl knew the mate always carried a revolver--he would have
shot Spiess dead within a matter of seconds after the striking of the
blow.
Aye, Red Pawl had killed him--Red Pawl, his son.
The Captain felt no surge of anger at Red Pawl, with this conclusion. He
was not surprised. For--Red Pawl was as he, Black Pawl, had made him. He
had shown Red the ways of violence and ruthlessness. He had taught Red
never a virtue of them all, save bravery, perhaps. He had taught the boy
strength, and brutality, and outrage; he had taught him cruelty; he had
taught him to hate the world. He had taught him to bully men and despise
all women. He had made Red into the man he was. And if Red had killed
him, that too was Black Pawl’s teaching. He had shown Red how to kill.
Red would be master of the <i>Deborah</i> now. He would step into Black
Pawl’s shoes as captain. He would enter this incident in the log. No
doubt he would make it most favorable to the man Spiess. And no doubt
Spiess would have a chance to escape before ever they reached port. That
was to be expected; that was an essential part of the whole. Red had
moved Spiess to kill Black Pawl; now Red must save Spiess from the
consequences. So be it! Black Pawl had no grudge against Spiess. He
hated him as little as he hated the knife Spiess had thrust between his
ribs. Spiess was the instrument; Red Pawl was the murderer.
Black Pawl’s senses clouded for a little; his life was ebbing. Silence
still held the ship. The sun climbed higher, striking into Black Pawl’s
face. The wind soothed him; the circling birds squawked their unmusical
cries. The men whispered by the mainmast. Spiess scrubbed on. Red Pawl
leaned against the rail, watching his father die.
But Black Pawl was not yet ready to die. There were still problems to be
solved; there was still life to be met and conquered. He could not die.
He came slowly back to consciousness again, his mind keen and lucid and
unswerving.
Red Pawl would be master of the <i>Deborah</i>. He would save Spiess from
punishment. What else would he do?
Black Pawl nodded his weary head. Now he was coming to it, the crux of
it all. Ruth? What of her? What would her life be, with Red the master
of the schooner’s tiny and constricted world? What would come to her?
There was no mercy in Red Pawl. The Captain knew that. There was no
scruple in him to stay his hand. And that was Black Pawl’s doing. Red
was dark peril personified. He was a living threat, a red danger to the
girl.
The missionary? That is to say, God? Perhaps. But--men must do their
share. He had promised that he would do his share. Must God do
everything?
Dan Darrin, then? Could Dan guard the girl who loved him?
Perhaps--perhaps not. Dan was brave enough, strong enough. But--he was
straightforward, fearless, strong, and that was all. There was no craft
in him. Red Pawl might easily befuddle him, blind his eyes, strike when
Dan was off guard. And--Red had killed his father; he would scarce
scruple to kill Dan Darrin.
So Dan was no sure shield. Who else remained? One by one, Black Pawl
considered each expedient. And there was none that satisfied him; there
was no power aboard the <i>Deborah</i> to protect the girl, once he, Black
Pawl, was gone.
There was no evasion in Black Pawl, no shirking his responsibility. Red
was his responsibility.
The conclusion was inescapable. There was no anger in him toward his
son; there was no hatred. There was only a deep love, and a deeper
sorrow and grief. He stirred where he sat; and slowly, by infinite
degrees, he opened his eyes.
He saw the <i>Deborah</i>, the schooner he loved, the world he had ruled. He
saw the blue sky above him, and the furled canvas on the boom. He saw
the group of white-faced men by the mainmast, and he saw Spiess
scrubbing grimly at the deck, oblivious of all that passed. He wondered
if Dan Darrin would be coming on deck soon. Dan and the missionary and
the girl must still be asleep in their cabins, below. It was as well.
He swept his weary eyes about the whole spread of deck before him; and
he found Red Pawl. Red had not moved. He was still leaning against the
rail, watching his father die.
Black Pawl tried to speak; but there was a bubbling in his throat, and
it was hard. He conquered that handicap by sheer will to conquer; and he
said in a voice that was firm enough, though it was very low:
“Red, he’s killed me.”
Red Pawl did not answer for a moment; then he said evenly: “Aye, he’s
killed you.”
The Captain was mustering strength. “Come here, Red,” he said.
“I’ve--things to say. And it’s hard--talking.”
Red hesitated; then he came slowly across and stood above his father,
looking down at him.
“He’s killed me,” said Black Pawl again. And Red nodded.
“I don’t--mind dying.” Black Pawl whispered. “But Red, I--hate to
be--stuck--like a pig.”
Red Pawl looked at Spiess, and back at his father again. “Aye, like a
pig,” he said. There was no softness in his tone, nor any relenting.
Black Pawl looked toward Spiess. “Shoot him down for me to see, Red,” he
murmured.
Red shook his head at that “No. There’s been enough quick death. I’ll
see to him, in due time--no fear.”
“Shoot him,” Black Pawl begged.
Red shook his head. The Captain lifted a weak hand. “Then--Red--get me
my gun. In my cabin. I’ll shoot him. Do that much for me.”
The mate considered; then he said: “No. He’d finish you while I was
below.”
Black Pawl’s head drooped. “Aye,” he agreed. “He’d finish me.” He was
thoughtful, silent for a little. Red saw his shoulders heaving with the
hardly won breath. Then the Captain looked wearily up at him.
“Give me your gun, Red,” he whispered, “--if you’ll not get mine.”
Red Pawl hesitated; and he thought swiftly. He was cold and without
scruple. Would this profit him? Suppose Black Pawl shot at Spiess--and
missed! Then Spiess would be an enemy to be reckoned with; he would
consider Red Pawl had betrayed him. But--Red was not afraid of Spiess.
He could always handle the man. On the other hand, suppose Black Pawl
shot straight. Then Spiess would be out of the way. There was virtue in
that; it would be convenient. It would clear his own skirts; it would
remove the evidence against him. Yes, he could bear to have Spiess die.
And thus--there would be justice in it, and no difficulty with the log.
Black Pawl would probably miss. His hand must be weak and nerveless by
this; yet he was a crack shot, had always been. There was a good chance.
He looked toward Spiess, and he winked as he caught the man’s eye. That
was for reassurance; it would give him a talking-point to explain that
he had known Black Pawl would miss--if the Captain did miss. If he shot
straight, then the wink had done no harm. Spiess went stolidly on with
his scrubbing.
Black Pawl had seen his son’s glance at Spiess. He read it.
Red said curtly: “All right--if you like.” He took his revolver from
the pocket of his coat and held it toward Black Pawl. The Captain took
it in both hands carefully.
It might not be loaded. He fumbled with the mechanism, “broke” the
revolver and saw the fat cartridges in their chambers. Loaded!
So, he was ready. He looked up at Red Pawl. “Kneel down,” he said. “Hold
me up. I am very weak, my son.”
If Red Pawl had any friends among the fates, they forsook him then. He
stepped toward his father, and knelt down before him, and put his arms
on Black Pawl’s shoulders to draw the Captain to a sitting posture.
Their faces were not six inches apart. Black Pawl said softly: “I always
loved you, son.”
Red Pawl grinned sneeringly at that. While the grin was still on his
face, the dying man mustered the last ounce of his strength. He lifted
the revolver. He jammed the muzzle against his son’s breast, and shot
Red Pawl through the heart.