THE LAST OF AN ENEMY.
It was no time to gloat over the downfall of an enemy.
I had attained the coveted position of a Kantoonship among the
Sargassons, and I was to occupy it at the expense of the life of the
man who had been the means of bringing me among these strange people,
who had just shown their appreciation and respect by conferring a
high dignity upon me.
Unacquainted as I was with the history of Arthur Gray prior to my
arrival in the community I could not pass judgment upon the acts of
my fellow Sargassons. I had lost sight of Gray in the stirring events
that had filled the previous months of my stay on the Happy Shark,
and although it was considered quite improper to inquire regarding
the fate of missing members of the community, I had tried, on several
occasions, to ascertain what had become of him. I had been told that
he was killed in the attack on the Caribas. There certainly had been
some mystery attending the period of Gray’s existence between that
memorable capture and the fatal hour in which I again crossed his
path. It was strange that we individually were responsible for the
misfortunes that had overtaken each of us.
These thoughts were dominant in my mind as I stood on the deck of
my old ship, contemplating my now humiliated and condemned enemy. To
his credit, I must say that Gray did not evince any humiliation or
seek to curry favor. He was already tightly bound in a peculiarly
constructed chair, in which condemned Kantoons were drowned.
This seat was made of three boards, fashioned quite like a rustic
chair found in our American Summer houses and parks. Into the longest
piece of board was mortised a seat, and this rude chair was made to
stand by being inclined backward and supported by a prop, similar to
that which holds an easel in position. Devices like this existed on
every Kantoonment, in order that they might be ready whenever wanted.
The custom under which each commander kept a device for his own
destruction in case of condemnation may appear strange to those
who are not familiar with the habits of this people. And yet, when
a boy in the United States, I remember distinctly to have known a
neighbor family that had resided for several generations in the same
dwelling-house. With the boys of my own age in this family I was
on friendly terms, and I recollect repeatedly to have been shown a
broad board that was carefully placed above the kitchen cupboard,
and upon which, I was gravely informed, all members of the Baxter
household were laid out and prepared for the grave. That broad board
was as much a part of the family possessions as its silverware, its
cameo pins and other heirlooms. I remember an occasion, when most
of the members of the family were absent, the eldest boy and myself
carefully took the board from the cupboard, and, with the assistance
of two barrels, constructed a rude counter, across which we dispensed
vinegar soda water, grapevine-leaf cigars and apples of suspicious
character.
This was not in Sargasso, but in the suburbs of my native city of
Brooklyn.
“This must gratify you very much, Clark,” began Gray, in thoroughly
good English. “I understand perfectly what hopes are awakened in your
mind by your return to this ship, but I want to tell you that they
are vain. You never can effect your escape from the Sargasso Sea!”
He was a mind-reader!
“What has become of the Secor launch?” I asked, tacitly confessing to
the insinuation against me.
Gray’s face assumed instantly an expression of contempt, as he
sneeringly rejoined:
“I tried to escape in her, but in the absence of oil, I found it
impossible. In my rage and chagrin I scuttled her. She is at the
bottom of the sea.”
The commander of the barge on which Fidette and I had reached our
new home had been standing by during this conversation. Its acrimony
was clearly observable, and when the first lull occurred in the
conversation at this point, he touched Gray on the shoulder and said:
“Basta! You stoppa too longa.” Then, turning to the half dozen sturdy
fellows who stood beside him, he made a motion of his hand in the
direction of Gray, and said in fairly good Spanish:
“Let him walk with God!”
The six executioners seized hold of Gray, carried him to the side of
the ship, and, without any more ado, flung chair and occupant into
the ocean.
As far as I could observe, nobody even looked over the side of the
ship to see that poor Arthur Gray promptly sank beneath the brine.
The commander of the barge, acting as temporary executive of the
Caribas, called all the men to quarters, and holding aloft in his
right hand the same tarpon scales that had been handed to me by the
Chief Kantoon, in the jargon of the Sargassons, officially proclaimed
my elevation to the Kantoonship. At a signal from him, every man
on board saluted, and the first mate, stepping forward, dropped to
the right knee and bowed his head. As I had been instructed to do,
I touched him twice upon the right shoulder with a marlinspike and
bade him arise. I assured him that he would still retain his post
as executive of the Caribas. It was entirely within my power, by
degrading him, to have condemned him to death. Had I seen fit to do
so, or had any grudge provoked such an act, the first mate would have
been instantly bound and tossed into the water, to share the fate of
ex-Kantoon Gray.
My purpose in confirming the position of the first mate was that I
might attach the crew to me in my new and trying position.
After partaking of a dinner that had been prepared for the crew of
the barge on the main deck, its commander walked rapidly to the side
of the ship, where was the ladder leading down to his boat. Without
any formal farewell, he and his sturdy fellows resumed their places
in the great canoe, and in a few minutes they were far out in the
Grand Canal, bound homeward on their long journey, ending with their
voyage across the tideless lake.
I then took formal possession of the ship.
I was surprised how few changes had been made in my cabin since that
eventful morning when I had been induced to leave my ship and crew.
In the centre of the deck, just below the cabin door, was a large
blood stain, that marked the place of some brave fellow’s death on
the memorable night of the capture of the Caribas. Sturdy efforts
had been made to efface this spot, but they had been unsuccessful.
I found all my toilet articles just as I had left them; my brushes,
combs and razors, and even a small bottle of brandy that had rested
over my shaving stand, were undisturbed.
I have already spoken of the strict integrity and truthfulness of
the Sargassons. Pilfering they held to be a crime so contemptible
that only the basest savages indulged in it. Lying and stealing
they classified together. Murder was not appalling to them, but
during my stay in Sargasso I never knew or heard of a single case
of treacherous assassination. Nobody was ever stabbed in the back or
pushed into a shark’s tank unexpectedly.
Fidette soon made herself very comfortable in the little cabin that
adjoined mine, and showed signs of being reconciled to her separation
from the Happy Shark.