“In dealing with ruffians such as Harman and yourself one doesn't stop
at an extra blow or two.”
From that time Cressingham was his bitter enemy; but Challoner did
his duty as chief officer too faithfully to give the captain a chance
against him.
Day after day had passed. The sullen discontent of the crew had changed
into outspoken hatred and a thirst for revenge upon the captain and
Harman and Barton--the latter the third mate--and Challoner, who knew
what was brewing, dared not open his mouth to any one of the three upon
the subject. Between himself and Cressingham and the other two there had
now sprung up a silent yet fierce antagonism, which the crew were quick
to perceive, and from which they augured favourably for themselves.
One night, just as Challoner had relieved the second mate, some of the
hands from both watches marched boldly aft and asked him if he would
take command of the ship. He had only to say the word, they said. They
were tired of being “bashed” and starved to death by the skipper and two
mates, and if he would navigate the ship to Melbourne they would keep
him free from interference, and take the consequences, &c.
“Go for'ard, you fools,” said Challoner, with assumed harshness, “don't
talk mutiny to me.”
A step sounded on the deck behind him, and Cressingham's sneering tones
were heard.
“Discussing mutiny, are you, Mr. Challoner? By God, sir, I've suspected
you long enough. Go below, sir; or go for'ard with these fellows. You'll
do no more mate's duty aboard of this ship. Ah, Colliss, you're one of
the ringleaders, are you?” And in an instant he seized a seaman by the
throat, and called loudly for Barton and Harman to help him.
Before they could respond to his call the poop was black with struggling
men. Cressingham, mad with passion, had Colliss down trying to strangle
him, and Challoner, fearing murder would be done, had thrown himself
upon the captain and tried to make him release his grip of the man's
throat. At that moment a sailor called out--
“Stand by, chaps, for Barton and Harman, and drop 'em the moment they
shows up. Mr. Challoner's got the old man safe.”
But Messrs. Harman and Barton were tough customers. The loud cries on
deck and heavy tramping of feet told them that a crisis had occurred,
and they dashed up, each with a revolver in hand--only to be felled from
behind ere they could fire a shot. Challoner, letting the captain free,
sprang to their aid. But he came too late, for before, with blows,
kicks, and curses, he could force his way through the swaying, surging
mass of men that hid the fallen officers from his view, he heard a
sound--the sound of a man's skull as it was smashed in by a heavy blow.
“He's done for,” said a voice, with a savage laugh, “scoot, chaps,
scoot. This shindy will keep the old man quiet a bit, now one of his
fightin' cocks is gone,” and the men tumbled down off the poop as quick
as their legs could carry them, leaving Challoner and the two prone
figures behind them. Cressingham had gone below for his revolver.
“Steward,” called Challoner, “bring a light here, quick, and see where
the captain is,” and, stooping down, he tried to raise Harman, then laid
him down with a shudder--his brains were scattered on the deck. Barton
was alive, but unconscious.
As Challoner was about to rise, Captain Cressingham stood over him and
raised his arm, and dealt him a crashing blow with a belaying pin. When
he regained consciousness he was in irons.
*****
A month later and he stood in the dock charged with murder. The
principal witnesses against him were his captain and Barton, the third
mate. The crew, who, of course, were also witnesses in the case, didn't
worry much about him. It wasn't likely they would run their necks into
a noose if it could be placed round any one else's. And in this
instance--superinduced by a vision of the gallows--fo'c's'le hands stuck
to one another and lied manfully together. None of them “had hurt Mr.
Harman.”
But it was upon Cressingham's evidence that his fate hung; and
Cressingham, suave, handsome, and well-dressed, told the court how
Challoner had once attempted to murder Harman in the earlier part of the
voyage. Barton, with his arm in a sling, corroborated the lie with blunt
cheerfulness.
His Honour summed up dead against the prisoner, and the jury, impressed
by the calm, gentlemanly appearance of Captain Cressingham, and the
haggard, unshaven, and guilty look of the man whose life they held in
their hands, were not long in considering their verdict.
The prisoner was found guilty, but with a recommendation to mercy.
And then the judge, who was cross and tired, made a brief but affecting
speech, and sentenced him to imprisonment for life.
He went into his prison cell with hair as black as night, and came out
again as white as a man of seventy.
******
In a back room of the public-house he sat and waited till he had courage
and strength enough to face the streets again. And as he waited, he gave
himself up to visions of the future--to the day when, with his hand on
Cressingham's lying throat, he would see his face blacken and hear the
rattling agonies of his gasps for breath. He leaned back in his chair
and laughed hoarsely. The unearthly, hideous sound startled him, and he
glanced round nervously as if he feared to betray his secret. Then he
drank another glass of brandy, and with twenty-six shillings of prison
money in his pocket and ten years of the blackest hatred in his heart,
he went out again into the world to begin his search--for Cressingham
and revenge.