“Die life, fly soul, tongue curse thy fill, and die!”
—MARLOWE, in _The Jew of Malta_.
The trial of the pilot for the instigation of mutiny was conducted in the
fly-boat’s main cabin with strict secrecy, in order that faint-hearted
ones might be spared the disheartening anxiety which a knowledge of the
conspiracy would have brought to them. The ship’s commander, Captain
Pomp by name, who had appeared greatly flurried and genuinely amazed on
hearing Vytal’s story, presided at the inquiry. Beside him at the long
table sat Vytal on the one hand and Ananias Dare, now sober but forlorn,
on the other.
The pilot, brought in by Hugh Rouse, came stolidly, without a struggle,
and during the trial faced his judges with defiance, turning now and then
an expectant look on Ananias Dare. For, preceding this investigation,
the assistant had gone to the deck at sunrise and held a conversation in
whispers with the guilty man, telling Hugh, who would have questioned
his authority, that he but sought to elicit further information from the
captive. What he had actually said was this: “An you betray me, we’re
both lost. Make no accusation at the trial. Even though I testify against
you, I will save you in the end.”
But the pilot’s eyes gazed at him with little trustfulness. “You swear
it?”
“I swear it.”
“So be it, then. But at the last an you fail me, Master Sot, look to your
own salvation.”
The trial proceeded in a perfunctory manner, and would have been but
a routine affair save for the increasing nervousness of Ananias, who
concealed the cause by holding both hands to his head as though only
the night’s intemperance had unstrung him; and by the sudden appearance
of Roger Prat, who, with the captain’s permission, held a whispered
conference with Vytal. “I pray you, captain, make no charge against the
others. I have charmed them with a flute and tabor. They are hot against
the pilot, being but hirelings, and, like sheep, easily led. We can count
our force the richer by a score. ‘I have saved your necks,’ said I,’and
have talked with Captain Vytal. An we oppose him we surely dangle from
the yard-arm. Welladay, welladay, I know what I know,’ and I sang them a
song, then played at dice, and lost three angels a-purpose, then drank
and warmed their chicken hearts. In another week they will be ready to
die for us,” and, making a grimace at the sullen pilot, as who should
say,“Be more cheerful, sir,” Roger swaggered from the cabin.
On the testimony of Vytal, who told of St. Magil’s conversation with
Ferdinando concerning his bribe to the pilot, and on the oath of Ananias
Dare, who testified to having heard the defendant plotting with St.
Magil, the culprit was speedily condemned. The pale face of Dare, the
faltering voice, the nervous effort with which he forced himself to
stand erect while bearing witness, were readily set down to his bibulous
tendencies, already well known to the fly-boat’s captain.
In a grandiose manner Captain Pomp arose and drew himself up to his full
height.
“Incarcerate the prisoner,” he said to Rouse, “in the hold. At midnight
I shall send for him. Our sentence is that he shall be hanged at the
yard-arm until dead.” Whereupon, with an important air, not devoid of
true dignity, he bowed to Vytal.
“It is well,” said the soldier. And the three judges filed slowly from
the room.
At the hour of midnight, when the voyagers were sleeping in their cabins,
a sailor appeared in the hatchway of the hold, and soon the pilot stood
beneath the main-mast, guarded by two dusky figures with drawn swords.
A third approached him gravely. It was the Oxford preacher, offering
consolation. But his offices were undesired. The pilot greeted him with a
low curse, then laughed scornfully.
Vytal, who had come hither, realized the stubborn nature of the condemned
man, and drew the pastor aside.
The moon, now full, had risen high, eclipsing with her brilliancy a host
of stars. The sea lay glassy, a pool of shining mercury, its currents
gliding on in silence, faster than the ship herself. The stillness was
profound, broken only by the far-off cry of an unseen gull.
The night was a night for serenades of love, for lutes, for ardent
whispers, for anything but work like this.
The noose was thrown over the pilot’s head carelessly, as though the
sailor were casting a quoit upon a peg. The captive opened his lips as
though to speak, but the rope was tight-drawn, and the effort ended
in a gulp, vainly. Suddenly there was a guttural, inarticulate cry, a
choking sound, and a bulky form went up half-way to the yard-arm. In
that instant, hurrying, uncertain footsteps scraped along the deck,
and Ananias Dare reeled into the silent circle. He gesticulated and
moved his arms, striving to point steadily at the swaying figure in
the moonlight. But he uttered only a gibberish of broken, unmeaning
syllables, and then, lurching to the bulwark, went deathly sick in
unrestrainable nausea.
The figure above, still rocking slightly from the upward swing, held out
a thick forefinger and pointed to the new-comer, while a smile, ghastly
in the moonshine, and triumphant even in the last agony, crossed its
bestial face.
Vytal turned and looked at Ananias, who was now but a mumbling,
terror-stricken heap upon the deck. Vytal had looked at the man before,
but now for the first time seemed to gaze _into_ him.
“Ugh!” muttered Roger Prat, shuddering. “Goodman Thong did his work well,
but the pilot has done his duty even better.”
The sun, several hours later, peering through the grayness, saw a heavy
thing, limp and motionless, depending from the yard-arm of a lonely
ship. It was a man of revolting countenance, black from strangulation,
and pitted with the marks of a disease. Over the brow a shock of coarse
red hair hung in strands like streaks of fire, and from the chin a ruddy
beard flared across the chest. On one of the broad shoulders sat a great
white gull, its beak buried in the flame.
But soon a sailor appeared on deck, whistling cheerily in the morning
watch. He cut the thing down, and, grumbling over its weighty bulk, cast
it headlong into the sea.