South, West and North/Part 1/Chapter 6
VI
DICK HAMPTON tasted one of those queer, only half-realized instants which come like a flash from the blue to many men. Whether to be explained by supernatural causes as some hold, or as others deem by a working of the sixth sense or the subconscious mind, they do come. They are seldom understood until later, so that men rarely act upon the message, but interpreted by events they are remembered as fearful and wonderful flashes from the great soul of the universe. And now, as Hampton stooped over and held the dead body of Jed Barnes in his hands, he experienced one of those singular and dreadful instants.
He could hear the tramp of feet as men came running from the main cabin, drawn by that one dying cry, yet time seemed suspended. A voice yammered at his inward ear—a spiritist would have claimed it the voice of the escaping soul, but Hampton was too stunned and spellbound, too paralyzed, to explain it or even to comprehend its meaning. None the less, he seemed suddenly to hear it distinctly, to catch it tugging at his soul's elbow, startling and terrifying him with its cry, accompanied by a flash of binding light.
“He did it! He did it! Now you are lost and damned beyond recall—caught in a net too widespread for escape. No time to move, to act, to think; there is the secret of it under your very hand—and he did it! Had you come a moment sooner, you'd have caught him at work; too late, too late! Now your life is only beginning, your task lies all ahead—and he did it!”
Thus the flash of comprehension came and passed, and Hampton failed to catch it as most men fail until too late. He stood up, feeling warm blood on his hands, and stared blankly at the gaping, horrified men crowded about the doorway—Eliphalat Nickerson and the others. A shrill shout leaped to the deck above—
“Hampton's murdered Jed Barnes!”
That wakened him—roused him to startled alarm. He saw the thought echoed in the faces around him, and passionately disclaimed the fact—
“A lie! I came in and found him dying”
The words fell away. Into the throng and through it burst the old skipper, taking in everything at a glance, facing Hampton in cold, sorrowful accusation.
“What's this, sir? What is it, I say? You did this?”
“A lie! I did not,” declared Hampton vehemently. “Adam Johnson said the man wanted to see me, sent me down to him—I found him dying. I saw no one leave this cabin—before God, that is all I know of it! Would I have murdered the father of the woman I love? And look at the knife. It's not mine. I have none with me. Mine is in my own cabin, hanging on the peg.”
It was nonsense to suppose that the crime could be fastened upon him, yet none the less Hampton had to face the possibility. The passage and companion were jammed with men; loud voices threatened the murderer; the confusion was uproarious. The skipper turned to Nickerson and the other company officers.
“Exert your authority, gentlemen. Every man aboard to be mustered in the waist of the ship. At once! All hands on deck!”
Then, stooping, the old skipper grasped the knife still buried in the ribs of Jed Barnes, and with an effort removed it.
“A devilish blade!” he muttered. “No honest sea-knife. And the man that used it was disturbed at his work—had no time to pluck it free. Mr. Hampton, by my side. Leave this poor clay to be mourned by his daughter.”
Gradually the flood of men receded, and the passage was emptied. As Hampton followed the captain on deck, Nelly Barnes and one of the other women came down the ladder, rushed past them, and disappeared in the red-smeared cabin.
When Hampton emerged on deck, one shout of anger went up from the waist, then was quelled. The gold company was mustered there on the starboard side, the ship's company to port. Hampton stood as in a dream, waiting, listening, watching. He perceived that in all eyes he was the murderer, and cold anger settled on him. Still, the affair was far from finished, and the owner of that knife must be discovered. He met with one cheerful grin from Job Warlock, but no other face offered him any hope.
The captain stood knife in hand at the wheel, summoned the gold company officers and his own mates, then addressed the assembled men solemnly:
“Friends, some one among us has murdered Mr. Barnes. Whether the murderer is one among you, or my third officer, remains to be seen. First of all this knife must be recognized. Let every one come aft, one at a time, and inspect the weapon.”
Gravely, Adam Johnson called the roll of the company, who filed aft, followed by the crew. One by one the men came and viewed the reddened weapon, a most singular and unusual sort of knife, and denied ever having seen it before. Hampton caught the eye of James Day, who stood at the side of old Nickerson, and Day made an almost imperceptible gesture of assurance.
When it came the turn of the crew, and man after man swore that the knife was unknown to him, dismay came upon Hampton. It seemed impossible, for once seen that knife could not easily be forgotten. Vainly he searched among crew and passengers for any man who might betray signs of guilt or fear; vainly he tried to fasten on any man who might have been an enemy to Jed Barnes. Job Warlock came and stood beside him stoutly enough.
“A bad business, matey!” he said, and Hampton nodded slightly. “Bad and no mistake.”
The ship's Bible was brought up, and the skipper, hearing a low mutter from the ranks in the waist, turned to them grimly.
“None o' that, my men! There'll be justice done, but it'll be mine. I'm in charge here, and Mr. Hampton is my officer—so mind that. Now, who among ye had any quarrel wi' the dead man? Come, speak up on it! Step up and swear to what ye know, and watch your words. Somebody here is a liar already, on the knife.”
None moved for a moment, then old Eliphalat Nickerson came forward, pawing his whiskers, and laid his hand on the Book.
“I'll have to say what I heard yesterday,” he stated solemnly, and went on to detail what had passed between Jed Barnes and Hampton. Before he finished, Nelly Barnes appeared on deck again, tears on her face, the other women comforting her. The captain turned to Hampton.
“Do you deny this testimony, Mr. Hampton?”
“It's quite true, sir,” said Hampton steadily. “There is nothing to deny so far.”
“Then, sir, kindly state just what happened below. On your oath, sir!”
Gravely assenting, Hampton related his entry into the cabin and what had transpired there.
“You saw no one about before you entered?”
“I saw no one leave that cabin. A good many persons were about, but I observed no one man in particular. Most of the company officers were gathered in the main cabin.”
“Then who can throw light on the last person to see Mr. Barnes alive?” demanded the skipper, and repeated the query. None answered, until at last Adam Johnson stood up. He told how he and Barnes had been talking, and how Barnes had agreed to dismiss his vindictive hatred of Hampton; how Nelly had joined them, how he and Nelly had then gone on deck in search of Hampton and had found the latter.
“At the outside,” he concluded, “not more than ten minutes could have elapsed since we left Mr. Barnes, to the time Mr. Hampton found him.”
“Do you confirm this, Miss Nelly?” asked the skipper. Nelly Barnes lifted her tear-wet face, threw Hampton one look, and nodded.
“Yes. And I want to say here that I know Dick Hampton never murdered my father!”
“Then,” said the captain, “can you suggest any one else as the guilty person?”
Pallor swept into the girl's face.
“No,” she said, and abruptly fainted.
“Poor girl! Take her below to my cabin,” said the skipper, and the other women obeyed the order.
When the stir was over, and Nelly gone from the deck, Hampton felt quick relief. Her brave stand-up for him, her belief in him, had effected nothing at all. In the eyes around him he perceived that he was doomed. Day was speaking earnestly to Nickerson and Adam Johnson, and he wondered what this bronzed and vigorous man was arguing.
“Now, friends,” said the captain, “can any of ye throw any light on this affair? Can ye throw any suspicion on another man—if it be my own self? Speak up!”
There was no response. Men whispered together, stared aft, moved uneasily. James Day went on talking with Nickerson, as if urging some course of action. Hampton looked about from face to face, that cold anger settled upon him, wakening all his false pride, stirring a fierce resentment that these men should deem him guilty on such evidence.
Suddenly one or two men amidships, who had earlier in the morning been shooting at marks, whipped up their rifles. Instantly the captain leaped in front of Hampton, and his voice cracked:
“You, there! Down with them guns. Mister, hey, mister! Disarm every mother's son aboard and chuck the guns down below. Leap alive—go with him, bosun!”
There was a growl, a sullen bandying of words, but the mate obeyed and came aft with the rifles. Then men stirred, and voices leaped up tumultuously.
“Because he's a sailor, ye'll do naught to him! Ye'll shield him! Are we to be murdered by your seamen and nothin' done?”
“Belay! Silence!” roared the skipper furiously. “I'll do no such thing. Mr. Hampton, will ye stand trial here and now?”
Hampton started.
“Trial! Yes, I will; but no such trial can be legal. What do ye propose to do if I'm found guilty—hang me?”
The captain turned to him and spoke in a low voice.
“It's touch and go—if they rush me, they'll murder you!” Then, raising his voice, “You four Nantucket men in the sta'board watch, lay aft here! Mister, you and the second mate join 'em. Now, Mr. Nickerson, pick six of your own men to make up a jury. Make a record o' this, Mr. Johnson.”
Nickerson began to pick his men, with some protest as to the legality of the affair, and Day crossed the deck to where Hampton and Job Warlock stood.
“Sorry, lad,” he said quickly. “They're ripe to mob you, and we must hold 'em off. I've put a flea in Nickerson's ear. Accept the judgment of the court, savvy? It's the best I could do for ye. Otherwise it means ye go into irons and back wi' the brig to Beverly to stand trial, and some of the company with ye. Remember, now.”
Day turned away, and Hampton perceived the singular nature of the dilemma which faced all hands. The logical thing, indeed, was to throw him in irons if adjudged guilty and this meant that he would lie a prisoner until the brig returned north; it also meant that some of the gold company must return, to give evidence. The prospect suited him no better than it did them, yet he could not tamely accept any verdict rendered in the forming sea-court. Or could he? Day had been at work. Day urged him to accept what was given—had no doubt suggested something.
“I'd do it, matey,” said Job Warlock soberly. “It's a of a pinch, but that chap has his brains at work for us. Cheer up! The world's a fine place, so hurray!”
The jury now picked, and ranged on the quarterdeck, the captain took charge again.
“Gentlemen, you're here to render a verdict in this matter. You've heard the evidence, you know what's happened. Somebody aboard here has lied about that knife. Now, Mr. Hampton, if you can bring up any evidence in your own favor, the deck is yours.”
Hampton smile darkly.
“Who accuses me?”
“I do,” said old Nickerson, but without heat. “The dead man cried, by your own statement and ours who heard it: 'Help, ye rascal!' Explain that away if ye can.”
“There's nothing to explain.” Hampton regarded the jury steadily. “I've told what took place; my own knife is hanging in my cabin; I brought no baggage aboard, and have never seen this knife until today. I was not below with Jed Barnes long enough to struggle with him, much less inflict several wounds. That's all I have to say.”
“But I've a word, if ye please,” spoke out Job Warlock stoutly, and stepped forward. The captain nodded to him. “I've sailed wi' Dick Hampton afore this, and know him. He's no man to use knife. Why, ye lubbers, he can sail a ship better than all of ye put together! I've seen him lay out stu'nsails when every other ship in sight was under lower topsails”
“That's enough,” snapped the captain. “If ye've no better evidence to offer than friendship, my man, keep quiet. Anything more, Mr. Hampton?”
“Go on with the farce,” said Hampton, and began to fill his pipe.
An angry murmur greeted this, then Nickerson spoke out:
“Cast your vote, jury. No prejudice for or against. Vote on the evidence alone.”
Adam Johnson provided scraps of paper and a pencil, which went from hand to hand. Watching it as he puffed, amid a dead silence, Hampton had no need to ask what was written down; the swift and nervous gestures, the one word scrawled on each bit of paper, told their own story. When the first mate, acting as foreman, had collected the papers, he looked them over and turned.
“Guilty,” he said in a low voice.
There was a stir. The crowd in the waist surged forward. Nickerson checked them with hand uplifted, then spoke to the captain, by whose elbow James Day was now standing.
“This is no legal court, sir. We can take no action on this verdict”
“But ye can, if Mr. Hampton will abide by it,” said the skipper quickly. An ominous growl from the crowd of men emphasized his words. “What say ye, mister?”
There was another silence, and in it Hampton caught a mutter from Job Warlock:
“Bless me, if it ain't all cut and dried!”
Cut and dried indeed! Hampton smiled, and his anger broke out coldly.
“If you expect me to accept hanging from such a court, you're mistaken,” he said. “Anything short of that will serve well enough, until I can make appeal to the law.”
“Good enough, then,” exclaimed the captain hurriedly, and exchanged a word with Day. “Mr. Nickerson, I call upon you to give sentence.”
Cut and dried! Hampton felt curiously detached as he listened, and watched old Nickerson pawing his whiskers nervously. What was it that Day had arranged? Whither was this whole farcical business tending? Then he heard Nickerson's voice, and in shocked silence realized what words were being spoken.
“—that the murderer's weapon be slung about his neck, and he be placed adrift in an open boat to await the judgment of heaven.”
Upon the silence that ensued, burst a torrent of oaths from Job Warlock.
“It's murder, I tell ye!” roared the bo'sun profanely. “Before it's done, I'll knife any man that tries—why, ye villainous rascals! Mutiny or no, I'll”
“Be silent!” cried Hampton, waking to the situation. “This can not be done, men! I refuse to accept such a sentence!”
Day was swiftly at his side with anxious words:
“Quiet, quiet! D'ye not see there's no danger in it? A day or so afloat, and the glass well up, and in the ship lane too”
Hampton brushed him aside impatiently.
“I refuse!” he cried, above the rising storm of voices. “It shall not be done”
True, he was thinking more of Nelly Barnes than of any possible danger, but had small time to reflect on anything. With a rush and a storm of shouts, the crowd in the waist broke over the after deck. Captain and mates were swept aside, and the maddened torrent poured down upon Hampton. The first who leaped at him fell under the fist of Job Warlock, who whipped out his knife and began to drive it home, but to no avail; the mob hemmed in the two men at the rail, and tore at them.
Hampton's fists lashed, and Job drove with knife and boot until some one fetched him a crack over the head and knocked him senseless. Then Hampton, alone, went down under main force of numbers—was dragged to the deck, felt himself smitten, kicked, finally bound hand and foot.
Through all this a voice pierced to him; it was a new and vibrant voice, the echoing brazen notes of a seaman, but one he had not heard previously.
“All hands to stations!” he heard it ring forth. “By the braces, there, stand by! Down stu'nsails—down, I say! Now, then, helm—hard down, hard down! Lean to it—down! Up with your braces—brace up, brace up! That's the way of it—shiver her, now! Hold her so”
The yards backed, the ship came up into the wind. Over the whole deck prevailed fearful confusion, the seamen not knowing whence came that strange voice, yet obeying its commands, the captain and mates hemmed in at the rail and fighting to control the crowd, others rushing forward to where the boats were slung. These carried with them Hampton and the senseless bosun. Once more that strange but authoritative voice pierced above the din.
“Ready? Lower away—away!”
There was a squeaking of turning sheaves—Hampton felt himself flung into a boat, felt something slung about his neck; he could see nothing for the blood that ran into his eyes and blinded him, and realized that his senses were slipping away, for he had endured much. The boat truck the water. From above still came a confused din of voices, shouts, execrations, wild threats and wilder orders from the helpless officers; and through them all one piercing scream in a woman's voice. Then the shrill tones of Eliphalat Nickerson quavered high.
“We'll not pay for the boat!” the old man was crying. “Ye need not charge that to the company, I say—boats come high, and we'll not”
“Cast off, cast off!” rang out that strange new voice, and the falls were cast off.
Hampton, with a quick movement, recovered himself for an instant and shaking his head dashed the blood from his eyes. For one moment he had clear vision, and looked upward. There he saw the face of James Day thrust over the rail, looking down at him—and a wild, cruel laugh was on that face. Then Hampton realized whose voice had been giving those orders.
“Cut and dried!” he muttered. “Aye, cut and dried” and so muttering fell unconscious.