A blasphemous oath left the mulatto’s thick lips. He made a move to spring at the Creole, but Cardigan placed himself between them.
“—He steal ze cabanne boy’s pay. I saw heem take eet from under ze mattress. An’ zat w’y he not want to be search’, m’sieur—because he know you fin’ too much money on heem.”
Cardigan turned upon the huge, brown-skinned figure.
“Is that the truth, Hickey? Aren’t you willing to be searched?”
The mulatto glared at ’Poleon Moncrief, spitting out a stream of vile oaths. “It’s a lie, sir; a damned, stinkin’ lie — made up by that—!”
With a quick, stealthy movement the Creole leaped around Cardigan and flung himself at the mulatto’s throat. Together they went to the deck, rolling upon the moist timbers.
As Cardigan stooped to separate them the mulatto freed himself by a sudden wrench and gained his feet, dashing along the deck toward the forward companion.
The first mate started in pursuit, but halted as his eyes fell upon a belaying pin that lay upon the deck not many feet away. Hastily arming himself with this formidable missile, he sent it spinning through the air after the fleeing figure. It caught the negro in the back of the skull; knocked him flat upon the deck planks.
Cardigan, followed by several of the crew, reached his side.
“He’s out for some time,” reported the first mate, bending over him. “Two of you lads carry him below and lock him up— But wait!”
He ran one hand into the rear pocket of the mulatto’s trousers, producing a black leather wallet. Opening it he withdrew a wad of bills, which he swiftly counted and returned to the wallet.
He smiled grimly. “All right, men; below with him.”
III.
In the very midst of a dream The Boy was shot into consciousness. For a moment he could not remember where he was. He seemed to be caught in the teeth of a monster that shook him horribly, mercilessly. Half-remembered objects separated themselves from the chaos and he heard a distant voice pronouncing his name. Yet for some inexplicable reason he was unable to reply.
Gradually he extracted himself from the teeth of the monster; gradually objects settled into their regular places. Above him was a familiar face. As he recognized it sleep dropped from him as though severed by a blade.
“Get up,” he heard Cardigan say, while he shook him vigorously.
The Boy lurched to-his feet. As he brushed one hand across his lips he inhaled his breath, an odor that sickened him. Invisible hands seemed to jerk aside a drowsy fabric, revealing in their biting sharpness the incidents before his drunken sleep.
His soul shrank, dwindled with fear. Black Michael’s body had been found and the mate had come to accuse him— But how did he find out? The only incriminating evidence, the knife, had been thrown into the sea...
“I thought you promised me never to do this again,” reproved Cardigan. “But we’ll discuss that later. Come with me.”
The Boy was dreadfully afraid. The blood pounded in his temples, beat so loudly that it seemed to boom out his guilt. God! How could he meet Cardigan’s honest gaze—knowing in his heart that he had wielded the knife that finished Black Michael?
In some manner—he knew not how - he forced himself to follow the mate along the passage amidships and when they reached the cabin his fear increased to a panic as he perceived that Cardigan was making directly for Black Michael’s quarters.
He stood with a rapidly pounding heart behind the mate while he inserted a key in the lock and turned it.
Within, the slush-lamp, turned low, threw quivering shadows upon the walls. The air was warm and unpleasantly heavy with the smell of stale rum.
And there in the bunk it lay, covered with a sheet—The Thing.
Cardigan closed the door and turned the lamp higher. Mercy of God, thought The Boy, was he going to draw aside that sheet and...
“Boy,” commenced the man, halting beside the bunk. “I brought you here to show you this.” And he turned back the sheet.
Something worse than horror reached up and clutched at The Boy’s throat. He half closed his eyes; dared not shut them entirely, for The Thing fascinated him.
“The captain has been murdered,” Cardigan continued. “A few minutes ago I happened on the fore-poop. I dropped a wallet and it fell overside — but fortunately caught in the projecting space under the bowsprit. And when I picked it up I found this with it—”
He withdrew an object from the pocket of his pea-jacket. A cry leaped to The Boy’s lips—died.
There before him, sharp and ugly in the flickering glow of the slush-lamp, was the knife with which he killed Black Michael!
“Now come here,” commanded the mate.
He obeyed, the cabin reeling dizzily about him. What use was there of trying to hide the truth now? Cardigan knew and—
“Look,” was the sharp injunction.
And he looked... at The Thing on the bunk. As he saw the exposed chest a shriek of sheer terror was wrung from his throat.
“No, no!” he cried. “I didn’t stab him twice—I didn’t! Only once, in the dark... and then I ran—” He shuddered. “O, God, what have I said?”
With a broken sob he sank to his knees, burying his face in his hands. An instant later fingers closed over his shoulders and lifted him to his feet — fingers that were not rough but firm and determined.
“You said what I wanted to hear,” announced Cardigan. “Look at me, boy... There... Now, I’m going to question you and I want the truth, the truth — before the God that you just called on... When did you stab Black Michael?”
“A little after two bells, sir—”
“Why? Because he had mistreated you?... How did you do it?”
“I...” And there followed a stumbling, detached account of his movements from the time he left the deck until he surrendered to sleep in his bunk in the fo’castle.
“It’s fortunate for you that I found the knife,” remarked Cardigan when he had finished, “for it has your initials upon the hilt. I saw you come on deck twice while I was at the wheel; one time you went near the bowsprit but not until after I found the knife did I attach any importance to it.” He paused, resuming after a moment. “It’s quite evident that two people stabbed the captain—you and an unknown person. But who stabbed him first? Who is the real murderer? These are skeins that must be untangled. All I require of you is a close mouth and an open eye—”
“Then—then you’re not going to lock me in the brig?”
“You are free; only remember my instructions—and regard them.”
The Boy stared at him. He was dazed, stunned. Instead of a blow he had received kindness. Kindness. New and loftier emotions stirred within him; he tried to speak, to utter words that; would convey his gratitude to the mate; he could only stand and stare mutely. Nor was that dumb look, mirroring his deepest and most profound emotions, unobserved by Cardigan; it came to him as an illuminating signal-flash from The Boy’s soul.
“Now run along,” he said, not unkindly, opening the door.
In silence The Boy passed out.
As he moved through the cabin, which was faintly lit by a hanging lamp, his brain groped in a labyrinth. Some one else had sought to end Black Michael. Who was the owner of this other hand that had driven a blade into the skipper’s breast? And which of the two had accomplished his purpose, he or the unknown person?
In his agony he prayed that it was the other, for though a short while ago The White Lotus had seemed a lamp that lighted the way to this ghastly action, he now saw, with the cold clearness of returned sanity, that with blood upon his soul he was severed from even spiritual companionship with this pallid leper-child who had impressed herself so deeply upon his memory.