"And a hanging matter," someone else put in.
"We've got to remember, boys, that this ain't like a crime on land.
We've got the fellow that did it. He's on the boat all right."
There was a stirring among the men, and some of them looked aft to
where, guarded by the Swede Oleson, Singleton was sitting, his head
in his hands.
"And, what's more," Charlie Jones went on, "I'm for putting Leslie
here in charge--for now, anyhow. That's agreeable to you, is it,
Burns?"
"But I don't know anything about a ship," I objected. "I'm willing
enough, but I'm not competent."
I believe the thing had been discussed before I went up, for
McNamara spoke up from the wheel.
"We'll manage that somehow or other, Leslie," he said. "We want
somebody to take charge, somebody with a head, that's all. And
since you ain't, in a manner of speaking, been one of us, nobody's
feelings can't be hurt. Ain't that it, boys?"
"That, and a matter of brains," said Burns.
"But Singleton?" I glanced aft.
"Singleton is going in irons," was the reply I got.
The light was stronger now, and I could see their faces. It was
clear that the crew, or a majority of the crew, believed him guilty,
and that, as far as Singleton was concerned, my authority did not
exist.
"All right," I said. "I'll do the best I can. First of all, I want
every man to give up his weapons. Burns!"
"Aye, aye."
"Go over each man. Leave them their pocket-knives; take everything
else."
The men lined up. The situation was tense, horrible, so that the
miscellaneous articles from their pockets--knives, keys, plugs of
chewing tobacco, and here and there, among the foreign ones, small
combs for beard and mustache unexpectedly brought to light, caused
a smile of pure reaction. Two revolvers from Oleson and McNamara
and one nicked razor from Adams completed the list of weapons we
found. The crew submitted willingly. They seemed relieved to have
some one to direct them, and the alacrity with which they obeyed my
orders showed how they were suffering under the strain of inaction.
I went over to Singleton and put my hand on his shoulder.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Singleton," I said, "but I'll have to ask you for
your revolver."
Without looking at me, he drew it from his hip pocket and held it
out. I took it: It was loaded.
"It's out of order," he said briefly. "If it had been working
right, I wouldn't be here."
I reached down and touched his wrist. His pulse was slow and rather
faint, his hands cold.
"Is there anything I can do for you?"
"Yes," he snarled. "You can get me a belaying-pin and let me at
those fools over there. Turner did this, and you know it as well
as I do!"