It took Morgan a moment to register that the ringleader appeared to have changed his mind or at least his tactics. The mutineers no longer wanted to try to take the ship; they wanted to escape. But the danger was far from over. The tip of the man’s knife traveled across Whipple’s throat. Morgan hesitated. Icelander and Ochoa were looking to him for the word to attack.
“Do it, Captain, or this man dies. So might many of the others tied up below in the fo’c’sle. We’ll corpse ’em all if we can.”
Morgan watched the point of the knife prick Whipple’s throat and heard the ship carpenter cry out in pain as the blade’s point broke the skin and slid down to the base of his neck. He saw the thin trickle of blood on his neck. He could sense the ringleader’s desperation and his impatience. Morgan paused another moment as he weighed the options, finally deciding on the more cautionary alternative. He gave the orders for Icelander to go lower the boat.
The big bushy-haired sailor threw his head back with a triumphant shake, and growled in satisfaction.
“Good choice, Captain. Now bring up the two of my men ye ’ave and fetch the body of Armstrong. No tricks, mind ye. Comes a time when every tar ’as to fall off the wind in bad weather. Appears like yer makin’ the right decision.”
Morgan kept his eyes fixed on the man. The roughness of his manner attested to his vicious nature. For the first time, under the lantern’s glow, he noticed the elaborately blue and red tattooed serpents that spiraled down his arms, the fangs extending down each finger, the green eyes on either side of his large hand. The throaty, hoarse quality of his voice seemed familiar to him somehow, almost like from a dream. He didn’t know why, but it was unnerving. In the lantern’s dim light, Morgan could see a white weal that ran across the man’s forehead, but it was the eyes that were unforgettable. One of them had an odd slant to one side, and both of them were almost hidden behind fleshy eyelids. His pistols were ready to fire, but he did as the man said, sending Lowery down into the cabin to retrieve the captured men, who stumbled up from below decks carrying the dead sailor with them.
“Get over ’ere, Compton. Ye too, Wainwright,” the ringleader barked at the two men who had been apprehended earlier. “Get Armstrong’s body into the quarter boat.”
The five mutineers now gathered around the quarterdeck, clustered around the wide-eyed Whipple, whose neck was still bleeding. The ringleader had brought along two of the captured sailors from the foredeck as hostages. He turned to the bald-headed man who held the knife to Whipple’s throat.
“If he makes one move, Enochs, stick him like a pig.”
Morgan watched as the shadowy figures of the mutineers disappeared one by one over the side, climbing down the ship’s rope ladder to the quarter boat below. The winds had now died down to a flat calm so that the ship was hardly moving. Their captives, their hands still tied behind their backs, were dragged along, and thrown down next to the corpse into the bottom of the quarter boat, which was hanging from the davits just a foot above the water line. Morgan was powerless to do anything. Any move by him would have caused Whipple’s death and maybe the other two as well.
“Release my men!” Morgan shouted in sudden desperation as he raised his guns to eye level. “Rest assured, I’ll fire unless you free those men.”
The bushy-headed sailor looked up at Morgan with a pernicious smile, his heavy-lidded eyes opening wider.
“Aye, aye, Captain. Let Neptune ’ave ’em and the Devil too.”
He cut the hand ties from behind Whipple and the two other captured sailors, and then pushed them overboard as he sliced the quarter boat’s painter. All this happened within seconds, so fast Morgan wasn’t sure of what to do next. He watched as the shadow of the quarter boat moved away into the darkness. He could have fired, but he saw what he thought were the bobbing heads of his men, their hands and arms thrashing in the water. The mutineers were already disappearing when Morgan finally reacted. He shouted out for Icelander to drop the jolly boat at the stern to try to pick up the men who had been thrown overboard. With the lack of wind and the flat seas, the men were easy to find from the noise they made thrashing about in the frigid water.
As Morgan turned and walked toward the quarterdeck, he saw that most of the cabin passengers were now clustered around the companionway. The first mate, Mr. Nyles, held a lantern. The passengers’ wide-eyed faces were filled with uncertainty and fear. He himself was trembling as he tried to reassure them that everything was fine. He spotted the normally cheery Lord Nanvers, who looked like he had seen a ghost. He was dressed in silk pajamas, a plaid flannel robe, and embroidered slippers. Morgan’s eyes met the gaze of the girl with the amber eyes, and he noticed that she seemed slightly shaken, but not as unnerved as he might have expected. In fact, Miss Robinson, wrapped in a pink satin coat, seemed strangely energized by all the drama and excitement. Her cheeks were flushed and she seemed to be looking at him with renewed interest.