Even those that were well were sure
that it was only a mater of days when the sickness would catch them and
carry them off. And yet, believing this with absolute conviction, they
somehow lacked the nerve to rush the frail wraith of a man with the white
skin and escape from the charnel house by the whale-boats. They chose
the lingering death they were sure awaited them, rather than the
immediate death they were very sure would pounce upon them if they went
up against the master. That he never slept, they knew. That he could
not be conjured to death, they were equally sure--they had tried it. And
even the sickness that was sweeping them off could not kill him.
With the whipping in the compound, discipline had improved. They cringed
under the iron hand of the white man. They gave their scowls or
malignant looks with averted faces or when his back was turned. They
saved their mutterings for the barracks at night, where he could not
hear. And there were no more runaways and no more night-prowlers on the
veranda.
Dawn of the third day after the whipping brought the _Jessie's_ white
sails in sight. Eight miles away, it was not till two in the afternoon
that the light air-fans enabled her to drop anchor a quarter of a mile
off the shore.
Pages:
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34