For five days the wind held from the westward, and we held a course a little east of north. I saw the chart every day, and sometimes pricked the position of the ship on it. I took an occasional observation, and worked out that position, checking up my observation and the position worked out from it by the captain’s. I really think that I knew more of the mathematics of the matter than he did. In another respect Captain Nelson had an immense advantage. That was in dead reckoning, which was very important where we had clear skies, either by day or by night, only about half the time or less.

The prickings on the chart pointed straight for Amsterdam Island, with St. Paul possibly rising above the horizon to leeward. Then we ran into head winds and a gale, which lasted for two days. That gale lost me completely. I tried dead reckoning, and I was so mortified about it that I did not mention it to anybody. I spent all my spare time, for the first day after we ran out of the bad weather, in trying to reconcile my reckoning with the captain’s.

It was nearly sunset when I gave it up finally, and went on deck, feeling rather low in my mind, for the observation on that day had shown the official reckoning to be only a few miles out. I stood at the rail, under the stern of the waist boat, and gazed out moodily over the water, cursing myself; for I had got into the way of the ship long before, and could curse fluently, although I was no expert at it, as Mr. Baker was.

I must have been muttering my curses aloud, for I heard a voice at my shoulder. It was Peter.

“What’s gone wrong, lad?” he asked, half laughing. “Cussing won’t mend it.”

I turned to him. “I don’t know about that, Peter,” I said. “It relieves my mind. I feel better already.”

He laughed. “Do you so? Well, mebbe. But, Timmie, I ’ll have something for you to-morrow.”

“Got your model done, Peter?” I asked eagerly. I had been but little in the forecastle for months. I did not want to have to speak to Smith, or even to see him.

“Mebbe I have,” he answered, smiling. “Mebbe I have. I could be tinkering at it longer, but I don’t believe ’twould better it. I ’ll give it to you to-morrow.”

“Can’t you give it to me now, Peter? You might as well. You won’t do anything more to it.”

“Well,” said Peter, almost coyly. “Well, I might get it now. But come up for’ard, or into the fo’c’s’le. I ought not to be standing here, gamming.”

I hesitated. I was reluctant to go into the forecastle. “I don’t like to, Peter. I—you see—Smith—”

“Aye,” said Peter soberly, “I know. Smith—well he ’ll get the lance the first thing he knows. He’s worse and worse, as independent as a clerk; fair reckless. The old man gave him another dressing-down a few days ago, a stiff one. Did you know it?”

I nodded. I knew it, although I did not hear it.

“And he bragged of it,” Peter went on; “came back to us, and bragged of it, and laughed at the old man and the officers. Said he’d been threatened, and he’d show the old man yet. Mr. Snow’s afraid of him, to speak plainly, and he’s got the idea that the others are too, at heart. And he’s got the men discontented and grumbling. It’s my idea that he thinks they ’ll be ready soon for anything he proposes. I don’t know why the old man don’t do something about it. He must know.”

I checked the reply which was on my lips, for Smith was approaching at that moment. He always contrived to pass when Peter and I were talking. He was suspicious, very likely, but did not show it. He gave us a smile and a pleasant word.

“Come on, then,” said Peter, turning to go forward, “and I ’ll get it.”

I followed, and waited by the foremast while Peter dived below. He emerged in a minute, holding the model in his hand.

“I hope you ’ll like it, lad,” he said, “and it may give you some pleasure to look at it now and again, and remind you of the years you spent in the old ship.”

“Oh, Peter!” I said. “Oh, Peter! Like it!” It was a fairy thing, with its ivory sails so thin that you could almost see through them, and the tiny boats complete down to the smallest thing in them, every oar, lance, harpoon, and keg in its proper place. There were even ivory knives on the cleats. And the model of the ship itself had every rope and block, and every ring-bolt in the deck; and the deck showed each plank, even to the worn places in the actual deck.

I had not seen the model for some time, and had not expected that it would be so faithful; but I should have known Peter better.

He was smiling with gratification. “It’s not likely that it ’ll give you the pleasure it has me,” he said. “I’ve been slow at it, but I’ve been doing a thing or two along with it, and what’s a little time? Take it along, Timmie. I ’ll make you a case for it, so’s you can pack it in your chest.”

“Thank you, Peter,” I began. “I ’ll keep it always.” So I have kept it. The ivory is now much yellowed by time, but it is the same delicate, fairy-like thing, and as perfect as ever. I should have said more, and was smiling and hesitating, not knowing what to say, when the watch was sent aloft to shorten sail.

“What’s that for, Peter?” I asked in surprise. We were not cruising, and normally we should not have shortened sail.

“I don’t know, lad. It’s breezing up a bit, and it’s like enough the old man’s afraid he ’ll overrun whatever he’s aiming for. He did n’t say anything to me about it. You might ask him what he means by it.”

I laughed. Captain Nelson was on deck, standing just forward of the after house, where he had a clear view of all that went on aloft. In view of what happened, I think he had a definite purpose in being there.

When the men were sent aloft to handle sail it was the established custom for the boatsteerers to take the yardarms. The other men would lay out along the yard in accordance with their speed and activity, the fattest and the laziest getting the bunt of the sail; but however good a man might be, it was his duty to give way to the boatsteerers. The yardarms were the places of honor, as the duties there called for the greatest skill and quickness. Joe Miller was good, but he was neither as skilful nor as quick as Smith. Smith knew it, as we all did. He may have craved the chance to show off before the men, or it may have been only a part of his scheme to exalt Smith and to bring into disrepute all in authority; but he reached the crosstrees two jumps ahead of Miller, and was on the footropes before him.

Miller stopped for a moment and ordered Smith to come in and let him pass. Smith paid no attention to the order. Miller repeated it, but Smith was already at the lee yardarm, and he looked back at Miller and snarled silently—like a cat—fixing him with those opaque china-blue eyes of his. A fight on a yard with Smith was not to Miller’s liking, and he looked down on deck, where Mr. Snow stood. Mr. Snow bravely bellowed out the order once more, but Smith paid no attention, affecting not to hear. Mr. Snow had turned away immediately, and after a moment’s hesitation, Miller went to work next to Smith. The other men on the yard had hard work to suppress their snickers.

Captain Nelson had observed it, as he observed almost every­thing. He told Mr. Snow to send Smith aft.

The Clearchus was an old ship, and had single topsails—not divided into upper and lower topsails, as they were on all of the later vessels. It made an enormous sail, clumsy and hard to handle. When they had the foretopsail reefed and the men had come down, Smith came aft. Captain Nelson was waiting for him.

“My man,” he said very sternly and quietly, “you have disobeyed orders again. I warn you for the third time—and the last time. The next time I shall act, and suddenly. You ’ll do well not to let the next time happen. Not a word from you!” he added, for Smith was about to speak. “Go forward!”

Smith turned—smiling, I guessed, when his back was turned to the captain—and went forward. My heart was in my throat for a few minutes. Anything might have happened. I had dim forebodings as I turned in that night, picturing to myself a repetition of what happened on the Junior, and I lay awake for some time. I do not know that I was frightened; rather, I think, it was the elation with which I anticipated a fight, and it was excitement which kept me awake. I had my mind made up to stay awake all night, but it takes a good deal to keep a healthy boy awake all night when he is in the open air all day, with the wind from thousands of miles of ocean blowing upon him, and when I awoke with a start it was daylight.

Everything was serene when I got on deck. The wind was high from the southwest, with an occasional screeching gust; but the sky was clear, the sun showed bright, and the Clearchus slogged along, pitching and rolling. I had my model with me, for I was as anxious to show it and have it admired as a child with a new toy. Indeed, that was exactly what I was.

In these various exhibitions two hours passed. At the end of that time I found myself with Starbuck and the Prince standing by the starboard rail, just forward of the gangway. They saw Peter, called to him, and he joined us. Starbuck had the model in his hand, turning it from side to side, and gazing at it soberly.

“ ’Twould have more beauty,” Peter observed, “if ’twas a model of the Annie Battles. I should like to carve one of the Battles.”

“It has beauty enough,” said Starbuck thoughtfully. “How long is it since we’ve seen the Battles?”

“Nigh on to a year,” Peter replied, counting up the months. “We’d almost forgotten her. Most of the crew’s clean forgotten.”

“I have n’t,” said Starbuck. “I’ve always wondered what happened on the Battles—what happened to Fred Coffin. I’m sure enough that something did.”

Peter agreed with him, and the Prince grunted. I, for a wonder, said nothing. At that instant the cry came down from the masthead, “Land, ho!” It took a sailor to understand that cry; to others it would have been as unintelligible as a brakeman’s cry of the name of a station.

Landfall must have been expected, for Captain Nelson was on deck with his glass. He did not even ask the usual question, “Where away?” but went at once up the main rigging and searched the horizon on the lee bow. Presently he came down and spoke to the officer of the watch.

“Well as she goes.”

“Well as she goes,” the officer repeated; and repeated the order to the man at the wheel, who was within easy hearing of the captain.

“Well as she goes,” said the man at the wheel, and kept her on her course.

“What is it, Peter?” I asked. “Amsterdam?”

Peter nodded. “Yes, lad.” We had passed St. Paul early in the night before. It would have been well out of sight, anyway.

Amsterdam soon rose within sight from the deck, and I went down and got my glass and left my precious model. I found a secluded spot where I should not be likely to be seen, and watched the island as we drew nearer. I saw steep slopes, densely wooded, rising from the sea to a great height, but nothing else was to be distinguished, even when we were pretty near. At last we had the island abeam, not over three miles away. I had the glass at my eyes, and was slowly sweeping over the surface, up and down, and to and fro. Nothing appeared but the green of the tops of trees or bushes, I could not tell which, but they looked like trees. As I moved the glass systematically, so that I could see the whole of the island and lose nothing, suddenly I came again to the sea; but there had seemed to be something like a little spot of color, and it fluttered. It had shown on the silhouette of the island, against the sky, and I could not be sure of the color. I had passed it by, and lost it, before it had impressed itself on my attention; but I hunted for it again, and I found it at last.

The ship had advanced enough to show the green of tree-tops beyond the fluttering thing by the time I had found it again. I looked a long time before I could make out what it was, but I finally made it out. About halfway up the long slope a tree had been stripped of its upper branches, so that it made a tolerable pole. To this pole had been fastened a sailor’s common red woolen undershirt; that was what it was—what it had been. It had been there for a long time, for it showed but a faint trace of its color, and it had whipped to a rag in the winds. The instant I knew it for what it was, my heart jumped up into my throat, and I jumped up and raced aft.

Captain Nelson listened to the brief tale which I poured out hurriedly, the words tumbling over each other in my eagerness.

He nodded. “All right, Tim,” he said. “We’re going in there, and we ’ll see what it means.”

Amsterdam Island is an ancient volcano. On the northeast, or leeward side of the island, the old crater walls have crumbled somewhat, making a harbor of a sort, and it was there we were bound. Soon after I spoke to the captain the yards were braced around, and we changed our course to the eastward. Then the men were sent aloft to take in sail. It happened once more that it was Smith’s watch, and the captain watched him narrowly. He sprang up the fore rigging—again ahead of Miller—and took his station at the foretopsail yardarm—the lee yardarm.

Mr. Snow was not on deck. I found afterward that he had been suspended from duty.

Captain Nelson was in the second of his cold rages,—the last I ever saw. He said nothing to Smith, however, but he turned to me.

“Tim,” he said distinctly, “go below and get my Spencer and a clip of cartridges, and bring them to me. Hurry.”

I remember very clearly how mixed my feelings were as I dived into the cabin and got down the captain’s Spencer. I did not dream that Smith would not obey orders when the captain had his rifle in his hands—if he knew the captain. It did not occur to me that perhaps he did not know the captain.

I put the loaded rifle in Captain Nelson’s hands, and stood to one side.

“Foretopsail yard, there!” he hailed. “You Smith!”

Smith looked up.

“Lay in off that yard!”

Smith insolently put his hand behind his ear, as if he had not heard. His hearing was particularly good, and the captain knew it.

“Lay in off that yard!” the captain roared. There could be no excuse for not understanding that.

I do not know whether Smith was simply crazy, or whether he thought no captain would dare to shoot a man. I did not really believe it would come to that, but when I saw Smith deliberately put his thumb to his nose, and wiggle his fingers at the captain, I knew that it was the end of him. And the captain raised his rifle, and shot Smith through the head. What else could he do? It was a flagrant case of mutiny. All pretense of discipline, all authority would have been at an end if he had not. To many it may seem like murder. I never knew the rights of the matter, but nothing was ever done about it.

The crew had stopped work for the moment, to see how the contest was coming out. When the shot rang out—Spencers did not ring out; it was more like a blow of a sledge—and through the smoke I saw Smith throw up his hands, I gasped. As the body fell like lead into the sea, a gasp went up from the men; then I heard a sort of murmuring from them. They were thrown into consternation. Some went to work again with shaking hands, others stopped work entirely. Those on deck stirred and moved about uncertainly. I was reminded of the ripples which cross and recross when a stone is thrown into a corner of a dock.

Captain Nelson called to them sharply. “To your duty, men! In with that topsail!” He tapped his rifle as he spoke.

“Are n’t you going to lower a boat for him?” The question came from the group of men about the foremast.

“No. He’s a dead man, and a mutineer. I lower no boat for him.”

The men on the yard were at their work again, and the murmurings quickly died out. In five minutes more they were all as busy as though nothing had happened. Captain Nelson surprised everybody by ordering a boat lowered. Mr. Baker gave the captain a curious look, but said nothing, and proceeded to lower.

“Poor devil!” said the captain, whose burst of anger had exhausted itself. “I had to do it. Follow us in to anchorage, Mr. Baker, and if you find the body we ’ll attend to it.”

On my wall above the model, as I sit here now, hangs Smith’s knife: the one to which Peter owed his life. I got possession of it—honestly—later, and I kept it for—well, because I wanted to keep it. There are associations connected with that knife. The idea of getting possession of it seized me as Mr. Baker lowered and dropped astern to search for Smith’s body.

We left him quartering the water carefully in the search, and drifted down to our anchorage less than a half-mile from a little beach. Three scarecrows stood upon that beach, and watched us come to anchor. They were clad in rags, and had ragged, bushy beards. I was looking at them through my glass, but I did not know them, and did not expect to. They stood quite still on the beach waiting for our boat, which had been dropped as soon as we rounded to, and before the anchor was let go.

Captain Nelson stood by the after house, looking after the boat, and waiting for it to come back. It came at last, and the three men came easily over the side. The first was a big man, as big as my father, with a smile like his. He advanced toward the captain, with his hand out, and the captain went to meet him.

“Glad to see you, Cap’n,” he said in a big, gentle voice.

“How are you, Fred?” said Captain Nelson, with a hearty grip of his hand. “Kind o’ thought I might find you somewhere about.”

It was Captain Coffin of the Annie Battles.