sideways out the other side of the captain’s skull and he drops like a steer in a slaughterhouse.
“And let that be a lesson to you,” Willingham says quietly. The two seamen stand by in horror at the death of the captain. “Lads, ye can go and tell the others we’ll be having a pint to refresh ourselves before pulling for shore. We’ll all gather in the mess in five minutes. Go on, now. There’s nothing now to stop us.” The men exchange a look and then flee down the ladder to spread the word. Willingham goes up to tell the second mate, who is manning the wheel, to tie it off and join the crew in a toast to their new fortune. This the mate dutifully does and follows Willingham below. Someone has already broken out the crockery and is distributing mugs when Willingham comes down the ladder. “Easy does it, lads―no hurry. That’s right, each one take a pint of this fine ale, but no one is to drink afore I’ve made a proper toast to the Old Man and to Bill McAfee, God rest their souls this day."
When each man has a pint in his hand, Willingham commands them to remove their caps and, as the storm rages on outside, pitching the schooner to and fro like a cork on the broad ocean, he makes a short prayer.
“Lord, I reckon ye know that we have only done today what we had to do, and ye’ll take none of us to task for it. The Old Man and McAfee are in your hands now and ye can judge them according to your own wishes. But as for the rest of us, please grant us your mercy and Godspeed to reach land as soon as may be. Amen.”
“Amen,” say the men in unison, and they all drain their cups. Within seconds, they begin staggering where they stand.
“Why, whatever is the matter, lads?” Willingham asks in mock alarm. “Ye all look as though ye can’t keep yer balance.” And they begin falling all around him, like ninepins in a bowling alley, dropped dead not from the outside, but from the inside. The poisonous mixture works quickly, and within a minute the mess hall is littered with corpses.
Willingham lifts his own cup, which was filled to the brim and set aside before he poisoned the cask of ale, and then drinks deep, celebrating the day that sees his freedom from the hard life he has spent as a seagoing man.
Wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve, he calmly climbs over the bodies to the gun locker aft of the mess hall, breaks the lock on it, and picks out five muzzle loader rifles. These he carefully primes with black gunpowder and stuffs with shot before descending below decks to finish the job he has started. “It really is true that dead men tell no tales, and I’ll have no tongues wagging in a courthouse dock to send me to the hangman’s noose, be they white or black.”
Five shots ring out and a terrified clamor arises among the 40 slaves that are shackled to their berths below the lowest crew decks. Willingham yells out for quiet. And he then goes to reload the weapons, calmly and efficiently. Without any hurry, he descends the ladder again, taking aim across the deck and, switching rifles methodically, shoots five more times.
The black men are struggling frantically to break the chains that hold them in place, but the job has been done too well, and, though some of them curse the white man in their native tongues and some pray to the gods that they worship, none are able to stop Willingham’s dreadful and ritualistic execution.
He returns up and down the ladder seven more times, loading and reloading, before he finally finishes the job, saving the last five shots for any that are still twitching and moaning. The bluebottle flies, already thick on the human dung that is everywhere in the hold, now find new and fresher sustenance, and begin to swarm busily among the heaped and scattered bodies, preferring to light on the fresh, bloody wounds or on the still-wide eyes of the men, so white in their black faces.
Willingham now considers his final move: the one that will bring him to shore while
“And let that be a lesson to you,” Willingham says quietly. The two seamen stand by in horror at the death of the captain. “Lads, ye can go and tell the others we’ll be having a pint to refresh ourselves before pulling for shore. We’ll all gather in the mess in five minutes. Go on, now. There’s nothing now to stop us.” The men exchange a look and then flee down the ladder to spread the word. Willingham goes up to tell the second mate, who is manning the wheel, to tie it off and join the crew in a toast to their new fortune. This the mate dutifully does and follows Willingham below. Someone has already broken out the crockery and is distributing mugs when Willingham comes down the ladder. “Easy does it, lads―no hurry. That’s right, each one take a pint of this fine ale, but no one is to drink afore I’ve made a proper toast to the Old Man and to Bill McAfee, God rest their souls this day."
When each man has a pint in his hand, Willingham commands them to remove their caps and, as the storm rages on outside, pitching the schooner to and fro like a cork on the broad ocean, he makes a short prayer.
“Lord, I reckon ye know that we have only done today what we had to do, and ye’ll take none of us to task for it. The Old Man and McAfee are in your hands now and ye can judge them according to your own wishes. But as for the rest of us, please grant us your mercy and Godspeed to reach land as soon as may be. Amen.”
“Amen,” say the men in unison, and they all drain their cups. Within seconds, they begin staggering where they stand.
“Why, whatever is the matter, lads?” Willingham asks in mock alarm. “Ye all look as though ye can’t keep yer balance.” And they begin falling all around him, like ninepins in a bowling alley, dropped dead not from the outside, but from the inside. The poisonous mixture works quickly, and within a minute the mess hall is littered with corpses.
Willingham lifts his own cup, which was filled to the brim and set aside before he poisoned the cask of ale, and then drinks deep, celebrating the day that sees his freedom from the hard life he has spent as a seagoing man.
Wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve, he calmly climbs over the bodies to the gun locker aft of the mess hall, breaks the lock on it, and picks out five muzzle loader rifles. These he carefully primes with black gunpowder and stuffs with shot before descending below decks to finish the job he has started. “It really is true that dead men tell no tales, and I’ll have no tongues wagging in a courthouse dock to send me to the hangman’s noose, be they white or black.”
Five shots ring out and a terrified clamor arises among the 40 slaves that are shackled to their berths below the lowest crew decks. Willingham yells out for quiet. And he then goes to reload the weapons, calmly and efficiently. Without any hurry, he descends the ladder again, taking aim across the deck and, switching rifles methodically, shoots five more times.
The black men are struggling frantically to break the chains that hold them in place, but the job has been done too well, and, though some of them curse the white man in their native tongues and some pray to the gods that they worship, none are able to stop Willingham’s dreadful and ritualistic execution.
He returns up and down the ladder seven more times, loading and reloading, before he finally finishes the job, saving the last five shots for any that are still twitching and moaning. The bluebottle flies, already thick on the human dung that is everywhere in the hold, now find new and fresher sustenance, and begin to swarm busily among the heaped and scattered bodies, preferring to light on the fresh, bloody wounds or on the still-wide eyes of the men, so white in their black faces.
Willingham now considers his final move: the one that will bring him to shore while
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