Captain Swope was seated upon an upturned keg.  He had placed the lantern so its light fell full upon Newman (it illumined himself, for my eyes, as well) and he was talking to the prisoner, mocking him.

And Newman!  It was the sight of him that made me choke, that made me finger my knife hilt.  Newman—­my friend!

He was at the far end of that open space, trussed up to the starboard limbers.  Trussed up—­and in what way!  You will remember, when they placed him under arrest, the captain ordered his hands ironed behind his back.  The reason was now apparent.  His hands were still behind his back; aye, when they trussed him up, they drew up his hands until they were on a level with his head, and secured him in that position.  His feet were also ironed, and the chain lashed to a limber.  So he stood, or rather hung—­for he could not stand properly with his arms wrenched back in that position—­and the whole weight of his body dragged upon his wrists and shoulder blades.  So he had stood during the hours that had passed since afternoon.  Torture, agony—­that is what it meant to be trussed up in that position.

I thought I recognized Fitzgibbon’s handiwork in this torture; though I dare say it was originally Swope’s invention.  But we had seen Fitzgibbon use this same method of inflicting pain and terror, we men forward.  One day, for an imagined insolence, he had trussed up Nigger to the mainmast in this very fashion, and left him there for a short half-hour.  After five minutes Nigger was wild with pain.  When he was cut down, his arms seemed paralyzed, and it was a full day ere the ache passed from them.

And Newman had been enduring this pain for hours.  But now, I thought, he must be mercifully unconscious, for his head hung upon his breast, and he made no sign that he heard the captain’s gibes.

It was sport to Swope’s liking, and he was enjoying himself right royally.  Aye, I could tell.  The words that slid between his full lips were laden with the sensuous delight their utterance gave the speaker.  I lay in my retreat waiting for the hail that would draw the beast on deck, and while I waited I listened to him, and observed his manner.  Oh, Swope was having a fine time, a happy time.  If the lady had not taken the revolver from me, I fear I should have shot the man despite my promise.  As it was my sheath knife lay bared in my hand, and I had to fight myself to keep from leaping the barrier and confronting him.  Aye, to face him, and make him eat the steel out of my hand!

Yes, Swope was in a happy mood.  A rollicking, loquacious mood.  He talked.  Unconsciously he made me witness to his confession of black treacheries, and deeds more loathsome than I could have imagined myself.

When I reached my position behind the barrels, and was able to distinguish his words—­he was boasting of and baring his secrets in a voice not meant to carry beyond Newman’s ears—­he was taunting Newman.