But force!
The second reason was the stronger.
Singleton, the mate, had become a tractable and almost amiable
prisoner. Like Turner, he was ugly only when he was drinking, and
there was not even enough liquor on the Ella to revive poor Burns.
He spent his days devising, with bits of wire, a ring puzzle that he
intended should make his fortune. And I believe he contrived,
finally, a clever enough bit of foolery. He was anxious to talk,
and complained bitterly of loneliness, using every excuse to hold
Tom, the cook, when he carried him his meals. He had asked for a
Bible, too, and read it now and then.
The morning of Bums's injury, I visited Singleton.
The new outrage, coming at a time when they were slowly recovering
confidence, had turned the men surly. The loss of the axe, the
handle of which I had told them would, under skillful eyes, reveal
the murderer as accurately as a photograph, was a serious blow.
Again arose the specter of the innocent suffering for the guilty.
They went doggedly about their work, and wherever they gathered
there was muttered talk of the white figure. There was grumbling,
too, over their lack of weapons for defense.
The cook was a ringleader of the malcontents. Certain utensils
were allowed him; but he was compelled at night to lock them in the
galley, after either Burns's inspection or mine, and to turn over
the key to one of us.
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