Cargo of Coffins by L. Ron Hubbard

Highness was right.”
    “About what?” demanded Lars.
    “About you. I think it only right to tell you that he has discovered some things about you which are not very flattering to your character, and if he had known them he never would have recommended you as captain after poor Simpson’s death. If you are trying to undermine my faith in His Highness, save yourself the breath. I came to give you orders.”
    The way she said that cut Lars deeply, gave him clearly to understand the fact that he was presuming when he considered himself higher than a butler aboard the Valiant.
    “As you can navigate and as you are the only man with a master’s license here, and as Johnson long ago refused command because he neither wants it nor has a ticket, you shall remain in your present status. However, any false step will bring your downfall with great quickness.”
    Stiffly, shivering with rage, his face white, Lars said, “You came with orders.”
    “Yes. You are to proceed to Cayenne .”
    “Where?”
    “Cayenne, French Guiana.”
    “But, Miss Norton—”
    “Are you going to obey my orders?”
    Lars saw the futility of trying to interfere and the question blazed like lightning through his brain. What devilish scheme had Paco thought up? Why did Paco, ex-convict, want to place himself in the jaws of the Penal Colony once more?
    “Are you going to obey?” said Miss Norton commandingly.
    Lars turned on his heel, jaw set, eyes stubborn.
    He entered the chart room.
    “Mr. Johnson. We are changing our course for Cayenne. What is our position?”
    “Latitude thirteen, sir. You saw it yourself an hour ago.”
    “Yes,” said Lars in a voice as dead as the calm. “I saw it myself.”
    He picked up the dividers and stood looking at the widely spread chart and then, with a vicious snap of his hand, he speared the dot which was Cayenne. The dividers stuck there, quivering.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    Coffins for the Valiant
    A T Cayenne, Lars Marlin refused to cross the entrance to the harbor, dropping hook in the deep-water anchorage , six miles from the quays. The shallow entrance would only take fourteen feet but the Valiant, with the tide, could have managed that.
    Swinging at her chain, bathed in the steaming sunlight of morning then, the Valiant awaited the return of the shore party which had left with the coming of the sun in a swift speedboat.
    Lars nervously paced his cabin. He could not bring himself to spend too long a time upon the bridge. Every scraggly tree in the water seemed to possess eyes and every wave which slapped the Valiant ’s white hull cried out that the shore knew he was there.
    He stopped from time to time at the wide port of his big cabin to stare out through the harbor mouth, over the blue surface of the quiet bay and at the white and red town. Sight of Mt. Cépéron filled him with nausea. On it perched Ft. St. Michel. They could see the Valiant from up there.
    He could place the governor’s house even at this distance and could see the black rectangle which was the Place d’Armes.
    Every landmark of the port shouted death to Lars Marlin. Even his great strength was small beside the inexorable might of the French. His body cringed as it remembered the raw weight of irons and the oozing slime of the swamps. Past his eyes slouched a line of men in chains. One of them fell, to be dragged along by the rest—until the guards found that he was dead and cut him loose to throw the body into the sluggish, cayman -infested river.
    A boat, still far off, was coming toward the Valiant, flying the tricolor . It was an official boat. Lars gripped the sill, watching.
    A sound made him whirl. It was Ralph, and Lars had a difficult time trying to mask his terror.
    “I guess they aren’t ever coming back,” complained Ralph, scratching his shock of upstanding hair. “They’ve been gone for hours!”
    “You didn’t go with them?” said Lars, knowing it was a foolish question even before he said it.
    “No. They said I