Complete Works

was already in the life-boat, and you would have hauled off perhaps, leaving me behind. . . True enough, says the coxswain.  A minute or so passes.  This won’t do, mutters the coxswain.  Suddenly Stafford speaks up in a sort of hollow voice: I was by when he told Mr. Cloete here that he didn’t know how he would ever have the courage to leave the old ship; didn’t he, now? . . . And Cloete feels his arm being gripped quietly in the dark. . . Didn’t he now?  We were standing together just before you went over, Mr. Cloete? . . .
    “Just then the coxswain cries out: I’m going on board to see. . . Cloete tears his arm away: I am going with you. . .
    “When they get aboard, the coxswain tells Cloete to go aft along one side of the ship and he would go along the other so as not to miss the captain. . . And feel about with your hands, too, says he; he might have fallen and be lying insensible somewhere on the deck. . . When Cloete gets at last to the cabin companion on the poop the coxswain is already there, peering down and sniffing.  I detect a smell of smoke down there, says he.  And he yells: Are you there, sir? . . . This is not a case for shouting, says Cloete, feeling his heart go stony, as it were. . . Down they go.  Pitch dark; the inclination so sharp that the coxswain, groping his way into the captain’s room, slips and goes tumbling down.  Cloete hears him cry out as though he had hurt himself, and asks what’s the matter.  And the coxswain answers quietly that he had fallen on the captain, lying there insensible.  Cloete without a word begins to grope all over the shelves for a box of matches, finds one, and strikes a light.  He sees the coxswain in his cork jacket kneeling over Captain Harry. . . Blood, says the coxswain, looking up, and the match goes out. . .
    “Wait a bit, says Cloete; I’ll make paper spills. . . He had felt the back of books on the shelves.  And so he stands lighting one spill from another while the coxswain turns poor Captain Harry over.  Dead, he says.  Shot through the heart.  Here’s the revolver. . . He hands it up to Cloete, who looks at it before putting it in his pocket, and sees a plate on the butt with H. Dunbar on it. . . His own, he mutters. . . Whose else revolver did you expect to find? snaps the coxswain.  And look, he took off his long oilskin in the cabin before he went in.  But what’s this lot of burnt paper?  What could he want to burn the ship’s papers for? . . .
    Cloete sees all, the little drawers drawn out, and asks the coxswain to look well into them. . . There’s nothing, says the man.  Cleaned out.  Seems to have pulled out all he could lay his hands on and set fire to the lot.  Mad — that’s what it is — went mad.  And now he’s dead.  You’ll have to break it to his wife. . .
    “I feel as if I were going mad myself, says Cloete, suddenly, and the coxswain begs him for God’s sake to pull himself together, and drags him away from the cabin.  They had to leave the body, and as it was they were just in time before a furious squall came on.  Cloete is dragged into the life-boat and the coxswain tumbles in.  Haul away on the grapnel, he shouts; the captain has shot himself. . .
    “Cloete was like a dead man — didn’t care for anything.  He let that Stafford pinch his arm twice without making a sign.  Most of Westport was on the old pier to see the men out of the life-boat, and at first there was a sort of confused cheery uproar when she came alongside; but after the coxswain has shouted something the voices die out, and everybody is very quiet.  As soon as Cloete has set foot on something firm he becomes himself again.  The coxswain shakes hands with him: Poor woman, poor woman, I’d rather you had the job than I. . .
    “Where’s the mate?” asks Cloete.  He’s the last man who spoke to the master. . . Somebody ran along — the crew were being taken to the Mission Hall, where there was a fire and shake-downs ready for them — somebody ran along the pier and caught up with Stafford. . . Here!  The owner’s agent wants you. . . Cloete tucks the fellow’s arm under his own and walks away with him to the left, where the fishing-harbour is. . . I suppose I haven’t misunderstood you.  You wish me to look after you a bit, says he.  The other hangs on him rather limp, but gives a nasty little laugh: You had better, he mumbles; but mind, no tricks; no tricks, Mr. Cloete; we are on land