The After House - Page 52/108

Personally, I was convinced that Turner was guilty. Perhaps,

lulled into a false security by the incarceration of the two men,

we unconsciously relaxed our vigilance. But by the first night the

crew were somewhat calmer. Here and there a pipe was lighted, and

a plug of tobacco went the rounds. The forecastle supper, served

on deck, was eaten; and Charlie Jones, securing a permission that I

thought it best to grant, went forward and painted a large black

cross on the side of the jolly-boat, and below it the date, August

13, 1911. The crew watched in respectful silence.

The weather was in our favor, the wind on our quarter, a blue sky

heaped with white cloud masses, with the sunset fringed with the

deepest rose. The Ella made no great way, but sailed easily. Burns

and I alternated at the forward companionway, and, although the men

were divided into watches, the entire crew was on duty virtually

all the time.

I find, on consulting the book in which I recorded, beginning with

that day, the incidents of the return voyage, that two things

happened that evening. One was my interview with Singleton; the

other was my curious and depressing clash with Elsa Lee, on the deck

that night.

Turner being quiet and Burns on watch at the beginning of the second

dog watch, six o'clock, I went forward to the room where Singleton

was imprisoned. Burns gave me the key, and advised me to take a

weapon. I did not, however, nor was it needed.

The first mate was sitting on the edge of his bunk, in his attitude

of the morning, his head in his hands. As I entered, he looked up

and nodded. His color was still bad; he looked ill and nervous, as

might have been expected after his condition the night before.

"For God's sake, Leslie," he said, "tell them to open the window.

I'm choking!"

He was right: the room was stifling. I opened the door behind me,

and stood in the doorway, against a rush for freedom. But he did

not move. He sank back into his dejected attitude.

"Will you eat some soup, if I send it?"

He shook his head.

"Is there anything you care for?"

"Better let me starve; I'm gone, anyhow."

"Singleton," I said, "I wish you would tell me about last night.

If you did it, we've got you. If you didn't, you'd better let me

take your own account of what happened, while it's fresh in your

mind. Or, better still, write it yourself."

He held out his right hand. I saw that it was shaking violently.

"Couldn't hold a pen," he said tersely. "Wouldn't be believed,

anyhow."

The air being somewhat better, I closed and locked the door again,

and, coming in, took out my notebook and pencil. He watched me

craftily. "You can write it," he said, "if you'll give it to me to

keep. I'm not going to put the rope around my own neck. If it's

all right, my lawyers will use it. If it isn't--" He shrugged his

shoulders.