Slowly we laid out the yard again, and set sullenly to master Duncan's murderer.
A lull came. We clutched and pounded at the board-like cloths, dug with hooked fingers to make a crease for handhold, and at last turned the sail to the yard, though lubberly and ill-furled.
One by one, as our bit was secured, we straggled down the rigging. Some of the hands were aft on the lee side of the poop, staring into the darkness astern—where Duncan was. Munro, utterly unmanned, was crying hysterically. In his father's country manse, he had known nothing more bitter than the death of a favourite collie. Now he was at sea, and by his side a man muttered, "Dead?—My God, I hope he's dead, ... out there!"
The Old Man crossed over from the weather side, and addressing the men, said: "The Second Mate tells me ye wanted t' get t' th' boat when M'Innes .... went.... I'm pleased that ye've that much guts in ye, but I could risk no boat's crew in a sea like this.... Besides, I'm more-ally certain that M'Innes was dead before he took the water. Eh, Mister?"
"Aye ... dead," said the Mate. "I saw him strike the to'gal'nt rail, and no man could live after a blow like that. Dead, sure!"
Old Jock returned to his post under the weather-cloth, and the Mate ordered the watch below.
So Duncan took his discharge, and a few days later, in clearing weather, his few belongings were sold at the mast. It was known that he wasn't married, but Welsh John, who knew him best, said he had spoken of his mother in Skye; and the Old Man kept a few letters and his watch that he might have something besides his money to send to Duncan's relatives.
As if Duncan had paid our toll for rounding the storm-scarred Cape, the weather cleared and winds set fair to us after that last dread night of storm. Under a press of canvas we put her head to the norrard, and soon left the Horn and the 'Roaring Forties' astern.
One night, in the middle watch, when we had nearly run out the south-east trades, I went forward, looking for someone to talk to, or anything to relieve the tedium of my two hours on the lee side of the poop. I found Welsh John sitting on the main-hatch and disposed to yarn. He had been the most intimate with Duncan, harkening to his queer tales of the fairies in Knoidart when we others would scoff, and naturally the talk came round to our lost shipmate.