So the work went briskly on, and in the quiet of the evening, in the presence of all the crew, the body of the dead sailor lad, sewn up in a sail-cloth, was committed to the deep sea, the bass voice of the Captain ringing out solemnly in the impressive silence. And when the last eddy had died away the Captain shivered and drew his hand across his brow.
Maybe the summons for him also had already sounded, and he paced the deck long into the night.
Chapter Thirteen.
The Sea Fight.
The Swift had been almost deserted, as the larger decks of the Irene offered an irresistible attraction, and when the work was abandoned at dusk the crew took possession of the forecastle, while Miss Anstrade, with Hume and Webster, lingered on the poop, after surrendering the main-deck amidships to the Captain, who preferred his own company. Mr Commins, alone for choice, remained on the catcher, and for a long time the glow of his cigar could be seen under the small awning, while Juarez, over whom he had offered to keep strict watch, lay near, under the shadow of a lamp, smoking cigarettes. The Brazilian Captain had never been permitted to appear on deck when Miss Anstrade was there, and his close confinement below had not improved his naturally brutal nature, but he had tamed his temper down to the point of almost abject humility in imploring the Captain to let him on deck. Now the guttural tones of his voice could be heard as he made occasionally a few remarks to Mr Commins, the only man who cared to hold converse with him.
The night was beautiful, the dark vault of the sky gloriously gemmed down to the dark belt of the horizon, while out of the intense black of the sea there gleamed, near at hand, swordlike flashes of phosphorescent fire from predatory fish, and between the sea and the sky there was no living thing to break the brooding silence. The men, glad of the opportunity to stretch their legs, were soon asleep, and, except for an occasional murmur of voices from the three on the poop and the rough burr of Juarez at intervals, there was no sound on board. The swell of the sea rising and sinking between the catcher and the Irene made a soft ripple, followed by a deep sigh, having a power in its melancholy music to draw Miss Anstrade to the port side, where she had leant with her elbows on the rail, until at the dim sight of Juarez she started back with a shudder of revulsion and sought the remoter side.
There the three of them leant, the efforts of the two men to talk to the girl between them gradually lessening to complete silence. She had changed greatly since the excitement of the wild rush to Madeira, had grown listless, the womanhood in her revolting against the strain and burden she had rashly imposed on herself, and at each sign of helplessness the two young men had felt more tender towards her, trying, each in his own way, to show their sympathy. They had talked often together about the object of the voyage, and, sanguine though they were with the ardour of youth, they could see nothing but disaster before them, while the desperate nature of the enterprise had also come home to her. Presently, with a moan, she thrust her hands forward:
“There is nothing but failure before me, and perhaps death.”