I read the entry, and found it to consist of a brief statement of the facts connected with the loss of his own ship; of his crew and himself having been taken off the sinking wrecks by us; of his brief sojourn on board the Esmeralda; of the barque having been boarded by a boat from the City of Calcutta, and of all the circumstances that followed. At the foot of this, and under Captain Baker’s signature, I added the following note:—
“I hereby certify that the above statement is true in every particular.
“John Saint Leger, Master of the British barque Esmeralda.”
This done, accompanied by Captain Baker, I entered the cabin where the madman was confined; and there saw a sight which I shall probably not forget to my dying day. It was one of the saloon cabins—the door of the poor fellow’s own state-room having been beaten in by the crew in their endeavour to rescue the mates from his clutches—and was a very fine, roomy, airy, well-lighted apartment, containing two berths and a sofa, a folding wash-stand, large mirror, a handsome silver-plated lamp with a ground-glass globe, and a brass pole over the top of the door carrying brass rings, from which depended a crimson curtain. The lower berth was made up, and upon it, lying face downwards, was the form of a stalwart, well-built man, with irons on his legs. I thought for a moment that the poor fellow was asleep; yet, as we stood gazing upon him in silence, I was suddenly impressed by the perfect immobility of the figure, and the oppressive silence that pervaded the cabin. Let a man be sleeping ever so peacefully, you will notice some slight movement due to the inspiration and expiration of his breath; and there will also be the sound of his breathing, as a rule; with perhaps an occasional sigh, or faint, inarticulate murmur—something to tell you unmistakably that the figure you are gazing upon is that of a living man. But here there was nothing of that sort—a circumstance which seemed to force itself upon the attention of Baker and myself at the same moment, for we suddenly turned and gazed inquiringly into each other’s faces, and then, reading there the reflection of our own dreadful suspicions, without a word we simultaneously stepped forward and turned the figure upon its back. The ghastly truth at once became apparent in all its unspeakable horror; the miserable madman had crowned his folly and wickedness by cutting his own throat! It was a sight to turn one sick and faint—at least, it had that effect upon me; and doubtless Baker felt as I did, for when I turned to look at him he was white as chalk to the very lips. For a moment we stood gazing at each other, speechless; then, closely followed by me, Baker staggered out of the berth into the saloon, and thence on deck, shouting for the steward, who happened to be forward at the galley. The fellow hurried aft at once, evidently prepared, by the tone of Baker’s voice, to find that something was wrong.
“Steward,” inquired Baker, “how long has Captain Clarke been left to himself?”
“About a quarter of an hour, sir,” was the answer. “Dennis has been looking after him, sir; but, finding the captain quite quiet, he went forward to get his supper with the rest, asking me to keep an eye on him meanwhile. And I did, sir, for the minute or two before this gentleman,”—indicating me—“came aboard; then, when you both went into the saloon, I took the opportunity to step for’ard to arrange with the doctor,” (the cook) “about the supper for the saloon. I hope nothing has gone wrong, sir.”
“Captain Clarke has cut his throat, and is stone dead,” said Baker. “Call Dennis aft at once.”
The steward hurried away; and in less than a minute the man Dennis made his appearance, followed as far aft as the mainmast by all hands. He was at once rigorously examined by Baker as to the condition and behaviour of his charge; and his replies went to show that when he went on watch at eight bells he found the patient perfectly quiet, but evidently—so at least he judged—quite unaware of his situation and surroundings. The captain, he said, was then seated on the sofa in the cabin, with his hands clasped before him, his elbows resting on his knees, his body inclined forward, and his eyes fixed upon the carpet at his feet; in that attitude he had remained continuously, and in that attitude he had been when he (Dennis) left him. This was all that was to be got out of the man, except protestations that when he left the captain alone he believed he might do so with perfect safety, and expressions of the deepest regret at the dreadful thing that had happened.
A few of the men—Captain Baker’s two mates, the boatswain, carpenter, and sailmaker of the ship, and one of the able seamen—were then conducted into the cabin to view the body and have explained to them its position when we entered, and so on; and then another entry in the official log, detailing the tragedy, became necessary; which entry I also attested.
By this time it was getting dark, and one of the men came to the saloon door to report that a small air of wind was coming down from the eastward; as therefore my business on board the City of Calcutta was concluded, I prepared to leave the ship. Nothing now remained to be done but to hand Baker some letters from the Esmeralda to post on his arrival home—a matter I had almost forgotten in the excitement induced by the dreadful discovery in which I had participated—and to bid good-bye to my late guests; which done, I hurried down over the side and stepped into my gig, glad to be out of a craft on board which such horrible tragedies had so recently been enacted.