"It is not worth troubling over," said my father. "And you, my lady, you are quite all right? I fear I handled you roughly. I was afraid for a moment we might be inconvenienced."
"And now," I said sarcastically, speaking into the darkness before me, "I suppose our troubles are over."
"I think so," replied my father. "Now that Brutus has thrown Mr. Sims overboard. It might be different if he were still with us. He seemed to be a determined and resourceful man. We are in the after cabin, Henry, quite the pleasantest one on the ship, and not ten paces from the wheel."
Still out of breath, still confused, I tried to look, but could see nothing. I could only smell the pungent odor of tarred rope and stale tobacco smoke. Having finished speaking, I could hear my father still moving about deliberately and moderately, seemingly well pleased at the place where we had been driven.
"Yes," he said again, "not ten paces from the wheel, and now we will finish it."
"Will you never be serious, sir?" I cried. "Do you suppose they are going to let you take charge of the ship?"
"I think so," replied my father. "But first, I must take a swallow from my flask. There is nothing like a drink to rest one. Open the port by the door, Brutus."
And I felt him groping his way past me.
"Brutus," he said, "pass the flask to my son, and give me a pistol, and steady, me with your arm—so. Ah, that is better—much better…."
He fired, and the sound of his pistol in the closed room made my ears ring, and then the ship lurched, so that I had nearly lost my balance. We were rolling heavily, in the trough of the sea, and outside the canvas was snapping like a dozen small arms, and then I knew what had happened. My father had shot the man at the helm—shot him where he stood, so that the wheel had broken from his grasp, so that the ship was out of control, and the wind was blowing it on shore. Had he thought of the plan while he was watching Mr. Sims in the light of the lantern? I half suspected that he had not, but I never knew.