The Chief Mate's Yarns: Twelve Tales of the Sea

by T. Jenkins Hains

Brownson saw the movement of the hand, saw that it was vindictive, furious, and full of menace. He could not hear the words.

He smiled at the officer, raised his hand, and waved it in reply. It seemed to make the mate crazy. He gesticulated wildly, swore like a maniac—but Brownson did not hear him. He only knew what he was doing.

He turned away, gave one more look over the sinking ship.

"She's going now—and so am I," he muttered.

Then he went slowly into his chart room, opened a drawer, and took out a revolver that he always kept there. He stood at the open door and cocked the weapon. He looked into its muzzle, and saw the bullet that would end his life when he pulled the trigger.

He almost shuddered. It was so unreal. He could not quite do it. He gazed again at the second mate. He knew the officer was watching him, knew Smith would not believe he had the nerve to end the thing then and there. It amused him slightly in a grim sort of way. Why, he must die. That was certain. He could never face his own family and friends after what he had done. As to getting another ship—that was too absurd to think of.

The form of a woman showed in the boat. She had risen from the bottom, where the blow of the officer had felled her in her frenzy. Brownson saw her, recognized her as his niece, the sister of the man he had wished to put in Smith's place. It was for his own nephew he had insulted his officer, had caused him to relax and lose the interest that made navigation safe, in the hope that Smith would leave and let his relative get the berth.

He wondered if Smith knew. He stood there with the revolver in his hand watching for some sign from his second officer. Smith gazed at him in fury, apparently not noticing the girl whom he had just before knocked into the boat's bottom to keep order. She stood up. Smith roughly pushed her down again. Brownson was sure now—he felt that Smith knew all.

But he put the revolver in his pocket. He would not fire yet.

The ship was listing heavily, and the cries of the passengers were dying out. All who had been able to get away had gone, somehow, and only a few desperate men and women, who could not swim and who were cool enough to realize that swimming would but prolong an agony that was better over quickly, huddled aft at the taffrail. They would take the last second left them, the last instant of life, and suffer a thousand deaths every second to get it. It was absurd. Brownson pitied them.