Unless a person actually witness a murder, he cannot imagine the shock and dreadfulness of seeing one man shot down, writhe, gasp, grow pale and cease struggling. To picture ten men murdered simply stuns the mind. An effort to realize hundreds, thousands, millions of men mangled, wounded, bayoneted, crushed, blown to atoms by shells and mine—all this becomes vague, formless, a dim, dreadful picture that is as unreal as a dream, or history.
"What caused it?" asked Madden in a strained tone.
"I don't know," whispered the mate huskily. "They say it all started because an anarchist killed an Austrian prince, but I don't believe it—that sounds too onreasonable for me."
"What has an Austrian prince to do with the rest of the nations?"
"I told you I don't believe it!" repeated the mate.
Madden felt impotent at the conclusion of the narrative. As long as he had conceived himself to be attacking a force of pirates and thieves, he was ready to board this great vessel, hunt for an engineer, or attempt any desperate scheme. But now when he learned that men were being murdered, goods stolen, ships scuttled, in accordance with a kind of wild law, called rules of war, he no longer knew what to do. The world was mad. Its people were murdering each other.
He finally said aloud to Caradoc: "I suppose we may as well hunt up the commanding officer, surrender ourselves and sail for Africa with the others."
"No," interrupted Smith, "don't do that." Then he called softly inside, "Malone!"
"Well, w'ot is it?" inquired the mate gruffly, for he persevered in his dislike of Smith.
"Look sharp, Malone! I am an officer in the English navy—it is my right and duty to assume command of all English seamen in case of war!"