‘How long do you give him to live?’ said I.
‘Why, a sea-dog of his cut,’ said he, ‘often holds on with such a grip as disappoints the most humane calculations. It isn’t so much dying as drying out. Nature kind of embalms him, as a Yankee would say. It’s salt and sun that does it. This chap might live to be sent ashore in the English Channel. Just the sort of a man he is to walk slowly, in shiny cloth and a face of tallow, out of a hospital, and sign articles a month afterwards for a warm voyage.’
Now, as well as I can remember, it was two days after this talk with Mr. Bates that I was in my berth mending my dress with a needle and thread from a sailor’s housewife that had been found in the forecastle. I don’t recollect that we had taken the south-east trade-wind; the yards were square, a fresh, merry, sparkling breeze blew over the quarter, and the brig floated fast before it, sitting very upright, with a slow, small, majestical curtseying motion in the length of her as she was underswept by the Atlantic swell that ran with the breeze.
Suddenly, someone knocked in an agitated manner upon my door; I cried: ‘Who’s there?’
The voice of Mr. Bates, not less indicative of excitement than his knuckles, cried: ‘I want paper and ink as quickly as possible, Miss Johnstone.’
Here in my berth, which had been the captain’s, was kept the brig’s small stock of writing materials. Somehow I guessed what the mate wanted paper and pen for. I whipped on my dress and opened the door. He took what he needed, just saying, ‘Nodder’s offered to confess!’ and hastened away. My heart at this news leapt up and half choked me with a sudden transport. It was drawing on to four o’clock in the afternoon; Tom was in his cabin resting. I put on my hat and went on to the deck and found Collins at the wheel. Will, who was in Tom’s watch, according to the disposition of our little company, was lying down.
Collins exclaimed: ‘If you’re seeking Mr. Bates, he’s in the forecastle.’ I paced up and down in what is called the gangway between the deck-house front and caboose, and still, as I turned my back on the fore part of the brig, I’d for ever be looking behind me toward the fore hatch, through which Mr. Bates must emerge. Saving that time that I waited for the decision of the jury in the Old Bailey, I had never suffered such agony of suspense. Was Nodder dictating to Mr. Bates at this instant? If so, what was he saying? Convicting himself and Rotch of as shocking a perjury as any in the criminal records, or declaring that the evidence he and the other had given was true? Would the sullen, drunken, dying animal dictate at all when Bates sat beside him ready to write? These were distracting thoughts, and I walked the deck like one distraught. I did not want to see Mr. Bates too soon; I dreaded his emergence, for that would signify the villain had fallen stubborn and mute, and yet my impatience was an anguish; again and again I’d stop in the cabin-doorway to look at the clock. Collins, who could see the time through the window, exclaimed: ‘It’s after four. Will Mr. Johnstone relieve me?’
‘Wait for Mr. Bates,’ said I; and I started off afresh on my gangway march.
At last, on a sudden, I saw Mr. Bates’s face in the hatch; he gravely motioned me to approach; when I had drawn near he said: ‘It’s all right; I have it down. It’s a complete acquittal. What a piece of villainy! Pray run aft now, put Captain Butler to the wheel, and bring Johnstone and Collins into the forecastle to hear what’s been written, to witness Nodder’s signature, and to sign their own names.’
I sped to the cabin and ran breathless into Tom’s berth. I put my hand upon his shoulder and shook him violently. He opened his eyes and instantly started up, collecting his wits with the nimble dexterity of one used to instant and urgent calls.