Having to leave the enemy was, I believe, a far greater trial and exertion of moral courage in our captain, than having to follow and attack them once more would have been.
Some officers I have known would have gone after them, and perhaps have risked the loss of the richly-laden merchantmen under their charge. Our crew, to a man, felt this, and not a complaint or a growl was heard at our allowing the enemy to escape.
Darkness soon hid them from our sight. The battle was over, but our work was not. All night long we were busy in repairing damages, and daylight still found us engaged in the same occupation. The magazine was once more closed, the blood-stained decks were washed down, and in the course of the day the ship resumed much of her wonted appearance, though it was no easy work to get rid of the traces of the severe conflict in which we had lately been engaged.
At length the hands were piped below, the watch on deck was set, and the others allowed to turn in and get some of that rest we so much needed. Then it was that the recollection of my painful position returned to me. I was a prisoner released for a time, with a severe punishment hanging over me. Suppose even the captain were to remit my punishment, in consequence of the way in which I knew that I had behaved in the fight, I should still be loaded with disgrace. I should be looked upon as a convicted thief. Such were the feelings with which I went to my hammock. I was just about to turn in, when I heard my name called.
“The doctor has sent for you, Weatherhelm,” said the messenger, who was one of the hospital attendants. “There is a man dying, and he wants to see you.”
I slipped on my clothes and hurried down to the orlop deck. I found the purser, with the chaplain, standing near the hammock of a seaman. The surgeon came up at the same time. “I am glad to see you, Weatherhelm,” he said in his usual kind way. “That poor wretch exonerates you from the charge he made against you, and begged to set you that he might ask your forgiveness.”
I drew near the hammock, and in the features of the dying man I recognised those of Saull Ley.
“Weatherhelm, I’m a great villain, I know I am,” he cried out as soon as he saw me. “There’s a greater, though, and he put me up to it. I would have let you be punished to save my own worthless carcase, and, oh! now I’m suffering greater pain than ever the cat could give me. I stole all the things—I’ve been telling Mr Nips. Then we persuaded those two silly lads that it was you, and when they saw me go and put them into your bag, they had no doubt about it, and so Iffley made them believe that they had seen you coming out of the store-room. That’s all about it. I’ve been speaking the truth and nothing but the truth. But you’ll forgive me, won’t you, Weatherhelm, and let me die easy?”
“I forgive you with all my heart, and I believe that I should have forgiven you even had I suffered the punishment awarded me,” I answered. “I would ask you but one thing. Why do you fancy that Iffley is desirous to get me falsely accused?”
“Because he hates you, he told me so,” he said. “He has a long score to wipe off against you, and he vowed if you escaped him this time, he would find means, before long, to be revenged on you.”