Ransome, stepping out of the pantry, had been listening for some time, as it was very excusable in him to do.
"A dirty trick," said Mr.Burns."I always said he would."The magnitude of my indignation was un-
bounded.And the kind, sympathetic doctor, too.
The only sympathetic man I ever knew...
instead of writing that warning letter, the very re-finement of sympathy, why didn't the man make a proper inspection? But, as a matter of fact, it was hardly fair to blame the doctor.The fittings were in order and the medicine chest is an officially ar-ranged affair.There was nothing really to arouse the slightest suspicion.The person I could never forgive was myself.Nothing should ever be taken for granted.The seed of everlasting remorse was sown in my breast.
"I feel it's all my fault," I exclaimed, "mine and nobody else's.That's how I feel.I shall never forgive myself.""That's very foolish, sir," said Mr.Burns fiercely.
And after this effort he fell back exhausted on his bed.He closed his eyes, he panted; this affair, this abominable surprise had shaken him up, too.
As I turned away I perceived Ransome looking at me blankly.He appreciated what it meant, but managed to produce his pleasant, wistful smile.
Then he stepped back into his pantry, and I rushed up on deck again to see whether there was any wind, any breath under the sky, any stir of the air, any sign of hope.The deadly stillness met me again.Nothing was changed except that there was a different man at the wheel.He looked ill.
His whole figure drooped, and he seemed rather to cling to the spokes than hold them with a controll-ing grip.I said to him:
"You are not fit to be here."
"I can manage, sir," he said feebly.
As a matter of fact, there was nothing for him to do.
The ship had no steerage way.She lay with her head to the westward, the everlasting Koh-ring visible over the stern, with a few small islets, black spots in the great blaze, swimming before my troubled eyes.And but for those bits of land there was no speck on the sky, no speck on the water, no shape of vapour, no wisp of smoke, no sail, no boat, no stir of humanity, no sign of life, nothing!
The first question was, what to do? What could one do? The first thing to do obviously was to tell the men.I did it that very day.I wasn't going to let the knowledge simply get about.I would face them.They were assembled on the quarter-deck for the purpose.Just before I stepped out to speak to them I discovered that life could hold terrible moments.No confessed criminal had ever been so oppressed by his sense of guilt.This is why, perhaps, my face was set hard and my voice curt and unemotional while I made my declaration that I could do nothing more for the sick in the way of drugs.As to such care as could be given them they knew they had had it.
I would have held them justified in tearing me limb from limb.The silence which followed upon my words was almost harder to bear than the angriest uproar.I was crushed by the infinite depth of its reproach.But, as a matter of fact, Iwas mistaken.In a voice which I had great diffi-culty in keeping firm, I went on: "I suppose, men, you have understood what I said, and you know what it means."A voice or two were heard: "Yes, sir....We understand."They had kept silent simply because they thought that they were not called to say anything;and when I told them that I intended to run into Singapore and that the best chance for the ship and the men was in the efforts all of us, sick and well, must make to get her along out of this, I re-ceived the encouragement of a low assenting mur-mur and of a louder voice exclaiming: "Surely there is a way out of this blamed hole."***
Here is an extract from the notes I wrote at the time.
"We have lost Koh-ring at last.For many days now I don't think I have been two hours below al-together.I remain on deck, of course, night and day, and the nights and the days wheel over us in succession, whether long or short, who can say?
All sense of time is lost in the monotony of ex-pectation, of hope, and of desire--which is only one: Get the ship to the southward! Get the ship to the southward! The effect is curiously me-chanical; the sun climbs and descends, the night swings over our heads as if somebody below the horizon were turning a crank.It is the prettiest, the most aimless!...and all through that miserable performance I go on, tramping, tramp-ing the deck.How many miles have I walked on the poop of that ship! A stubborn pilgrimage of sheer restlessness, diversified by short excursions below to look upon Mr.Burns.I don't know whether it is an illusion, but he seems to become more substantial from day to day.He doesn't say much, for, indeed, the situation doesn't lend itself to idle remarks.I notice this even with the men as I watch them moving or sitting about the decks.
They don't talk to each other.It strikes me that if there exists an invisible ear catching the whispers of the earth, it will find this ship the most silent spot on it....
"No, Mr.Burns has not much to say to me.He sits in his bunk with his beard gone, his moustaches flaming, and with an air of silent determination on his chalky physiognomy.Ransome tells me he devours all the food that is given him to the last scrap, but that, apparently, he sleeps very little.
Even at night, when I go below to fill my pipe, Inotice that, though dozing flat on his back, he still looks very determined.From the side glance he gives me when awake it seems as though he were annoyed at being interrupted in some arduous mental operation; and as I emerge on deck the ordered arrangement of the stars meets my eye, un-clouded, infinitely wearisome.There they are:
stars, sun, sea, light, darkness, space, great waters;the formidable Work of the Seven Days, into which mankind seems to have blundered unbidden.Or else decoyed.Even as I have been decoyed into this awful, this death-haunted command...."***
