We took advantage of their being on deck to open the windows and
air the after house. But all were securely locked and barred before
they went below again. It was the first time they had all been on
deck together since the night of the 11th. It was a different crowd
of people that sat there, looking over the rail and speaking in
monosyllables: no bridge, no glasses clinking with ice, no elaborate
toilets and carefully dressed hair, no flash of jewels, no light
laughter following one of poor Vail's sallies.
At ten o'clock they went below, but not until I had quietly located
every member of the crew. I had the watch from eight to twelve that
night, and at half after ten Mrs. Johns came on deck again. She did
not speak to me, but dropped into a steamer-chair and yawned,
stretching out her arms. By the light of the companion lantern, I
saw that she had put on one of the loose negligees she affected for
undress, and her arms were bare except for a fall of lace.
At eight bells (midnight) Burns took my place. Charlie Jones was at
the wheel, and McNamara in the crow's-nest. Mrs. Johns was dozing in
her chair. The yacht was making perhaps four knots, and, far behind,
the small white light of the jolly-boat showed where she rode.
I slept heavily, and at eight bells I rolled off my blanket and
prepared to relieve Burns. I was stiff, weary, unrefreshed. The air
was very still and we were hardly moving. I took a pail of water
that stood near the rail, and, leaning far out, poured it over my
head and shoulders. As I turned, dripping, Jones, relieved of the
wheel, touched me on the arm.
"Go back to sleep, boy," he said kindly. "We need you, and we're
goin' to need you more when we get ashore. You've been talkin' in
your sleep till you plumb scared me."
But I was wide awake by that time, and he had had as little sleep as
I had. I refused, and we went forward together, Jones to get coffee,
which stood all night on the galley stove.
It was still dark. The dawn, even in the less than four weeks we
had been out, came perceptibly later. At the port forward corner of
the after house, Jones stumbled over something, and gave a sharp
exclamation. The next moment he was on his knees, lighting a match.
Burns lay there on his face, unconscious, and bleeding profusely
from a cut on the back of his head--but not dead.