And, at her words, the storm of self-contempt and bitterness that I had been holding in abeyance for the last half hour swept over me like a flood.  I could have wept for fury.

“Why should you trust me?” I demanded.  “I slept through the time when I was needed.  And when I wakened and found myself locked in the storeroom, I waited to take the lock off instead of breaking down the door!  I ought to jump overboard.”

“We are relying on you,” she said again, simply; and I heard her fasten the door behind me as I went out.

Dawn was coming as I joined the crew, huddled around the wheel.  There were nine men, counting Singleton.  But Singleton hardly counted.  He was in a state of profound mental and physical collapse.  The Ella was without an accredited officer, and, for lack of orders to the contrary, the helmsman—­McNamara now—­was holding her to her course.  Burns had taken Schwartz’s place as second mate, but the situation was clearly beyond him.  Turner’s condition was known and frankly discussed.  It was clear that, for a time at least, we would have to get along without him.

Charlie Jones, always an influence among the men, voiced the situation as we all stood together in the chill morning air: 

“What we want to do, boys,” he said, “is to make for the nearest port.  This here is a police matter.”

“And a hanging matter,” someone else put in.

“We’ve got to remember, boys, that this ain’t like a crime on land.  We’ve got the fellow that did it.  He’s on the boat all right.”

There was a stirring among the men, and some of them looked aft to where, guarded by the Swede Oleson, Singleton was sitting, his head in his hands.

“And, what’s more,” Charlie Jones went on, “I’m for putting Leslie here in charge—­for now, anyhow.  That’s agreeable to you, is it, Burns?”

“But I don’t know anything about a ship,” I objected.  “I’m willing enough, but I’m not competent.”

I believe the thing had been discussed before I went up, for McNamara spoke up from the wheel.

“We’ll manage that somehow or other, Leslie,” he said.  “We want somebody to take charge, somebody with a head, that’s all.  And since you ain’t, in a manner of speaking, been one of us, nobody’s feelings can’t be hurt.  Ain’t that it, boys?”

“That, and a matter of brains,” said Burns.

“But Singleton?” I glanced aft.

“Singleton is going in irons,” was the reply I got.

The light was stronger now, and I could see their faces.  It was clear that the crew, or a majority of the crew, believed him guilty, and that, as far as Singleton was concerned, my authority did not exist.

“All right,” I said.  “I’ll do the best I can.  First of all, I want every man to give up his weapons.  Burns!”

“Aye, aye.”

“Go over each man.  Leave them their pocket-knives; take everything else.”