We brought the captain up first, laying him on a sheet on the deck and folding the edges over him.  It was terrible work.  Even I, fresh from a medical college, grew nauseated over it.  He was heavy.  It was slow work, getting him up.  Vail we brought up in the sheets from his bunk.  Of the three, he was the most mutilated.  The maid Karen showed only one injury, a smashing blow on the head, probably from the head of the axe.  For axe it had been, beyond a doubt.  I put Williams to work below to clear away every evidence of what had happened.  He went down, ashy-faced, only to rush up again, refusing to stay alone.  I sent Clarke with him, and instructed Charlie Jones to keep them there until the cabin was in order.

At three bells the cook brought coffee, and some of the men took it.  I tried to swallow, but it choked me.

Burns had served as second mate on a sailing vessel, and thought he could take us back, at least into more traveled waters.  We decided to head back to New York.  I got the code book from the captain’s cabin, and we agreed to run up the flag, union down, if any other vessel came in sight.  I got the code word for “Mutiny—­need assistance,” and I asked the mate if he would signal if a vessel came near enough.  But he turned sullen and refused to answer.

I find it hard to recap calmly the events of that morning:  the three still and shrouded figures, prone on deck; the crew, bareheaded, standing around, eyeing each other stealthily, with panic ready to leap free and grip each of them by the throat; the grim determination, the reason for which I did not yet know, to put the first mate in irons; and, over all, the clear sunrise of an August morning on the ocean, rails and decks gleaming, an odor of coffee in the air, the joyous lift and splash of the bowsprit as the Ella, headed back on her course, seemed to make for home like a nag for the stable.

Surely none of these men, some weeping, all grieving, could be the fiend who had committed the crimes.  One by one, I looked in their faces—­at Burns, youngest member of the crew, a blue-eyed, sandy-haired Scot; at Clarke and Adams and Charlie Jones, old in the service of the Turner line; at McNamara, a shrewd little Irishman; at Oleson the Swede.  And, in spite of myself, I could not help comparing them with the heavy-shouldered, sodden-faced man below in his cabin, the owner of the ship.

One explanation came to me, and I leaped at it—­the possibility of a stowaway hidden in the hold, some maniacal fugitive who had found in the little cargo boat’s empty hull ample room to hide.  The men, too, seized at the idea.  One and all volunteered for what might prove to be a dangerous service.

I chose Charlie Jones and Clarke as being most familiar with the ship, and we went down into the hold.  Clarke carried a lantern.  Charlie Jones held Singleton’s broken revolver.  I carried a belaying pin.  But, although we searched every foot of space, we found nothing.  The formaldehyde with which Turner had fumigated the ship clung here tenaciously, and, mixed with the odors of bilge water and the indescribable heavy smells left by tropical cargoes, made me dizzy and ill.