“If the wind shifts round heavily after we close in with the land she will either run ashore or get dismasted or both.  We won’t be able to do anything with her.  She’s running away with us now.  All we can do is to steer her.  She’s a ship without a crew.”

“Yes.  All laid low,” repeated Ransome quietly.  “I do give them a look-in forward every now and then, but it’s precious little I can do for them.”

“I, and the ship, and every one on board of her, are very much indebted to you, Ransome,” I said warmly.

He made as though he had not heard me, and steered in silence till I was ready to relieve him.  He surrendered the wheel, picked up the tray, and for a parting shot informed me that Mr. Burns was awake and seemed to have a mind to come up on deck.

“I don’t know how to prevent him, sir.  I can’t very well stop down below all the time.”

It was clear that he couldn’t.  And sure enough Mr. Burns came on deck dragging himself painfully aft in his enormous overcoat.  I beheld him with a natural dread.  To have him around and raving about the wiles of a dead man while I had to steer a wildly rushing ship full of dying men was a rather dreadful prospect.

But his first remarks were quite sensible in meaning and tone.  Apparently he had no recollection of the night scene.  And if he had he didn’t betray himself once.  Neither did he talk very much.  He sat on the skylight looking desperately ill at first, but that strong breeze, before which the last remnant of my crew had wilted down, seemed to blow a fresh stock of vigour into his frame with every gust.  One could almost see the process.

By way of sanity test I alluded on purpose to the late captain.  I was delighted to find that Mr. Burns did not display undue interest in the subject.  He ran over the old tale of that savage ruffian’s iniquities with a certain vindictive gusto and then concluded unexpectedly: 

“I do believe, sir, that his brain began to go a year or more before he died.”

A wonderful recovery.  I could hardly spare it as much admiration as it deserved, for I had to give all my mind to the steering.

In comparison with the hopeless languour of the preceding days this was dizzy speed.  Two ridges of foam streamed from the ship’s bows; the wind sang in a strenuous note which under other circumstances would have expressed to me all the joy of life.  Whenever the hauled-up mainsail started trying to slat and bang itself to pieces in its gear, Mr. Burns would look at me apprehensively.

“What would you have me to do, Mr. Burns?  We can neither furl it nor set it.  I only wish the old thing would thrash itself to pieces and be done with it.  That beastly racket confuses me.”

Mr. Burns wrung his hands, and cried out suddenly: 

“How will you get the ship into harbour, sir, without men to handle her?”

And I couldn’t tell him.