Well—­it did get done about forty hours afterward.  By the exorcising virtue of Mr. Burns’ awful laugh, the malicious spectre had been laid, the evil spell broken, the curse removed.  We were now in the hands of a kind and energetic Providence.  It was rushing us on. . . .

I shall never forget the last night, dark, windy, and starry.  I steered.  Mr. Burns, after having obtained from me a solemn promise to give him a kick if anything happened, went frankly to sleep on the deck close to the binnacle.  Convalescents need sleep.  Ransome, his back propped against the mizzen-mast and a blanket over his legs, remained perfectly still, but I don’t suppose he closed his eyes for a moment.  That embodiment of jauntiness, Frenchy, still under the delusion that there was a “jump” left in him, had insisted on joining us; but mindful of discipline, had laid himself down as far on the forepart of the poop as he could get, alongside the bucket-rack.

And I steered, too tired for anxiety, too tired for connected thought.  I had moments of grim exultation and then my heart would sink awfully at the thought of that forecastle at the other end of the dark deck, full of fever-stricken men—­some of them dying.  By my fault.  But never mind.  Remorse must wait.  I had to steer.

In the small hours the breeze weakened, then failed altogether.  About five it returned, gentle enough, enabling us to head for the roadstead.  Daybreak found Mr. Burns sitting wedged up with coils of rope on the stern-grating, and from the depths of his overcoat steering the ship with very white bony hands; while Ransome and I rushed along the decks letting go all the sheets and halliards by the run.  We dashed next up on to the forecastle head.  The perspiration of labour and sheer nervousness simply poured off our heads as we toiled to get the anchors cock-billed.  I dared not look at Ransome as we worked side by side.  We exchanged curt words; I could hear him panting close to me and I avoided turning my eyes his way for fear of seeing him fall down and expire in the act of putting forth his strength—­for what?  Indeed for some distinct ideal.

The consummate seaman in him was aroused.  He needed no directions.  He knew what to do.  Every effort, every movement was an act of consistent heroism.  It was not for me to look at a man thus inspired.

At last all was ready and I heard him say: 

“Hadn’t I better go down and open the compressors now, sir?”

“Yes.  Do,” I said.

And even then I did not glance his way.  After a time his voice came up from the main deck.

“When you like, sir.  All clear on the windlass here.”

I made a sign to Mr. Burns to put the helm down and let both anchors go one after another, leaving the ship to take as much cable as she wanted.  She took the best part of them both before she brought up.  The loose sails coming aback ceased their maddening racket above my head.  A perfect stillness reigned in the ship.  And while I stood forward feeling a little giddy in that sudden peace, I caught faintly a moan or two and the incoherent mutterings of the sick in the forecastle.