[Illustration: We helped him pile his belongings into his chest
and gave him a hand on deck.]
I could not believe that one of our own men had shot our captain. Surely
the bullet must have hit him when he was turning to give an order or to
oversee some particular duty. And yet I could not forget the cook's words.
They hummed in my ears. They sounded in the strumming of the rigging, in
the "talking" of the ship:--
"A little roun' hole in the back of his head--yass, sah--he was shot f'om
behine."
Without the captain and Mr. Thomas the Island Princess was like a strange
vessel. Both Kipping and Davie Paine had been promoted from the starboard
watch, leaving us shorthanded; so a queer, self-confident fellow named
Blodgett was transferred from the chief mate's watch to ours. But even so
there were fewer hands and more work, and the spirit of the crew seemed to
have changed. Whereas earlier in the voyage most of the men had gone
smartly about their duties, always glad to lend a hand or join in a
chantey, and with an eye for the profit and welfare of the owners as well
as of themselves, now there came over the ship, silently, imperceptibly,
yet so swiftly and completely that, although no man saw it come, in
twenty-four hours it was with us and upon us in all its deadening and
discouraging weight, a spirit of lassitude and procrastination.
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