That great leveler, a common
trouble, put Henrietta Sloane, the stewardess, and the women of the
party at the same table in the after house, where none ate, and
placed the responsibility for the ship, although, I was nominally
in command, on the shoulders of all the men. And there sprang up
among them a sort of esprit de corps, curious under the circumstances,
and partly explained, perhaps, by the belief that in imprisoning
Singleton they had the murderer safely in hand. What they thought
of Turner's possible connection with the crime, I do not know.
Personally, I was convinced that Turner was guilty. Perhaps,
lulled into a false security by the incarceration of the two men,
we unconsciously relaxed our vigilance. But by the first night the
crew were somewhat calmer. Here and there a pipe was lighted, and
a plug of tobacco went the rounds. The forecastle supper, served
on deck, was eaten; and Charlie Jones, securing a permission that I
thought it best to grant, went forward and painted a large black
cross on the side of the jolly-boat, and below it the date, August
13, 1911. The crew watched in respectful silence.
The weather was in our favor, the wind on our quarter, a blue sky
heaped with white cloud masses, with the sunset fringed with the
deepest rose. The Ella made no great way, but sailed easily.
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