But he was in a drunken stupor. He sat up, dazed, when I shook him
by the arm.
"Mr. Turner!" I cried. "Try to rouse yourself, man! The captain has
been murdered, and Mr. Vail!"
He made an effort to sit up, swayed, and fell back again. His face
was swollen and purplish, his eyes congested. He made an effort to
speak, but failed to be intelligible. I had no time to waste.
Somewhere on the Ella the murderer was loose. He must be found.
I flung out of Turner's cabin as the crew, gathered from the
forecastle and from the decks, crowded down the forward companionway.
I ran my eye over them. Every man was there, Singleton below by the
captain's body, the crew, silent and horror-struck, grouped on
the steps: Clarke, McNamara, Burns, Oleson, and Adams. Behind the
crew, Charlie Jones had left the wheel and stood peering down, until
sharply ordered back. Williams, with a bandage on his head, and Tom,
the mulatto cook, were in the group.
I stood, revolver in hand, staring at the men. Among them, I felt
sure, was the murderer. But which one? All were equally pale,
equally terrified.
"Boys," I said, "Mr. Vail and your captain have been murdered. The
murderer must be on the ship--one of ourselves." There was a murmur
at that. "Mr. Singleton, I suggest that these men stay together in a
body, and that no one be allowed to go below until all have been
searched and all weapons taken from them.
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