The Captain of the Polestar, and Other TalesDoyle, Arthur Conan
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The Captain of the Polestar, and Other Tales
Doyle, Arthur Conan
Great Britain -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction; Short stories, English
During this little discussion Flannigan had argued his point with a
gentlemanly deference and a quiet power for which I had not given him
credit. I could not help admiring a man who, on the eve of a desperate
enterprise, could courteously argue upon a point which must touch him so
nearly. He had, as I have already mentioned, partaken of a considerable
quantity of wine; but though there was a slight flush upon his pale
cheek, his manner was as reserved as ever. He did not join in the
conversation again, but seemed to be lost in thought.
A whirl of conflicting ideas was battling in my own mind. What was I to
do? Should I stand up now and denounce them before both passengers and
Captain? Should I demand a few minutes’ conversation with the latter in
his own cabin, and reveal it all? For an instant I was half resolved to
do it, but then the old constitutional timidity came back with redoubled
force. After all there might be some mistake. Dick had heard the
evidence and had refused to believe in it. I determined to let things go
on their course. A strange reckless feeling came over me. Why should I
help men who were blind to their own danger? Surely it was the duty of
the officers to protect us, not ours to give warning to them. I drank
off a couple of glasses of wine, and staggered upon deck with the
determination of keeping my secret locked in my own bosom.
It was a glorious evening. Even in my excited state of mind I could not
help leaning against the bulwarks and enjoying the refreshing breeze.
Away to the westward a solitary sail stood out as a dark speck against
the great sheet of flame left by the setting sun. I shuddered as I
looked at it. It was grand but appalling. A single star was twinkling
faintly above our mainmast, but a thousand seemed to gleam in the water
below with every stroke of our propeller. The only blot in the fair
scene was the great trail of smoke which stretched away behind us like
a black slash upon a crimson curtain. It was hard to believe that
the great peace which hung over all Nature could be marred by a poor
miserable mortal.
“After all,” I thought, as I gazed into the blue depths beneath me, “if
the worst comes to the worst, it is better to die here than to linger in
agony upon a sick-bed on land.” A man’s life seems a very paltry thing
amid the great forces of Nature. All my philosophy could not prevent my
shuddering, however, when I turned my head and saw two shadowy figures
at the other side of the deck, which I had no difficulty in recognising.
They seemed to be conversing earnestly, but I had no opportunity of
overhearing what was said; so I contented myself with pacing up and
down, and keeping a vigilant watch upon their movements.
It was a relief to me when Dick came on deck. Even an incredulous
confidant is better than none at all.
“Well, old man,” he said, giving me a facetious dig in the ribs, “we’ve
not been blown up yet.”
“No, not yet,” said I; “but that’s no proof that we are not going to
be.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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