shall save my soul, and my honour as a captain.
I am growing weaker, and the night is coming on.
If He can look me in the face again, I may not have
time to act. . . If we are wrecked, mayhap this
bottle may be found, and those who find it may understand.
If not . . . well, then all men shall know that
I have been true to my trust. God and the
Blessed Virgin and the Saints help a poor ignorant
soul trying to do his duty . . .
Of course the verdict was an open one. There
is no evidence to adduce, and whether or not the man
himself committed the murders there is now none to
say. The folk here hold almost universally that
the captain is simply a hero, and he is to be given
a public funeral. Already it is arranged that
his body is to be taken with a train of boats up the
Esk for a piece and then brought back to Tate Hill
Pier and up the abbey steps, for he is to be buried
in the churchyard on the cliff. The owners of
more than a hundred boats have already given in their
names as wishing to follow him to the grave.
No trace has ever been found of the great dog, at
which there is much mourning, for, with public opinion
in its present state, he would, I believe, be adopted
by the town. Tomorrow will see the funeral,
and so will end this one more ‘mystery of the
sea’.
8 August.—Lucy was very restless all night,
and I too, could not sleep. The storm was fearful,
and as it boomed loudly among the chimney pots, it
made me shudder. When a sharp puff came it seemed
to be like a distant gun. Strangely enough,
Lucy did not wake, but she got up twice and dressed
herself. Fortunately, each time I awoke in time
and managed to undress her without waking her, and
got her back to bed. It is a very strange thing,
this sleep-walking, for as soon as her will is thwarted
in any physical way, her intention, if there be any,
disappears, and she yields herself almost exactly to
the routine of her life.
Early in the morning we both got up and went down
to the harbour to see if anything had happened in
the night. There were very few people about,
and though the sun was bright, and the air clear and
fresh, the big, grim-looking waves, that seemed dark
themselves because the foam that topped them was like
snow, forced themselves in through the mouth of the
harbour, like a bullying man going through a crowd.
Somehow I felt glad that Jonathan was not on the
sea last night, but on land. But, oh, is he on
land or sea? Where is he, and how? I am
getting fearfully anxious about him. If I only
knew what to do, and could do anything!
10 August.—The funeral of the poor sea
captain today was most touching. Every boat
in the harbour seemed to be there, and the coffin
was carried by captains all the way from Tate Hill
Pier up to the churchyard. Lucy came with me,
and we went early to our old seat, whilst the cortege
of boats went up the river to the Viaduct and came
down again. We had a lovely view, and saw the
procession nearly all the way. The poor fellow
was laid to rest near our seat so that we stood on
it, when the time came and saw everything.
