. The person I could never
forgive was myself. Nothing should ever be taken for granted. The seed
of everlasting remorse was sown in my breast.

"I feel it's all my fault," I exclaimed, "mine and nobody else's. That's
how I feel. I shall never forgive myself."

"That's very foolish, sir," said Mr. Burns fiercely.

And after this effort he fell back exhausted on his bed. He closed his
eyes, he panted; this affair, this abominable surprise had shaken him
up, too. As I turned away I perceived Ransome looking at me blankly. He
appreciated what it meant, but managed to produce his pleasant, wistful
smile. Then he stepped back into his pantry, and I rushed up on deck
again to see whether there was any wind, any breath under the sky, any
stir of the air, any sign of hope. The deadly stillness met me again.
Nothing was changed except that there was a different man at the wheel.
He looked ill. His whole figure drooped, and he seemed rather to cling
to the spokes than hold them with a controlling grip. I said to him:

"You are not fit to be here."

"I can manage, sir," he said feebly.

As a matter of fact, there was nothing for him to do. The ship had no
steerage way. She lay with her head to the westward, the everlasting
Koh-ring visible over the stern, with a few small islets, black spots
in the great blaze, swimming before my troubled eyes. And but for those
bits of land there was no speck on the sky, no speck on the water,
no shape of vapour, no wisp of smoke, no sail, no boat, no stir of
humanity, no sign of life, nothing!

The first question was, what to do? What could one do? The first thing
to do obviously was to tell the men. I did it that very day. I wasn't
going to let the knowledge simply get about. I would face them. They
were assembled on the quarterdeck for the purpose. Just before I stepped
out to speak to them I discovered that life could hold terrible moments.
No confessed criminal had ever been so oppressed by his sense of
guilt. This is why, perhaps, my face was set hard and my voice curt and
unemotional while I made my declaration that I could do nothing more
for the sick in the way of drugs. As to such care as could be given them
they knew they had had it.

I would have held them justified in tearing me limb from limb. The
silence which followed upon my words was almost harder to bear than the
angriest uproar. I was crushed by the infinite depth of its reproach.
But, as a matter of fact, I was mista