The Captain of the Polestar | Page 7

P.M.--My deliberate opinion is that we are commanded by a
madman. Nothing else can account for the extraordinary vagaries of
Captain Craigie. It is fortunate that I have kept this journal of our
voyage, as it will serve to justify us in case we have to put him under
any sort of restraint, a step which I should only consent to as a last
resource. Curiously enough it was he himself who suggested lunacy
and not mere eccentricity as the secret of his strange conduct. He was
standing upon the bridge about an hour ago, peering as usual through
his glass, while I was walking up and down the quarterdeck. The
majority of the men were below at their tea, for the watches have not
been regularly kept of late. Tired of walking, I leaned against the
bulwarks, and admired the mellow glow cast by the sinking sun upon
the great ice fields which surround us. I was suddenly aroused from the
reverie into which I had fallen by a hoarse voice at my elbow, and
starting round I found that the Captain had descended and was standing
by my side. He was staring out over the ice with an expression in which
horror, surprise, and something approaching to joy were contending for
the mastery. In spite of the cold, great drops of perspiration were
coursing down his forehead, and he was evidently fearfully excited.
His limbs twitched like those of a man upon the verge of an epileptic fit,
and the lines about his mouth were drawn and hard.
"Look!" he gasped, seizing me by the wrist, but still keeping his eyes
upon the distant ice, and moving his head slowly in a horizontal
direction, as if following some object which was moving across the
field of vision. "Look! There, man, there! Between the hummocks!
Now coming out from behind the far one! You see her--you MUST see
her! There still! Flying from me, by God, flying from me--and gone!"
He uttered the last two words in a whisper of concentrated agony which
shall never fade from my remembrance. Clinging to the ratlines he
endeavoured to climb up upon the top of the bulwarks as if in the hope
of obtaining a last glance at the departing object. His strength was not
equal to the attempt, however, and he staggered back against the saloon
skylights, where he leaned panting and exhausted. His face was so livid
that I expected him to become unconscious, so lost no time in leading

him down the companion, and stretching him upon one of the sofas in
the cabin. I then poured him out some brandy, which I held to his lips,
and which had a wonderful effect upon him, bringing the blood back
into his white face and steadying his poor shaking limbs. He raised
himself up upon his elbow, and looking round to see that we were alone,
he beckoned to me to come and sit beside him.
"You saw it, didn't you?" he asked, still in the same subdued awesome
tone so foreign to the nature of the man.
"No, I saw nothing."
His head sank back again upon the cushions. "No, he wouldn't without
the glass," he murmured. "He couldn't. It was the glass that showed her
to me, and then the eyes of love--the eyes of love.
I say, Doc, don't let the steward in! He'll think I'm mad. Just bolt the
door, will you!"
I rose and did what he had commanded.
He lay quiet for a while, lost in thought apparently, and then raised
himself up upon his elbow again, and asked for some more brandy.
"You don't think I am, do you, Doc?" he asked, as I was putting the
bottle back into the after-locker. "Tell me now, as man to man, do you
think that I am mad?"
"I think you have something on your mind," I answered, "which is
exciting you and doing you a good deal of harm."
"Right there, lad!" he cried, his eyes sparkling from the effects of the
brandy. "Plenty on my mind--plenty! But I can work out the latitude
and the longitude, and I can handle my sextant and manage my
logarithms. You couldn't prove me mad in a court of law, could you,
now?" It was curious to hear the man lying back and coolly arguing out
the question of his own sanity.

"Perhaps not," I said; "but still I think you would be wise to get home
as soon as you can, and settle down to a quiet life for a while."
"Get home, eh?" he muttered, with a sneer upon his face. "One word
for me and two for yourself, lad. Settle down with Flora--pretty little
Flora. Are bad dreams signs of madness?"
"Sometimes," I answered.
"What else?