Two bells had gone some minutes, and I was wishing to goodness that it
was eight, and time to turn-in. Suddenly, overhead, there sounded a
sharp crack, like the report of a rifle shot. It was followed instantly
by the rattle and crash of sailcloth thrashing in the wind. Williams jumped away from the rail, and ran aft a few steps. I followed
him, and, together, we stared upwards to see what had gone. Indistinctly, I made out that the weather sheet of the fore t'gallant
had carried away, and the clew of the sail was whirling and banging
about in the air, and, every few moments, hitting the steel yard a blow,
like the thump of a great sledge hammer. "It's the shackle, or one of the links that's gone, I think," I shouted
to Williams, above the noise of the sail. "That's the spectacle that's
hitting the yard." "Yus!" he shouted back, and went to get hold of the clewline. I ran to
give him a hand. At the same moment, I caught the Second Mate's voice
away aft, shouting. Then came the noise of running feet, and the rest of
the watch, and the Second Mate, were with us almost at the same moment. In a few minutes we had the yard lowered and the sail clewed up. Then
Williams and I went aloft to see where the sheet had gone. It was much
as I had supposed; the spectacle was all right, but the pin had gone out
of the shackle, and the shackle itself was jammed into the sheavehole in
the yard arm. Williams sent me down for another pin, while he unbent the clewline, and
overhauled it down to the sheet. When I returned with the fresh pin, I
screwed it into the shackle, clipped on the clewline, and sung out to
the men to take a pull on the rope. This they did, and at the second
heave the shackle came away. When it was high enough, I went up on to
the t'gallant yard, and held the chain, while Williams shackled it into
the spectacle. Then he bent on the clewline afresh, and sung out to the
Second Mate that we were ready to hoist away. "Yer'd better go down an' give 'em a 'aul," he said. "I'll sty an' light
up ther syle." "Right ho, Williams," I said, getting into the rigging. "Don't let the
ship's bogy run away with you." This remark I made in a moment of light-heartedness, such as will come
to anyone aloft, at times. I was exhilarated for the time being, and
quite free from the sense of fear that had been with me so much of late. I suppose this was due to the freshness of the wind. "There's more'n one!" he said, in that curiously short way of his. "What?" I asked. He repeated his remark. I was suddenly serious. The _reality_ of all the impossible details of
the past weeks came back to me, vivid, and beastly. "What do you mean, Williams?" I asked him. But he had shut up, and would say nothing. "What do you know--how much do you know?" I went on, quickly. "Why did
you never tell me that you--"

The Second Mate's voice interrupted me, abruptly:

"Now then, up there! Are you going to keep us waiting all night? One of
you come down and give us a pull with the ha'lyards. The other stay up
and light up the gear." "i, i, Sir," I shouted back. Then I turned to Williams, hurriedly. "Look here, Williams," I said. "If you think there is _really_ a danger
in your being alone up here--" I hesitated for words to express what I
meant. Then I went on. "Well, I'll jolly well stay up with you." The Second Mate's voice came again. "Come on now, one of you! Make a move! What the hell are you doing?" "Coming, Sir!" I sung out. "Shall I stay?" I asked definitely. "Garn!" he said. "Don't yer fret yerself. I'll tike er bloomin' piy-diy
out of 'er. Blarst 'em. I ain't funky of 'em." I went. That was the last word Williams spoke to anyone living. I reached the decks, and tailed on to the haulyards. We had nearly mast-headed the yard, and the Second Mate was looking up
at the dark outline of the sail, ready to sing out "Belay"; when, all at
once, there came a queer sort of muffled shout from Williams. "Vast hauling, you men," shouted the Second Mate. We stood silent, and listened. "What's that, Williams?" he sung out. "Are you all clear?" For nearly half a minute we stood, listening; but there came no reply. Some of the men said afterwards that they had noticed a curious rattling
and vibrating noise aloft that sounded faintly above the hum and swirl
of the wind. Like the sound of loose ropes being shaken and slatted
together, you know. Whether this noise was really heard, or whether it
was something that had no existence outside of their imaginations, I
cannot say. I heard nothing of it; but then I was at the tail end of the
rope, and furthest from the fore rigging; while those who heard it were
on the fore part of the haulyards, and close up to the shrouds. The Second Mate put his hands to his mouth. "Are you all clear there?" he shouted again. The answer came, unintelligible and unexpected. It ran like this:

"Blarst yer ... I've styed ... Did yer think ... drive ... bl--y
piy-diy." And then there was a sudden silence. I stared up at the dim sail, astonished. "He's dotty!" said Stubbins, who had been told to come off the look-out
and give us a pull. "'e's as mad as a bloomin' 'atter," said Quoin, who was standing
foreside of me. "'e's been queer all along." "Silence there!" shouted the Second Mate. Then:

"Williams!" No answer. "Williams!" more loudly. Still no answer. Then:

"Damn you, you jumped-up cockney crocodile! Can't you hear? Are you
blooming-well deaf?" There was no answer, and the Second Mate turned to me. "Jump aloft, smartly now, Jessop, and see what's wrong!" "i, i, Sir," I said and made a run for the rigging. I felt a bit queer. Had Williams gone mad? He certainly always had been a bit funny. Or--and
the thought came with a jump--had he seen--I did not finish. Suddenly,
up aloft, there sounded a frightful scream. I stopped, with my hand on
the sheerpole. The next instant, something fell out of the darkness--a
heavy body, that struck the deck near the waiting men, with a tremendous
crash and a loud, ringing, wheezy sound that sickened me. Several of the
men shouted out loud in their fright, and let go of the haulyards; but
luckily the stopper held it, and the yard did not come down. Then, for
the space of several seconds, there was a dead silence among the crowd;
and it seemed to me that the wind had in it a strange moaning note. The Second Mate was the first to speak. His voice came so abruptly that
it startled me. "Get a light, one of you, quick now!" There was a moment's hesitation. "Fetch one of the binnacle lamps, you, Tammy." "i, i, Sir," the youngster said, in a quavering voice, and ran aft. In less than a minute I saw the light coming towards us along the deck. The boy was running. He reached us, and handed the lamp to the Second
Mate, who took it and went towards the dark, huddled heap on the deck. He held the light out before him, and peered at the thing. "My God!" he said. "It's Williams!" He stooped lower with the light, and I saw details. It was Williams
right enough.