An Intervention

"An Intervention" by W. W. Jacobs is a thought-provoking narrative that delves into the complexities of human relationships and the moral dilemmas that arise in times of crisis. Through rich character development and Jacobs' signature wit, the story explores themes of intervention, redemption, and the consequences of our choices. The plot unfolds as characters grapple with their responsibilities and the impact of their actions on those around them, ultimately leading to a poignant reflection on the nature of help and the intricacies of personal connections. With an engaging style, Jacobs invites readers to consider the fine line between assistance and interference in the lives of others.

• Fiction

								
There was bad blood between the captain and mate who comprised the
officers and crew of the sailing-barge “Swallow”; and the outset of
their voyage from London to Littleport was conducted in glum silence.
As far as the Nore they had scarcely spoken, and what little did pass
was mainly in the shape of threats and abuse. Evening, chill and
overcast, was drawing in; distant craft disappeared somewhere between
the waste of waters and the sky, and the side-lights of neighbouring
vessels were beginning to shine over the water. The wind, with a little
rain in it, was unfavourable to much progress, and the trough of the
sea got deeper as the waves ran higher and splashed by the barge’s
side.

“Get the side-lights out, and quick, you,” growled the skipper, who was
at the helm.

The mate, a black-haired, fierce-eyed fellow of about twenty-five, set
about the task with much deliberation.

“And look lively, you lump,” continued the skipper.

“I don’t want none of your lip,” said the mate furiously; “so don’t you
give me none.”

The skipper yawned, and stretching his mighty frame laughed
disagreeably. “You’ll take what I give you, my lad,” said he, “whether
it’s lip or fist.”

“Lay a finger on me and I’ll knife you,” said the mate. “I ain’t afraid
of you, for all your size.”

He put out the side-lights, casting occasional looks of violent hatred
at the skipper, who, being a man of tremendous physique and rough
tongue, had goaded his subordinate almost to madness.

“If you’ve done skulking,” he cried as he knocked the ashes out of his
pipe, “come and take the helm.”

The mate came aft and relieved him; and he stood for a few seconds
taking a look round before going below. He dropped his pipe, and
stooped to recover it; and in that moment the mate, with a sudden
impulse, snatched up a handspike and dealt him a crushing blow on the
head. Half blinded and stunned by the blow, the man fell on his knees,
and shielding his face with his hands strove to rise. Before he could
do so the mate struck wildly at him again, and with a great cry he fell
backwards and rolled heavily overboard. The mate, with a sob in his
breath, gazed wildly astern, and waited for him to rise. He waited:
minutes seemed to pass, and still the body of the skipper did not
emerge from the depths. He reeled back in a stupor; then he gave a
faint cry as his eye fell on the boat, which was dragging a yard or two
astern, and a figure which clung desperately to the side of it. Before
he had quite realised what had happened, he saw the skipper haul
himself on to the stern of the boat and then roll heavily into it.

Panic-stricken at the sight, he drew his knife to cut the boat adrift,
but paused as he reflected that she and her freight would probably be
picked up by some passing vessel. As the thought struck him he saw the
dim form of the skipper come towards the bow of the boat and, seizing
the rope, begin to haul in towards the barge.

“Stop!” shouted the mate hoarsely; “stop! or I’ll cut you loose.”

The skipper let the rope go, and the boat pulled up with a jerk.

“I’m independent of you,” the skipper shouted, picking up one of the
loose boards from the bottom of the boat and brandishing it. “If
there’s any sea on I can keep her head to it with this. Cut away.”

“If I let you come aboard,” said the mate, “will you swear to let
bygones be bygones?”

“No!” thundered the other. “Whether I come aboard or not don’t make
much difference. It’ll be about twenty years for you, you murdering
hound, when I get ashore.”

The mate made no reply, but sat silently steering, keeping, however, a
wary eye on the boat towing behind. He turned sick and faint as he
thought of the consequences of his action, and vainly cast about in his
mind for some means of escape.

“Are you going to let me come aboard?” presently demanded the skipper,
who was shivering in his wet clothes.

“You can come aboard on my terms,” repeated the mate doggedly.

“I’ll make no terms with you,” cried the other. “I hand you over to the
police directly I get ashore, you mutinous dog. I’ve got a good witness
in my head.”

After this there was silence—silence unbroken through the long hours of
the night as they slowly passed. Then the dawn came. The sidelights
showed fainter and fainter in the water; the light on the mast shed no
rays on the deck, but twinkled uselessly behind its glass. Then the
mate turned his gaze from the wet, cheerless deck and heaving seas to
the figure in the boat dragging behind. The skipper, who returned his
gaze with a fierce scowl, was holding his wet handkerchief to his
temple. He removed it as the mate looked, and showed a ghastly wound.
Still, neither of them spoke. The mate averted his gaze, and sickened
with fear as he thought of his position; and in that instant the
skipper clutched the painter, and, with a mighty heave, sent the boat
leaping towards the stern of the barge, and sprang on deck. The mate
rose to his feet; but the other pushed him fiercely aside, and picking
up the handspike, which lay on the raised top of the cabin, went below.
Half an hour later he came on deck with a fresh suit of clothes on, and
his head roughly bandaged, and standing in front of the mate, favoured
him with a baleful stare.

“Gimme that helm,” he cried.

The mate relinquished it.

“You dog!” snarled the other, “to try and kill a man when he wasn’t
looking, and then keep him in his wet clothes in the boat all night.
Make the most o’ your time. It’ll be many a day before you see the sea
again.”

The mate groaned in spirit, but made no reply.

“I’ve wrote everything down with the time it happened,” continued the
other in a voice of savage satisfaction; “an’ I’ve locked that
hand-spike up in my locker. It’s got blood on it.”

“That’s enough about it,” said the mate, turning at last and speaking
thickly. “What I’ve done I must put up with.”

He walked forward to end the discussion; but the skipper shouted out
choice bits from time to time as they occurred to him, and sat steering
and gibing, a gruesome picture of vengeance.

Suddenly he sprang to his feet with a sharp cry. “There’s somebody in
the water,” he roared; “stand by to pick him up.”

As he spoke he pointed with his left hand, and with his right steered
for something which rose and fell lazily on the water a short distance
from them.

The mate, following his outstretched arm, saw it too, and picking up a
boat-hook stood ready, and they were soon close enough to distinguish
the body of a man supported by a life-belt.

“Don’t miss him,” shouted the skipper.

The mate grasped the rigging with one hand, and leaning forward as far
as possible stood with the hook poised. At first it seemed as though
the object would escape them, but a touch of the helm in the nick of
time just enabled the mate to reach. The hook caught in the jacket, and
with great care he gradually shortened it, and drew the body close to
the side.

“He’s dead,” said the skipper, as he fastened the helm and stood
looking down into the wet face of the man. Then he stooped, and taking

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