“I’m no afeard, mon,” returns Captain Macadam, with a groan, “I’m just impressed.”
The timidities of the Captain creep among the mates and crew; forward and aft the feeling is one of terror. The King George’s Packet becomes a vessel of gloom. There are no songs, no whistling for a wind. Even the cook’s fiddle is silent, and the galley grows as melancholy as the forecastle.
It is eight bells in the afternoon of the fourth day, when the man at the wheel calls to Captain Macadam. He tosses his thumb astern.
“Look there!” says he.
Captain Macadam peers over the rail, and counts eleven huge sharks. The monsters are following the brig. Also, they seem in an ugly mood, since ever and anon they dash at one another ferociously.
“It’ll be a sign!” whispers Captain Macadam. Then he counts them. “There’ll be ‘leven o’ them,” says he; “and that means we’re ‘leven to die!” After this he dives below, and takes to the bottle.
Bleared of eye, shaken of hand, Captain Macadam on the fifth morning finds first mate Jack Paul on the after deck. The eleven sharks are still sculling sullenly along in the slow wake of the wind-bound brig.
“Be they there yet?” asks Captain Macadam, looking over the stern with a ghastly grin. Then answering his own query: “Ay! they’ll be there—the ‘leven of ‘em!”
First mate Jack Paul, observing their daunting effect on the over-harrowed nerves of Captain Macadam, is for having up his pistols to take a shot at the sharks; but he is stayed by the other.
“They’ll be sent,” says Captain Macadam; “it’ll no do to slay ‘em, mon! But losh! ain’t a sherk a fearfu’ feesli?” Then, seeing his hand shake on the brig’s rail: “It’s the rum. And that’s no gude omen, me takin’ to the rum; for I’m not preeceesely what you’d ca’ a drinkin’ body.”