"Gone where we've all got to go some day, my lord—down, down, down," said the giant. "Posted missing Tuesday night." He had folded his arms and was leaning up against the side, moody as the devil. "For some it makes a change; for others it don't. I'm one of the last sort. It's all stale to me. I live there—down, down, down." He yawned with creaking jaws.
Nelson stared at him, then turned to the boy.
"And may I ask what you're doing here, Mr. Carvell?"
"He said he had despatches for you, my lord," interrupted the giant languidly. "Don't see em myself."
Kit's swift mind leapt at the fellow's mistake.
Swift as he was, there was one present swifter—the man who in a flashing moment had won the day at St. Vincent.
Nelson swept round on the giant.
"He said—he had—despatches—for me? You just told me he wanted brandy. How d'you account for that?"
The stillness before the storm was never so appalling as that calm. In all the world only the giant's slow eyelids seemed to stir. The boy felt lightning in the air: he felt it in his heart.
Dark remained unmoved. He lolled against the bulwark, legs crossed. It was scarcely respectful to the great seaman who stood before him; but the man seemed a law to himself. His chin dropped, his arms folded, those glimmering eyes of his never lifted from his feet.