Another day and another sky. Now the blue Gulf waters were as leaden and dense as that one looks upon in a hard North Sea gale; and the heavens overhead were full of lurid grays which raced one another in sliding chase till they were lost in the northern mist drifts. The steamer rolled heavily to a steep beam sea; and when it could be seen, the iron of her lower decks, forward and aft, gleamed as though it had been new-coated with ocher varnish. But this was not often, for four minutes out of every five the decks were filled with a clamoring, hissing pond of green and cotton-white, which the scuppers could only empty piecemeal.
The time was evening—twenty hours after the quelling of the mutiny, and the three tenants of the upper bridge were the only human beings on any of the outer decks. On the midship grating stood a high-heeled quartermaster holding on to the spokes of the steam wheel, browsing on plug tobacco, and keeping his eyes mechanically fixed on the jumping compass card. Alternately climbing and descending athwartships as the bridge swung under him, the third mate took his sea constitutional in rubber thigh-boots, with hands thrust into the waistbelt of his breeches. As officer of the watch, every time he passed the binnacle he faced front and took a regulation peer round the foggy line of horizon, with an utter lack of interest. He was an elderly man, the third mate, and the sea held no more surprises for him, and no more interest, and no more pleasures. If ever he had ambition, he had lost it years since. His aim in life was to hold a position of small responsibility, and earn a monthly wage with the smallest possible outlay of exertion, either mental or physical.
The remaining occupant of the bridge sat on a camp-stool under the lee of the weather dodger, with his red peaked beard on his chest, his slippered feet stuck out in front, his elbows crooked out behind him, and hands deep in his jacket pockets. Every time the third mate’s footsteps neared him his eyes opened, and for an instant flashed round to the right-hand angle of their orbits. Between whiles he slept. It was owing to this faculty of literally snatching moments of rest that Captain Kettle, at the end of his twenty hours’ spell on the upper bridge, was as fresh as though he had just got up from a clear night’s sleep. This watchfulness was necessary, for, as the experienced skipper was quite aware, fully half the hands would have gladly tossed him overboard if they could have grappled him without danger to themselves.
Presently, however, he dropped his doze with a snap, and slewed round to face the head of the bridge ladder, entirely wakeful.
A head showed itself, black-haired, with a clean-shaven, bright, determined face. The corresponding body followed—lean, tall, muscular.
“Ah, Mr. Onslow, you’ve brought me some provender? Thanks indeed. What? Sandwich and tea? Couldn’t be better.”
“I have whisky in my pocket.”
“Not for me now. Wait till we get ashore, and then I’ll booze with any man to his heart’s content. The game I’m on now is like a boat-race—if a man wants to win he’s got to diet himself.”
The third mate, to show to any chance onlooker that he was not in sympathy with the unpopular captain, planted himself in the angle of the lee dodger, which was the greatest distance that the ties of duty would allow him to depart. Kettle, with an acid grin, drew his companion’s attention to this move.
“What’ll that chap do to-night when the fun begins?”