The first lieutenant, who had wakened up at the voices, was out in a minute; he put his head over the cockpit, and ordering the officer of the watch to call the drummer, and beat to quarters, ran up to inform the captain.
The drummer was out in a moment, and, seizing his drum, which hung up by the mainmast, ran up in his shirt and beat the tattoo.
The whole ship’s company rose up at the sound, which they knew was the signal for something important; and the beat of the drum was followed up by the shrill piping of the boatswain’s mates at each hatchway.
At that moment, some frightened man belonging to the watch cried out that the ship was on fire, and the lower decks were immediately a scene of bustle and confusion.
Perhaps there is nothing more awful than the alarm of fire at sea; the feeling that there is no escape—the only choice being by which element, fire or water, you choose to perish. But if it is awful in daylight, how much more so is it to be summoned up to await such peril when you have been sleeping in fancied bounty.
The captain had hurried on his clothes, and stood on the quarter-deck. He was apparently calm and collected; but, as usual, the first lieutenant carried on the duty, and well he did it.
“Where’s the gunner? Mr Hutt, bring up the keys from my cabin, and have all ready for clearing the magazines if required. Firemen, get your buckets to bear; carpenters, rig the pumps. Silence there, fore and aft.”
But the confusion became very great, and there evidently was a panic. The captain then interposed, calling out to the boatswain and his mates to send every man aft on the quarter-deck.
This order was obeyed; the men came thronging like a flock of sheep, huddling together and breathless.
“Silence there, my men,” cried Captain Delmar—“silence. I say; is this the conduct of men-of-war’s-men? Every man of you sit down on deck—pass the word there for every man to sit down.”