“Well, I wouldn’t have gone ashore in the boat,” said one man.
“Nor I,” “Nor I,” chorussed half-a-dozen; and then they stopped, for the lieutenant had approached unseen, caught the words, and in a fit of fury he shouted to the boatswain:
“Here, my sword—from the cabin!” he cried. “No; stop. Pipe away the boat’s crew. You, Waters, head that expedition!” And then, as if moved to repeat the boatswain’s words, he continued, “And don’t you men dare to come back without Mr Leigh.”
The men had got their own way; but though they waited patiently for the rest of the lieutenant’s order respecting the extra tot of grog, that order did not come, and they had to set off without it.
They were in capital spirits, and bent well to their oars, sending the boat surging through the water, and chattering and laughing like so many boys as soon as they were out of hearing. No wonder, for there is something exceedingly monotonous in being cooped up day after day on board ship, especially if it be a very small one; and there is no wonder at Jack’s being fond of a run ashore.
The evening was coming on very dark, and a thick bank of clouds was rising in the west, gradually blotting out the stars one by one, almost before they had had time to get well alight.
“Pull steady, my lads,” said the gunner. “Save a little bit of breath for landing.”
“All right, matey,” said one of the men; and they rowed steadily, each stroke of an oar seeming to splash up so much pale liquid fire, while the boat’s stem sent it flashing and sparkling away in an ever-diverging train.
“Now then, lads, steady,” said Billy Waters, who seemed to have suddenly awakened to the fact that he ought to be more dignified, as became the officer in command. “We don’t want to go for to let everybody ashore know we’re coming.”
There was silence then, only broken by the splash of the water from the oars, and a dismal creaking noise of wood upon wood.