Chapter Twenty Six.
Dreamy.
Very curious incidents are sometimes invented, but the most extravagant can be matched by others that have really occurred.
One of the last things that had been talked about that evening had been the vessel of which Rodd had caught a glimpse in the short tropic twilight just as it was being swallowed up by the darkness and mist of night. Joe Cross had incidentally said that he believed it was a brig, and that night as Rodd lay half asleep, half wakeful, in his cot, kept from finding the customary repose of a tired lad by the heat of the narrow cabin below, the word brig brought to mind the vessel that had so nearly run upon them in Havre-de-Grace, and in a drowsy stupid way he had pictured her tall tapering spars, the flapping of her stay-sail, and the rush of the storm.
Then all was blank, till all at once it seemed as if time had elapsed and he was picturing the French brig once more, knowing that it was the Jeanne d’Arc, though all was darkness and he only caught sight of the vessel now and then, by the flashing of the fort guns, while the roar of their reports echoed loudly above the rush of the wind as the brave vessel tacked from side to side of the harbour, striving to reach the mouth and escape out to sea.
It was all very vivid as in a dream.
Flash went the fort gun, there was the roar of the report, and all was darkness, again and again, while somehow—he could not tell how it was—the heat was intense, and Rodd threw up one hand, which came in contact with the top of his cot with a sharp rap.
“Bah! It hurts,” muttered the boy; and then dream and reality merged in one, for there was another flash and the roar as if of half-a-dozen guns.
But the boy was awake now to the fact that he was not dreaming of the escape of the French brig, but far south of the Equator, lying half stifled in his cot, listening to the roar of a tropic storm, while every now and then the cabin which he shared with his uncle was lit up by the vivid flashes, which were succeeded by fresh roars.