“Faith, I knew that was only talk. I knew you wanted me. Also I knew the king’s navy needed me, for men are hard to get. So, when they’d paid us the cash—forty pounds apiece—I stepped in behind you, and here we are—here we are! Forty pounds apiece—equal to three years’ wages of an ordinary recruit of the army. It ain’t bad, but we’re here for three years, and no escape from it. Yes, here we are!”
Dyck laughed.
“Aye, here we’re likely to remain, Michael. There’s only this to be said—we’ll be fighting the French soon, and it’s easy to die in the midst of a great fight. If we don’t die, Michael, something else will turn up, maybe.”
“That’s true, sir! They’ll make an officer of you, once they see you fight. This is no place for you, among the common herd. It’s the dregs o’ the world that comes to the ship’s bottom in time of peace or war.”
“Well, I’m the dregs of the world, Michael. I’m the supreme dregs.”
Somehow the letter from Virginia had decided Dyck Calhoun’s fate for him. Here he was—at sea, a common sailor in the navy. He and Michael Clones had eaten and drunk as sailors do, and they had realized that, as they ate and drank on the River Thames, they would not eat and drink on the watery fairway. They had seen the tank foul with age, from which water was drawn for men who could not live without it, and the smell of it had revolted Dyck’s senses. They had seen the kegs of pickled meat, and they had been told of the evil rations given to the sailors at sea.
The Ariadne had been a flag-ship in her day, the home of an admiral and his staff. She carried seventy-four guns, was easily obedient to her swift sail, and had a reputation for gallantry. From the first hour on board, Dyck Calhoun had fitted in; with a discerning eye he had understood the seamen’s needs and the weaknesses of the system.
The months he had spent between his exit from prison and his entrance into the Ariadne had roughened, though not coarsened, his outward appearance. From his first appearance among the seamen he had set himself to become their leader. His enlistment was for three years, and he meant that these three should prove the final success of this naval enterprise, or the stark period in a calendar of tragedy.
The life of the sailor, with its coarseness and drudgery, its inadequate pay, its evil-smelling food, its maggoty bread, its beer drawn from casks that once had held oil or fish, its stinking salt-meat barrels, the hideous stench of the bilge-water—all this could in one sense be no worse than his sufferings in jail. In spite of self-control, jail had been to him the degradation of his hopes, the humiliation of his manhood.
He had suffered cold, dampness, fever, and indigestion there, and it had sapped the fresh fibre of life in him. His days in London had been cruel. He had sought work in great commercial concerns, and had almost been grateful when rejected. When his money was stolen, there seemed nothing to do, as he said to Michael Clones, but to become a footpad or a pirate. Then the stormy doors of the navy had opened wide to him; and as many a man is tempted into folly or crime by tempestuous nature, so he, forlorn, spiritually unkempt, but physically and mentally well-composed, in a spirit of bravado, flung himself into the bowels of the fleet.