Death was staring those men in the face. In another minute they might all be in eternity, yet hear them sing as they work the busy pumps. Oh, only sailors’ doggerel, with no sense in it, bar that it chimes in with the motion and sound of the levers, and the gush of water that flows over the side—
“In San Domingo I was born,
Hurrah! lads, hurrah!
And reared among the yellow corn,
Heave, boys, and away she goes.
Hurrah!
My parients both were black as ink,
Hurrah! lads, hurrah!
They killed theirselves wi’ cussed drink,
Heave, boys, till pumps go dry.
Hurrah!”
The ship is reeling like a sick man. She reels, she staggers. When she yaws, it seems as though she would never recover.
But hurrah! the shore is near. And here is a little cove that runs inland a little way between banks of waving bananas and trees gorgeous with creeping flowers.
At last she strikes, she rasps, she is fast upon the sand, and on an even keel.
“The Lord’s Name be praised,” says the captain. And more than one manly voice responds, “Amen!”
The strain upon both Sandie’s mind and Willie’s, particularly during the last hour, had been very great; and now that the reaction had come, strangely enough, Sandie, at all events, felt that he would have given a five-pound note for a five minutes’ cry.
. . . . . .