Book Two—Chapter Eleven.
Mutiny on Board—Far to the South’ard.
“Nothing certain at sea except the unexpected.” The truth of this was sadly exemplified by the terrible calamity which had befallen the Sea Flower—and befallen her so suddenly, too!
Only one week ago she was sailing over a rippling sea on the wings of a favouring breeze, every wavelet dancing joyously in the sunlight. On board, whether fore or aft, there was nothing but hope, happiness, and contentment. Till—
“The angel of death spread his wings on the blast.”
Now all is terror and gloom—a gloom and a terror that have struck deep into the heart of every one who knows what death and sorrow mean.
A breeze has sprung up at last, and both Halcott and Tandy have reluctantly come to the conclusion that it will be better to steer for colder weather. So southward the Sea Flower flies, under every stitch of canvas, with studding-sails low and aloft. Shall the plague be stayed? Heaven alone can tell!
As it is, the depression hangs like a dark, foreboding cloud over the ship.
No one cares to talk much by day or by night. The men sit silently at their meals, with lowered brows and frightened looks. They eye each other askance; they know not who may be the next. They even avoid each other as much as possible while walking the decks. Hardly will a man volunteer to nurse the sick. The hammocks containing these hang on the lee side, and the crew keep far away indeed.