But they smoke from morn till night.
Halcott himself and little Fitz are the only nurses, and both are worn out for want of rest. With their own hands they sew up the hammock of the dead, unhook it, lift the gruesome burden on to the top of the bulwark, and, while the captain with uncovered head raises his eyes to heaven and utters a prayer, the body is committed to the deep, to be torn in pieces next minute by the tigers of the sea.
Poor little Nelda! She is as merry as ever, playing with Bob or the ’Ral on the quarterdeck, and it is strange, in this ship of death, to hear her musical voice raised in song or laughter in the midst of silence and gloom!
No wonder that, hearing this, the delirious or the dying fancy themselves back once more in their village homes in England.
Nelda wonders why the captain, who used to romp and play with her, tries all he can now to avoid her; and why little Fitz, the curious, round-faced, laughing, black boy, with the two rows of alabaster teeth, never comes aft.
Halcott himself never goes below either. He insists upon taking his meals on deck. Nor will he permit Tandy or Ransey to come forward. If he can, he means to confine the awful plague to the fore part of the ship.
They say that in a case of this kind it is always the good who go first. In this instance the adage spoke truly.
Terrible to say, in less than a fortnight no less than thirteen fell victims to the scourge. But still more, more awful, the crew now became mutinous.
Luckily, all arms, and ammunition as well, were safely stored aft.
Durdley was chief mutineer—chief scoundrel! Out of the fourteen men left alive, only four were true to the captain, the others were ready to follow Durdley.