“I heard a knocking below,” said the skipper. “What does it mean?”
Before the man could reply there was a wild shout from the half-deck.
“It means,” replied the man, “that the men have broken through the cabin bulkheads and supplied themselves.”
“Then Heaven help us!” said poor bewildered Silas.
He staggered to the seat beside the skylight and sat down, holding on by the brass glass-guards.
A moment after the mate joined him.
“You haven’t been drinking, matie,” said Silas, glancing gloomily upwards, “have you?”
“No, sir, nor the second mate, nor the steward, nor the spectioneer,” was the mate’s reply. “Give us your hand, sir. We’ve had words together often; let us forgive each other now. God bless you, sir, and if die together we must, we won’t die like pigs, at all events.”
There was anarchy forward, anarchy and wild revelry, and cruel brawls and fighting, but the five men aft stuck together, and tried to comfort each other, though there was hardly a hope in their hearts that their vessel would be saved. A long evening wore away, a kind of semi-darkness settled over the sea, but this short night soon gave place once more to-day. Then down forward all was quiet; the revellers were sleeping the stertorous sleep of the drunkard.
But the wind had fallen considerably, and the seas had gone down; the broken waves no longer sung in the frosty air, but the ship rolled like a half-dead thing in the trough of the sea. She was water-logged.