“Muster all hands, Chips, and let the steward give them a good, generous tot of grog; they will be all the better for it after their hard work in the wet and cold. Moreover, I wish to satisfy myself that they are all right; it has struck me more than once since I came on deck that some of them are missing.”
“I pray to God that you’re wrong, sir,” answered the carpenter; “but, now that you comes to speak of it, the same thing have struck me too. Here, lay aft, bullies, all of yer, and let’s have a look at ye,” he continued, sending his voice forward to the forecastle, where the men were now grouped, awaiting further orders.
They came aft, slouching along the deck after their usual manner, and grouped themselves about the binnacle, “Why, where’s the rest of ye?” demanded the carpenter, glaring angrily from one to the other; “where’s Bill—and Jim—and Joe? Jump for’ard, one of ye, and tell ’em to lay aft here for a tot o’ grog.”
“We’re all here, Chips—all that’s left of us, that is. Bill, and Jim, and Joe are all missin’; ain’t to be found nowheres. Anyhow, they ain’t in the fo’c’s’le; I’m ready to swear to that!” answered one of the little crowd that grouped themselves round the binnacle, their eyes gleaming in the dim light of the binnacle lamp with that transient horror that sailors feel at the sudden loss of a shipmate.
“Not in the fo’c’s’le!” ejaculated the carpenter, staring wildly about him, “Oh, my God! three men gone, and all of ’em in my watch!” he cried, flinging his clenched fists above his head in his agony of self-reproach. “You’re sure that they ain’t in the fo’c’s’le? Then they ain’t nowhere else aboard this unlucky hooker; they’re overboard—that’s where they are—went when the squall struck us and very nigh throwed us on our beam-ends. And it’s my fault—all my fault; it’s I that have lost them three men. Ye see, Mr Leslie, it’s like this here. I’m a man what can’t do without his proper ’lowance of sleep, and this here last gale have fair knocked me up and made me that stupid that I haven’t knowed what I’ve been doin’ latterly. And the fact is, that in this here last watch of mine I was fair overcome wi’ want of sleep, and I dropped off without knowin’ it, and without wantin’ to; and this here’s the consekence,”—flinging his right hand wildly out to indicate the crippled state of the brig—“this an’ the loss o’ three good men.”
“Well, Chips, it is a pity,” said Leslie, soothingly and sympathetically; “if you had but told me how completely you were knocked up, I would have taken your watch for you, although I am pretty well knocked up myself. The mischief, however, is done and cannot now be helped, so it is useless to worry any more about it. We must not, however, allow the ship to run further to leeward than we can help; so clew up the foresail, lads; we will let her scud under bare poles until daylight. Then we will see what can be done to mend matters. Now take your grog, men; and when you have clewed up and furled the foresail, go below. You, too, Chips. I have had a little rest, and can doubtless hold out until the morning. I will look after the brig until then.”
As the men shambled away forward, leaving Leslie at the wheel, the latter dimly caught sight of something huddled up in the companion-way, at the top of the ladder; and while he stood staring at it in an endeavour to make out what it was, it moved; and the next moment Miss Trevor, enveloped in a dressing-gown, stepped out on deck, and, with teeth chattering with cold, exclaimed—
“Oh, Mr Leslie, what dreadful thing has happened? I was awakened by the terrible noise and confusion—the crashing and thumping, the thrashing of the sails, the howling of the wind, and the shouting of the sailors—and I feared that the ship was sinking—for it seemed just as bad as on the night when the Golden Fleece was run into; so I wrapped myself in this dressing-gown, and have been to and fro between the top of the stairs and my own cabin for quite an hour, I should think. But I would not come out on deck, for I saw at once that you were all extremely busy; and I knew that, if I did, I should only interrupt you, and be in your way.”
“You would, indeed,” answered Leslie, bluntly. “And even now,” he continued, “the deck is no place for you on this wild and bitter night; you will get wet through and ‘catch your death of cold,’ as they say ashore. Therefore I beg that you will forthwith go below and turn in; there is no further danger at present; the brig is scudding quite comfortably, as you may see; and there is nothing that we can run up against between this and the morning; you may therefore finish your sleep in comfort and with an easy mind.”
“But please tell me exactly what has happened,” the girl persisted; “I shall be better able to rest if you will let me know the worst.”