As I have already mentioned, this story may be said to have had its beginning about two bells in the middle watch—or about one o’clock in the morning—on a certain specified date; for until then there had been nothing out of the ordinary to distinguish the voyage from any other. But some five minutes after I had struck two bells, in accordance with the chief mate’s instructions, and the lookout on the topgallant forecastle had responded with the usual cry of “All’s well!” one of the forecastle hands came slouching along aft, and, ascending the poop ladder with a certain suggestion of haste and trepidation, approached the mate.
“Will ye mind steppin’ for’ard a minute, sir?” he enquired. “There’s a strong smell o’ burnin’ down in the fo’c’sle, and—”
“A strong smell of burning?” interrupted Mr Bligh. “The dickens there is! Yes, of course I’ll go. Temple,” turning to me, “just keep a lookout for a minute or two while I’m gone, will ye?”
“Ay, ay, sir,” I replied; and the mate dashed down the poop ladder and went scurrying away forward, regardless of the drenching showers of spray that came flying in over the weather cathead with every mad plunge of the overdriven ship.
For the next five minutes I paced anxiously to and fro along the weather side of the poop, with my ears wide open for any sudden outcry that might confirm the awful suspicion of fire having broken out below; but I heard nothing save the continuous hiss and roar of the sea under the lee bow and along the bends, the heavy slop of water in over the rail with every lee roll of the ship, and the thunder and piping of the wind aloft, and I was beginning to hope that it was no worse than a false alarm, when the man who a few minutes previously had come aft to summon the mate came running—yes, positively running—along the deck again. He stumbled up the poop ladder and came to me, puffing and panting, with every sign of the most extreme agitation, and delivered his message.
“Mr Temple!” he gasped—the skipper always insisted upon the “midshipmen” apprentices being “Mistered” by the foremast hands, upon the ground that we were officers, if only in embryo—“Mr Temple, the mate says will ye please slip below and quietly call Cap’n Roberts without disturbin’ the passengers. Ye are to tell him that the ship’s afire in the forehold, and that Mr Bligh will be much obliged if he’ll come for’ard to the fo’c’sle at once. And when ye’ve done that, ye’re to continue your lookout on the poop until ye’re relieved.”
“Ay, ay, Mason, I’ll do that,” I answered. Then, as we turned together to leave the poop, I asked: “Is the matter serious, Mason? Has Mr Bligh actually found the seat of the fire; and is there a chance of our being able to master it?”
“Can’t say, as yet,” answered the man. “We ain’t actually found the fire; but it’s there all right.”
I shivered involuntarily, although the night was warm, for I happened to know that a good deal of the cargo which we were carrying was of a highly combustible character, such as furniture, pianos, Manchester goods, and the like, to say nothing of several cases of sporting ammunition. I knew that if once the fire happened to get a good hold upon such material as that the chances were all against our being able to master it, especially in such a strong breeze as was then blowing.
And if we should be compelled to leave the ship—!