"I am weary of speaking, mates, and wish to sleep," said Bartelot, yawning; "here, under a good deck of British oak, we may take a long spell of it without fear; and yet I can't help thinking of the poor Princess, and all who perished with her. Their faces are always before me."
"And that was a waluable cargo o' hers, that was," added Noah, "and a power o' trouble we took with the sugar and 'bacca casks at Rio. Oh, lor, to think of all that 'bacca goin' to Davy Jones, and never a leaf of it being smoked or cut in quids! She was steeved to within a fathom of her beams, she was; and then we had Californy hides for dunnage to the hatches—aye, aye, all gone, and I'll never have another watch-mate like old Ben Plank again!"
"Poor Ben!" said Morrison; "he'll never more cheer the lads in the forecastle, or on the watch of a clear night, with the 'Bay of Biscay' or 'Tom Bowling,' or lead the chant of 'Time for us go,' when shipping the capstan bars. A better crew than ours never hove up anchor!"
With a purpose so cruel and deadly in his mind, it may be imagined with what exasperation and impatience Hawkshaw listened to a conversation so trivial, and maintained so drowsily at intervals. He began to hope they were dropping asleep, when old Gawthrop spoke again.
"Oh, warn't that warm tea delicious this morning, captain! I doesn't think as I'll ever take kindly to grog again, but become a regular quaker and teetotaller."
"Not even thumb-grog, Noah, eh—on a wet night, when a shout comes down the forescuttle, of 'All hands reef topsails!'" said Bartelot laughing.
"I am almost afraid to sleep," said Morrison, "for dreams of the wreck always come with it, and again I seem to find myself up to my neck in cold salt water. I had often in memory, while we were drifting about, a story my mother, poor woman! used to tell me, when I was a laddie at home, and played truant frae the school, and when she wished to frighten me into good behaviour; so between sleeping and waking I used to think sometimes I was one of the doomed men she used to speak of."
"Doomed, mate; how?" asked Morley, raising his voice; "how were they so?"
"It was the belief of some of the seafaring folk who dwell in the north of Scotland, that those among them who were wicked and sinful in their lives were roused in the night by the knocking of a skeleton hand on their cottage doors. The tap sounded like that of a bony or fleshless hand, though neither the hand or arm of the summoner were visible to mortal eyes. Compelled by a power they dared not, and could not resist, those who were so summoned left their snug beds, their wives and bairns (if they had them), and went, awe-stricken and sick with horror, down the beach, where at such a time there was always a heavy sea rolling in white foam, a black scud drifting overhead and a storm coming on. Compelled by the same mysterious power that brought them forth, the shivering wretches had to step on board a long, black, coffin-shaped boat (which was always sunk to its gunnel in water), and then they shoved off to sea. A grinning skull formed the figure-head of this grim barge, and human bones the thole-pins. Then a great dark cloud spread itself like a sail on the laughing wind, and away they were borne careering into the offing of the black and midnight sea, from whence there was no return, for there they had to cruise for ever, like Vanderdecken at the Cape, until the final day of Doom! Many a time such boats have been seen, driving past the lighthouse on Buchanness, and the deep caverns of that tremendous shore, where the sea bellows for ever and ever—sailing on and on, towards the north, the shrieks of the despairing mingling with the wind, on a cold winter night, when the sleet and rain were sowing all the German sea."
"Such a diabolical story!" exclaimed Morley.