Dinner—a curious acrobatic feat that Christmas day in the Dido’s cabin—over, I donned waterproofs and sea-boots, and, putting four bottles of rum in a handbag, which I slung over my shoulder, I stepped across the washboards and made for the fo’k’stle.
Creeping from hold to hold along the weather bulwarks, at times up to my waist in water, I wondered how any ship could pitch as the Dido was doing and yet live.
One moment, looking aft, you would imagine that the man at the wheel was about to fall on your head; the next that the jibbooms were a fourth mast; whilst incessantly poured such foaming torrents over her fo’k’stle that, as I slowly approached, I seriously doubted of getting in safely with my precious freight. Luckily, the men were watching me, and a couple, running out, caught hold of my hands, roaring in my ear,—
‘Run, sir, when she lifts again!’
And, making a dash for it, we got through the doorless entrance just in time to escape another avalanche.
I found the fo’k’stle awash, chests and bags lashed into lower bunks, and the greater part of both watches sitting on the upper ones, smoking, and eyeing the [295] ]cold sparking water as it rushed to and fro their habitation.
My arrival, or rather, perhaps, my cargo, was hailed with acclamation.
The captain certainly had sent them a couple of dozen of porter. But, as one explained,—
‘What’s the good of sich rubbishin’ swankey as that when a feller wants somethin’ as ’ll warm ’is innards this weather?’
‘Where’s Ashby?’ I asked, hoisting on to a bunk amongst the crowd.