“And, when he says he’ll do a thing, he allys does it,” continued Jorrocks, in testimony to the skipper’s firmness of purpose.
“He won’t flog me again,” said Tom, savagely, in answer to the boatswain’s last remark.
“Nor me,” I put in.
“Ah, you’d better keep quiet till you’re ashore ag’in,” advised our friend, meaningly. “You won’t find much more harm in him than you’ve done already; and bye-and-bye, when he’s got used to seeing you about, he’ll be as soft and easy as butter.”
“Oh yes, I can well believe that!” said Tom, ironically; but then, acting on the advice of Jorrocks, although more to save him from getting into a scrape on our behalf, than from any fear of further molestation from the skipper, against whom our hearts were now hardened, we bustled about the fo’c’s’le, pretending to be awfully busy coiling down the slack of the jib halliards, and doing other odd jobs forward.
Up to this time, neither of us had an opportunity of casting a glance over the vessel to see where she was, our attention from the moment we gained the deck having been entirely taken up by the proceedings of the little drama I have just narrated, which prevented us from making any observations of the mise en scène, whether inboard or over the side.
Now, however, having a chance of looking about me, my first glance was up aloft; and I noticed that the brig was under all plain sail, running before the wind, which was almost dead aft. Being “light,” that is having no cargo on board beyond such ballast as was required to ensure her stability when heeling over, she was rolling a good deal, lurching from side to side as her canvas filled out to the breeze, with every fresh puff of air.
Away to the left, over our port beam, I could see land in the distance, which Jorrocks told me was the North Foreland—near Margate—a place that I knew by name of course, although this information did not give me any accurate idea of the brig’s whereabouts; but, later on in the day, when the vessel had run some fifteen or twenty miles further, steering to the north-east, with the wind to the southward of west, we passed through a lot of brackish mud-coloured water, close to a light-ship, that my friend the boatswain said was the Kentish Knock, midway between the mouth of the Thames and wash of the Humber, and it was only then that I realised the fact, that we were running up the eastern coast of England and were well on our way to Newcastle, for which port, as I’ve intimated before, we were bound.
“Hurrah!” exclaimed Tom, when I mentioned this to him. “We’ll soon then be able to give that brute of a skipper the slip. I won’t stop on board this horrid brig a minute longer than I can help, Martin, you may be certain!”
“Avast—belay that!” interposed Jorrocks, who was close behind, and heard this confession. “Don’t you count your chickens afore they’re hatched, young master! Take my word for it, the skipper won’t let you out of his sight ’fore you’ve paid him for your grub and passage.”