Garry O’Neil saw this, and pooh-poohed the idea of the colonel remaining below.
“Faith, there ain’t the laste bit of good, sor, in yer stoppin’ down here at all, at all,” said he in his brisk, energetic way. “The poor chap won’t be afther stirrin’ ag’in for the next two hours or more; an’ if he does, bedad, he won’t ricognise ye, or any one ilse for that matther!”
“But, sir doctor—”
“Houly Moses! I till you, colonel, there ain’t no use in your stoppin’ another minnit!” impatiently cried the good-natured Irishman, interrupting his half-hearted expostulator. “Jist you clear out of this at once, an’ go on deck an’ say the foightin’ with those murtherin’ bleyguards. I’ll moind my paychant now till that old thaife Weston’s finished all the schraps lift in the plates an’ bottles from lunch; an’ thin, faith, he shall take charge of him an’ I’ll come up too, to say the foon. Now, be off wid ye, colonel, dear; you’ll say the poor chap ag’in afther the rumpus is over. Dick Haldane, me darlint, hind the colonel the loan of yer arrum, alannah. There, now off ye both go. Away wid ye!”
So saying, he fairly pushed us out of the cabin; and, the colonel limping by my side and using my shoulder as a crutch, as he had previously done, we both went up the companion-ladder, and gained the poop.
The scene here presented a striking contrast to that we had just left, the fresh air, bright sun, and sparkling sea all speaking of life and movement, in exchange for the stuffy atmosphere of the darkened saloon and its association of illness and approaching death.
A stiff breeze was blowing now from the southward, and running, as we were, to the northward, right before it, the skipper had ordered all our square sails forward to be set so as to take every advantage of the wind, in addition to our steam-power, the old barquey prancing away full speed ahead, with her topsails and fore canvas bellied out to their utmost extent, their leech lifting occasionally with a flicker as she outran the breeze and the clew-gallant blocks rattling as the sheets slackened and grew taut again, while the wind hummed through the canvas aloft like a thousand bees buzzing about the rigging.
The black smoke, too, was rushing up the funnel and whirling in the air overhead, uncertain which direction to take, from the speed of the vessel inclining it to trail away aft, while the stiff southerly breeze blew it forwards; so we carried it all along with us, hung up above our dog vane like an awning as we careered onwards, raising a deep furrow of swelling water on either side as we cut through the dancing sunlit waves, and leaving a long white wake astern that shone through the blue, far away behind in the distance, to where sea and sky melted into one, far away on the horizon line.
Old Masters, the boatswain, was on the poop when the colonel and I came up from below, in the very act of hauling in the patent log to ascertain our speed.
“Well,” said I, as he looked at the index of the ungainly thing, which is something of a cross between a shark hook and a miniature screw propeller. “What’s she doing, bo’sun?”