“By thunder, ye air, ye durned black nigger! Ye air, ez sure ez snakes!” screamed the skipper, in his delirious rage, mistaking the Welshman, as he had the others as well, for poor Sam, the recollection of whom seemed strangely to haunt him the moment the rum got possession of his senses. “I’ve swan I’d shoot ye; so, hyar goes, me joker; y’r last hour hez come, ye bet!”
With these words he pointed his revolver down at Morris Jones, as he lay rolling on the deck at his feet, and fired.
Chapter Nine.
Wrecked!
Although they had not been called yet, for it was only ‘six bells,’ the watch below had been roused out by the commotion and wild cries and yells that rang about the deck. Every man Jack had tumbled up from below, and they were all grouped about the fo’c’s’le, hiding behind the galley like myself, and watching the weird scene going on aft, which, but for the maniacal rage of the captain and his murderous fury, would have been almost comical in its main incidents.
It was a regular steeplechase: the frenzied man hunted those he was after in and out of the cabin, and up the poop ladder, and down the companion stairs, in turn, to begin again anew the same strange game, that was amusing enough save to those personally concerned!
One of the hands, though, had his wits at work besides watching what was going on; and this was Tom Bullover, my friend the carpenter.
He recollected what the steward had said on a former occasion of the captain having had a fit of the horrors from excessive drinking; and, although it was too late now to take away the skipper’s revolver before he could effect any mischief with it, there was still time to prevent his doing any further harm.