“All right, shove him into a bunk,” cried the Swab.
At the same moment Ned Spivin sprang on deck, and, stretching himself with his arms extended upwards, drew a long breath of fresh air.
“There, Billy,” he said, “I’ve had enough of it.”
“Of grog, d’ye mean?” asked the boy.
“No, but of the hell-upon-earth down there,” replied the young man.
“Well, Ned, I should just think you have had enough o’ that,” said Billy, “an’ of grog too—though you don’t seem much screwed after all.”
“I’m not screwed at all, Billy—not even half-seas-over. It’s more the smoke an’ fumes that have choked me than the grog. Come, lad, let’s go for’ard an’ git as far from it as we can.”
The man and boy went to the bow of the vessel, and seated themselves near the heel of the bowsprit, where the sounds from the cabin reached them only as a faint murmur, and did not disturb the stillness of the night.
And a day of quiet splendour it certainly was—the sea as calm as glass, insomuch that it reflected all the fleecy clouds that hung in the bright sky. Even the ocean-swell had gone to rest with just motion enough left to prove that the calm was not a “dead” one, but a slumber. All round, the numerous vessels of the Short Blue fleet floated in peaceful idleness. At every distance they lay, from a hundred yards to the far-off horizon.
We say that they floated peacefully, but we speak only as to appearance, for there were other hells in the fleet, similar to that which we have described, and the soft sound of distant oars could be distinguished now and then as boats plied to and fro between their smacks and the Coper, fetching the deadly liquid with which these hells were set on fire.