“Not a soul on board the fleet thought it was going so hard with you, but you had better see Leake, who is a plain-spoken man with some authority. I hear he is all for making up the river, and your story will help him to move the scarlet-coated butcher who is but half-hearted in the business.”
“Colonel Kirke I must see first,” said Gervase; “my message is to him, and when he reads Walker´s letter he can hesitate no longer. All that is wanted is the wind and the tide. There need be no fear of the guns, for in Londonderry we have learned what they can do.”
The skipper had said nothing, but sat leaning his head on his horny hand. Then he seemed to awaken from his fit of abstraction. “And poor Tom is gone, you tell me? He was a younger man than myself by half a score of years, and as likely a fellow as ever lived when I danced at his wedding nine years syne. A putrid fever, you say. Odds, I would like you could have told me how it is with Marjorie and the young ones.”
“He chanced to be of my regiment,” said Gervase, “and that is how I came to know his end. But many a brave fellow has fallen into his last sleep yonder, and all for want of a little manhood here.”
“For God´s sake tell me no more of your story,” said the master, “but even fall to on the boiled beef, and don´t spare the liquor. For myself, please Heaven, I´ll drink the taste of your yarn out of my mouth, though belike it will take a hogshead at the least to do it.”
The master was as good as his word; while Gervase and the mate sat down at the lower end of the table, he produced a great bottle from a locker, and poured out a large measure of spirit, which he drank at a draught without any dilution of water. He filled the glass a second time and drank it without a word. It was clear that he was determined to drown his grief, and as Gervase glanced at him from time to time in amazement, he went on steadily until the bottle was nearly empty. The mate said nothing, only shaking his head as though the sight was not a novel one and remonstrance was out of the question. “He´ll maunder a bit by-and-by,” he said in an undertone, “and then he´ll turn in; ´tis the way of him--he´s a good Christian and a rare seaman, but liquorish. We´ve all our faults and he was born with a thirst. Surely ye haven´t finished? why, man, I thought ye were starved yonder, and ye haven´t done more than nibble at the good meat!”
“Try the punch,” said the master, by this time some way in his cups, with his face shining like a furnace; “try the grog, and never mind McKeller; I have to do his drinking and my own as well, and ´tis devilish hard work, let me tell you. No man can say that Andrew Douglas ever shirked his duty.”
“When it came in the shape of rum puncheons,” said the mate. “Now ye´ll just turn in, and I´ll see that the young gentleman is made comfortable.”
The master was induced to retire with a good deal of difficulty, while Gervase and the mate sat down to a long talk together, as the result of which Gervase came to the conclusion that all his difficulties were not yet over. Then he turned in and forgot all his troubles in a sound and refreshing sleep.