“Well, when you find out just what we’ve gotten into, coom an’ tell us,” said Martin.
It had been slowly dawning upon me that I had been the victim of a trick, and I felt in my pocket for the advance I had received the day before. The barque was under way, that was certain, but no one seemed to know where she was bound, and, as I fumbled through my clothes, Martin laughed.
“’Twas guid money, Heywood, but ’tis gone. I missed mine this morning. Maybe Anderson can tell where it is,” and he grinned.
The money was gone. That was certain. Yet it was no dream. I had received it fair enough. Feeling anger and hatred for the trick upon me, I bound up my head and went up the ladder to the deck to have a look around. Several men called out to me to have a care of the mate, but most of them were busy arranging their belongings, quarrelling and fighting among themselves over the possession of what clothes happened to be common to the crowd. I saw Martin steal a pair of tarpaulin trousers from a fellow who was wrestling with the sailor Bill for the possession of a bag of straw bedding. Then I stepped on deck.
The cool air did me good. I went to the rail and looked over. The barque was going steadily to the southward with every rag set. She was heeling but gently, and there was little wind or sea. She was braced a bit to starboard, her port tack aboard, and by her trimming I saw she was under English officers. Every yard just in line with its fellow, from the big main to the little royal that crossed a good hundred and seventy feet above the sea. Far away to the eastward showed the even outline of the French coast, and between us many sails strung along the band of blue, their hulls either just below or rising above the horizon’s line. The day was fine and the easterly breeze gentle, and the barque was swinging easily along.
I looked aft and saw men of the mate’s watch at work setting up the backstays in the main-rigging, and some on the mizzen topsail-yard, apparently under the direction of Richards, serving a worn foot-rope. The canvas covers were off the guns, and a dozen bright twelve-pounders of polished brass shone in the sunlight. The white deck beneath and the varnished spars above made a pretty picture, and I grew warm to think that I was not indeed the mate of such a craft. They had played a fine trick on me to get me aboard sober and without compulsion, signing a receipt for an advance equal to a couple of months’ ordinary wages. There were plenty of sailors about the pier-heads, for the war had turned many adrift without means of getting a ship, and there seemed to be no reason why these fellows should try their land-shark game in getting a crew.
As I looked aft it dawned upon me that these men were much better than the ordinary run of common sailors. There was something in the fellow’s walk I now saw crossing the deck that spoke of the war-ship. Even the watch I had just seen below were remarkably rough and tough specimens of a rugged humanity.
While I stood there taking in the scene, I saw a man come from aft and walk to the break of the poop. He looked over the barque carefully, and as his gaze came down the fore-rigging it stopped upon me.
He was dressed something after the manner of a preacher, with black cloth coat and stock, and his hair was cut short. As I took his figure in, there was little difficulty in recognizing Richard Raymond, the man of peace. He beckoned me to come aft, and, as I did so, he removed the huge drooping moustache he had been wearing and tossed it over the side.
“I reckon you know me now, Heywood,” said he, “though it’s been over six years since we parted. I wanted you on this voyage, and took some pains to get ye. That was the old man who welted ye over the head. I’m sorry for it.”