“Och! he has broken me toe clane off,” groaned Mike, slipping on the garments. His companion dressed rapidly in silence.
“Now then, up you go, both of you, into the foretop, and lie out of sight till we get to sea, and if I see a hair of your heads inside the next twenty-four hours I’ll turn you both over on the beach. Here, take a nip apiece before you go,” and he passed a small bottle to the man Collins.
The poor fellow’s eyes sparkled as he thrust the neck of it into his thick beard and tilted his head back in order to let the liquor have free way down his throat. Gantline suddenly jerked it out of his hand and passed it to the Irishman, who put it to his lips, gave a grunt of disgust, and threw the empty bottle over the side.
“Now wait till you see me go aft with the watch, and then aloft with you,” said Gantline, as he left us.
When he reached the man he started off with him to the quarter-deck, and as they disappeared together over the break of the poop the men crawled for the rigging. They were so weak from their exertions that it seemed as if they would never get over the futtock-shrouds, but finally the man Collins gained the top, and dragged his companion after him. Then I went into the forward cabin and took what salt-junk was left and carried it aloft before Gantline returned. By the time I reached the deck he had started forward again and joined me on the forecastle. His seamed and lined face wore an anxious look as he took his place beside me and acted as if nothing had happened to seriously interrupt our former conversation. We sat a few moments discussing our stowaways and then went aft to get a little sleep before clearing.
I turned in and lay awake thinking of the men in the foretop, hoping nothing would occur to make it necessary for more than one man to go aloft there. The sails were all loosed except the foreroyal, and this I would go aloft for myself.
It was past midnight before I lost consciousness, and it seemed almost instantly afterwards Gantline poked his head in my doorway and announced, “Eight bells, sir.” I turned out and found it was still dark, but a faint light in the east told of the approaching day. The men were getting their coffee from the galley, and the steward was on his way to the cabin with three large steaming cups for the skipper and passengers. A light air was ruffling the water and the tide was setting seaward, so if nothing unusual happened we would soon be standing out. The dark outlines of the Blanco Encalada began to take more definite shape, but all was quiet on board of her.
By the time the men finished their coffee Zachary Green came on deck, and then he gave the order to “heave short.”
In a few moments all was noise and bustle on the forecastle-head. The clanking of the windlass mingling with the hoarse cries of “Ho! the roarin’ river!” and “Heave down, Bullies,” broke the stillness of the quiet harbor.
“Anchor’s short, sir!” roared Gantline’s stentorian voice from the starboard cathead. This was followed by an order to sheet home the topsails. In a few minutes we broke clear and swung off to starboard with the fore-and main-yards aback. Then we came around and stood out with the ebb-tide, the light breeze sending us along with good steering way.