Storms break out pretty suddenly down in the South, where there’s plenty of room for the winds to work, and one terrible storm broke out all at once, when we were about a hundred miles from Sydney.
It was one evening after a fearfully hot day, that the orders were given, for the men in our charge to be had out on deck, for the doctor had reported that he would not be answerable for the men’s health if they were kept so much down in their quarters, which were suffocating at times.
So the soldiers were called out, and planted here and there with fixed bayonets; our fellows were on duty, of course, and the convicts were kept moving about on the deck, while the ports were thrown open below and everything done to ventilate the place.
I’d been seeing to this with some help, and was very glad to get on deck again, to run my eye over the men; and I hadn’t been up five minutes, before I had one of the convicts looking at me in a curious way.
It was Ninety-seven, and he passed on to come round again after a few minutes, and look at me again in an imploring sort of fashion.
This happened four times, and being in a better temper that evening, I took a step or two forward, as he came round the fifth time, and spoke to him.
“What is it, my lad?” I said. “Want a quid of tobacco?”
“I want to speak to you, Mr. Rowan,” he said in a hoarse whisper.
“Yes,” I said, “you always did. You were born with too much tongue, Nick.”