A strange odor filled the air, a smell compounded of so many things that it cannot be described. George knew it to be that of a crowded ship—the smell of a man-of-war.
"I must be right among them," he murmured.
All at once, so close to him that he could almost reach it with an oar, loomed a great black shape, and over his head extended the muzzles of a line of guns, and above them another, and still above, a third.
"A seventy-four!" said George, crouching down in the bottom of the boat beneath the sail.
Slowly he drifted past; he could see the white streaks on her sides, and hear snatches of songs and the hum of voices. At last he was directly beneath the bulging quarter galleries, and a voice called out,
"What's that below?"
"A boat, sir, adrift," some one answered, in gruff sailor tones.
"Any one in her, Quartermaster?" inquired the first again.
"Can't see, sir," was the reply.
"Tumble into the cutter, then, and take after her," came the order.