The rest of his speech I did not catch, for a roller hand-spike rumbled on deck in such a way as to drown it, but I thought I detected some expostulation from the other voice.
We slid down, Sutton and I, to the others. Mackie was conscious, but so weak from his fever and suffering that he could not lift his head. When we told him the news he drew a long breath.
"It's too late, messmates," he whispered. "I'm done for, I fear me."
We sat there now with courage growing, waiting to cheer at the first gun-shot; but all was silence from above. This continued for full ten minutes; then we heard the sound of laughter, and caught the words:
"The signal of the day, eh? I know her; it's the Pique."
Sutton, who had understood, struck out with both feet and arms, muttering to himself.
"It's one of their own vessels," he cried. "Did you ever see such luck?"
But my cry for succor, heard by the English Captain, had done us good, and that afternoon the barriers were broken down from the entrance, and we were transferred to a more comfortable place of confinement under the steerage bulkhead, where at least we could sleep on hard boards, and we were given a blanket apiece.
Poor Mackie was taken to the sick-bay. It was evident that he was not long for this world—and alas! and alas! in four days the news was brought to us that our messmate had died; his skull had been fractured, and the doctor wondered at his having held to life so long. He was buried at sea, and I must say this, that Captain Hilton proved himself to be a magnanimous, big-hearted gentleman, for we were allowed on deck, and a passage of Scripture was read before they dropped the closed hammock overboard into the great graveyard of the sailor.
As we went below to our cell, which was a partition of the after-hold, as I have said, Sutton observed to me: