"Good-night, good-night, son," he said, placing his heavy hand on William's head. "I will see you on the morrow. Sleep well, Lieutenant Frothingham."
William went up the stairs slowly to his richly furnished room. He could not sleep, but tossed uneasily until the morning. If he could have only held George from the fatal step! But young natures are hopeful, and he planned to suit his fancy.
When the war was ended, their love would bring them once more together, and what was his would be his brother's, as it had always been.
Three weeks later a bluff-bowed frigate was pounding her way through the heavy seas of the Atlantic. The wind boomed in the hollows of the great mainsail, and the icy spray dashed over the rail and clung to the rigging. The decks were slippery with frozen sleet, and the gray sky seemed to meet the ocean, and shut down like a tent over the tossing mass of gray-green water.
A group of officers, with their long coats gathered tightly about them, were standing near the taffrail. It was easy to recognize young Frothingham. He was listening to the talk about him.
"It promises to be a stormy passage," said one of the ship's officers. "In the twenty-six days that we may be out of sight of land the war may be over."
"I trust so," said the young Lieutenant to himself. "I'd rather fight the French." He looked down on the icy deck.
They had now been three days out from Portsmouth. There were few but the watch and the lookout pacing up and down the forecastle. A battery of five brass field-pieces was lashed firmly amidships, covered over with tarpaulin to keep them from the wet. Below, the 'tweendecks were crowded with lounging figures. So closely indeed were they packed that to make one's way forward or aft one would have to step over the recumbent figures. A thousand men were crowded within the wooden walls. The ports were closed, and the air was stifling. Racks of muskets shone on the sides and around the masts.
A drummer was practising softly, with his back against a gun-carriage. A fifer picked up his instrument and joined in shrilly.
"That's what we'll make 'em run to," he said, in derision. "It's their own tune, and, by St. George! it's a good tune for running!"