Brandon judged her to be about the size of the Silver Swan, much the same sort of craft in fact, and, like his father’s vessel, the Success was a “tramp.”
It was night—or at least a gloomy twilight—at all times in the hold; but Brandon thought that it was surely daylight by the time the brig was under way.
She was taken down the river by a fussy little steam tug and then, meeting the swells of the Atlantic, and a brisk gale springing up, she shook out her sails and dropped the tug astern.
Brandon was fearful that he might be sick, for he had never really been to sea and the brig pitched not a little in the waves of the ocean.
To reduce the possibility of this misfortune to a minimum, he ate but sparingly the first day or two out, and by that time all “squeamish” feelings passed away.
It was dreadfully dull in the dark hold, however. Of food and water he had a sufficiency, although the latter was warm and brackish; but there was absolutely nothing for him to do to pass away the time. There was not even the spice of danger about his situation, for nobody came into the hold.
He dared not explore much at first, for he was afraid that he might be heard from the cabin or forecastle.
During a slight blow which came up the fourth day, however, while the spars and cordage were creaking so that all other sounds were drowned, he felt perfectly safe in moving about. If he could not hear what went on outside, nobody outside would be likely to hear him.
On this day, however, he received several tumbles, for the ship occasionally pitched so suddenly that he was carried completely off his feet. Nothing worse happened to him, though, than the barking of his elbows and knees.
Gaining confidence in his ability to get around without being discovered, he changed his position more frequently after this. The weather remained fair for some time following this small blow, and Brandon hung about the cabin bulkhead, striving to hear more of Leroyd’s plans, if possible.