The man who held the tin mug, with neat rum swelling over the lip thereof, let the thing fall as though it burned his fingers.
“Good. Stand up, all of you. Now, listen to me.”
They obeyed him sullenly, like men in whom utter weariness of soul and body had numbed all strength and self-respect. Jeffray understood the crude pessimism that possessed them. They had lacked leadership, for the shivering sot who held the lamp had been the first to confess defeat at the hands of the sea.
“Come, lads, we’ll have no more drinking. Captain George, will you have the stuff thrown over into the sea? Steady, steady, stand back for the captain.”
The man who had been crouching on the bucket, started up, and, pushing his comrades aside, seized on the keg of rum and carried it to the door.
“I’m with you, sir,” he said; “you’ve got the right stuff in you, by damn, you have!”
From that moment Jeffray’s personality dominated the ship. He spoke to the men bluntly, bravely, and the frank manliness of his words went home into each rough heart.
“Come, lads,” he said, “we are all British to the bone. Who says die?”
He tossed his pistols aside on to a bunk, stripped off his coat and waistcoat, and rolled up his sleeves.
“I’m one of you, and I’ll work till my back breaks. I have my lass on board, and I’ll fight to the last before I see her drown.”