“Hold your hand,” I bawled to the fellow at the third carronade.
I sprang on to the rail to look over. No sanity in that, for what was there to see, what did I expect to see? We were going at nine knots an hour: the spread of yeast on either hand of us was a wild and roaring race that throbbed out of sight in the darkness abeam within a biscuit’s toss, and that fled and vanished into the darkness abaft, within the span of the brig’s main-deck.
“Are you sure it was the dog?” I cried from the rail.
“Yes, sir; yes, sir, it was the dog—it was Galloon,” was the answer.
“It was the dog,” cried Miss Aurora, coming close to me.
“Oh, poor Galloon!” I was struck to the heart. For some moments I stood motionless, staring into the blackness, while the brig stormed onward, rolling and foaming through the night. Was there nothing to be done? Nothing, I vow to God. Perilous it might have been to bring the brig to the wind in that hollow sea: but to save Galloon, who had saved my life, I would have risked the brig, the treasure in her, nay, the lives within her, so wild was I then. But the dog could not have been rescued without lowering a boat, and a boat stood to be swung and smashed into staves ere a soul entered her; and consider also the blackness of the Cape Horn night that lay upon the ocean!
“Are these guns to be fired, sir?”
“No. Oh, lads, I would not have lost that dog for twenty-fold my share of the money below. He saved my life—he’s still swimming out there—he’s alive out there and may live. Where’s Jimmy?”
“Blubbering here, sir,” said a voice.
A couple of seamen ran him into the lantern light; I could have killed him.