‘Certainly not!’ cried the doctor, with a toss of his head, seemingly insensible of the sarcasm of the captain’s suggestion. ‘He’s no convict, sir, he’s the ship’s prisoner.’
The sergeant eyed me very steadfastly. He suddenly saluted the doctor, and exclaimed: ‘May I list him, sir?’
‘Try him,’ said the captain, dryly. ‘It’s a sure sign a young chap wants to ’list when he hides in the fore-peak of an outward-bounder.’
‘Leave that matter, sergeant. Captain, you will be so good as to lock up that boy,’ said the doctor.
On this the captain told the boatswain to send the steward to him. A man with prominent, purple-tipped cheek-bones and blue eyes, very narrow shoulders and legs arching out to a degree I had never before beheld, wearing a blue jacket decorated with rows of buttons, came out of the cuddy. The captain called him on to the poop.
‘That lad’s a stowaway,’ said the captain, pointing to me. The man looked. ‘By order of the surgeon-superintendent he’s to be locked up. Where? In the forecastle? In the soldiers’ quarters? You have spare cabins in the steerage?’
The man answered: ‘Three.’
‘Very well,’ the captain said. ‘Take him below and lock him up.’
‘You’re his jailor,’ said the doctor, ‘and I hold you responsible for his safe keeping.’ The steward looked uneasy and astonished, and cast a glance at the marching file of convicts.
‘Here,’ said the captain. The steward approached him close. Something was said. The steward then came to me and exclaimed: ‘Come along, young man!’ I followed him down the steps on to the quarter-deck. At this instant the fiddle ceased, the echoing tramp of the felons was hushed, the convict warders as before cried out sharply and fiercely.