‘They’re sneaking westward,’ said Tom, talking low with his eye at the glass. ‘The American seaboard may give me the chance I want. Eastward nearly everything afloat is British—curse the name!’
By this time, the convicts on the quarter-deck had got wind of the chart on the poop and were crowding up the ladders to look. That all might obtain a sight, Abram bawled a recommendation to them to form themselves into small divisions. This was done. The chiefs or ringleaders broke up the mass into little gangs, and one after another these gangs came to the skylight and overhung the chart. The cast-eyed sailor with the hair of oakum stood by to answer questions and pointed out the islands. Some of the educated convicts dwelt upon the chart so long, musing, running their fingers down the meridians, calculating distances and so forth, that the waiting gangs howled at them with impatience. Yet all was now orderly as one could wish—far more orderly than I had dared expect.
As the gangs passed on from the skylight aft, viewing the chart and questioning the cast-eyed man, they broke up and hung about various parts of the poop or returned to the main-deck. The coarse joke, the loud, brutal laugh was frequent; but there was no horse-play, none of the former huge, hideous, cart-horse gambolling, shouting, and tipsy fighting. The heat lay upon the people like a weight. Their spirits were sobered by the extraordinary oppression of the vast, silent, roasting calm.
‘Abram,’ called Tom, holding the telescope and still standing at my side, ‘let some of the men—those responsible for the mess—clean the cuddy out. Look through the skylight. The deck’s full of broken glass. And my advice to you and the others is to arrange without delay for the distribution of the people for the night. You’ll want cooks. Those who have been cooking so far should continue. They know what’s needed, where to seek, how to manage. Mr. Bates here will counsel you on quantities. I wish to see the ship cleared fore and aft, and everything ready for any sort of weather that may come along. Ay, and there’s more yet. Suppose an English man-of-war heaves in sight and signals us, we must know what to do and be in readiness to do it. The pennant’s an old cure for dull sight. A devilish keen eye that never winks lies spliced in the fly of every man-of-war’s whip. And d’ye see that, Abram?’ he cried, pointing at the sea over the starboard quarter.
Twenty or thirty convicts were upon the poop, and they all turned their heads and stared in a hurrying, eager way in the direction indicated by Tom’s levelled forefinger.
‘See what?’ exclaimed the prize-fighter, lifting the sharp of his massive hand to his brow, and straining his black, fiery vision.
‘That dark blue line.’
Tom stepped to the rail and cried out: ‘Stand by, all you seamen aboard this vessel, to trim sail!’ Then turning to Abram: ‘Tumble the people to their work of cleaning up, will ye?’ he cried. ‘Put the cooks to their duty; we can’t starve!’ He then turned to me and, placing the telescope in my hand, said loudly: ‘Marlowe, replace this, then go to your berth and carry what belongs to you to my cabin, and wait for me there.’