‘Jump in, Marian! Jump in, Johnstone!’ said Tom.
Will and I sprang into the boat and sat low, and in a moment or two the dark side of the ship swarmed upward as we descended. The boat splashed when she floated. Some fellow at that instant halloed long and dismally. The melancholy, dreadful cry was re-echoed by the sails, and the voice was as that of a strong man mortally wounded and yielding up his ghost in a death shout.
‘Some beast shrieking in a dream,’ said Will.
As he spoke, the figures of Tom and the mate leaned to the falls, and they came down the tackles into the boat, hand over hand. The blocks were quickly unhooked, and Mr. Bates, with the boat-hook in his hand, poled us under the huge, dark counter of the Childe Harold. Three oars were noiselessly thrown over and paddled us clear of the ship.
Scarcely were we gone ten lengths when again we heard that strange, wild, melancholy, halloing cry. Tom said, ‘Is not that a man there on the fo’c’s’le?’
‘Yes,’ said Will; ‘he is reeling and waving. He’ll be overboard if he doesn’t mind his eye.’
The fellow let fly a sudden yell.
‘Curse him!’ cried Tom. ‘He sees us. Give way now.’
‘There he goes!’ cried Mr. Bates.
A cry like the scream of a gull came across the silent sea, and we heard the plunge and splash of the wretch. Mr. Bates and Will tilted their oars as though to put back.