‘What will happen to the convict ship if a strong wind should catch her as she lies, without a living creature on the look-out or at the wheel?’ said I.
‘Let the masts be ripped out of her,’ exclaimed Tom. ‘She’ll be fallen in with. Lie with dogs and rise with fleas! The mere seeing her people, the mere listening to them makes a man feel a beast, because he’s shaped like them. Oh, Bates, Bates, think of months of living with them! Where’s the brig?’
She was now showing in a big dark blotch at the distance of about two miles. Already the water was rippling to a light breeze, but no weight was in it to cause anxiety, by which I mean no vessel could be propelled by the draught as fast as we could row.
Tom said: ‘Bates, you will leave it to me to explain. You and Miss Johnstone and her cousin will hear me spin my yarn. There’ll be little to say. Only let this be understood: You’re the mate and I’m the second mate.’
‘Do you know, Tom,’ said I, ‘that you are still wearing the convict trousers and shirt?’
‘By Heaven, I had forgotten!’ he cried, jumping up. ‘Marian, take my seat and hold this oar.’
He went into the bows. Often had I pulled an oar upon the Thames and loved the diversion. I rowed now heartily with the others, and little was lost by Tom leaving his seat. He shifted with a sailor’s smartness in a few minutes, and hove his abominable convict apparel overboard. His dress was composed of such slops as the mate was attired in, black cloth and a cloth cap. He took the oar from me, and I seated myself again in the stern-sheets.
‘That brig is hove to,’ said I. ‘Look at her. She seems to be waiting for us.’
I said this when she was half a mile off. She was then plain in sight; a small brig under topsails and maintopgallant-sail; the squares of those sails were outlined against the stars. She showed no light and hung visionary and silent in the voidlike gloom, the sea and the night being blent into a sort of flowing darkness by the blowing of the wind. We drew close, and Tom, throwing in his oar, stood up and hailed her. He got no answer. He hailed her four or five times, but all remained deathlike on board.
‘The look-out sleeps well,’ said Mr. Bates.