‘But what would be his punishment if they caught him now?’ said I. ‘He, a convict, consents to take charge of a ship seized by convicts! They’d prove him a ringleader and kill him.’
I walked and talked for about half an hour with this kind and worthy man, told him a great deal about my early days, of my first meeting with Tom at Uncle Johnstone’s, and entered at large upon my reasons for sailing in my sweetheart’s ship as a stowaway instead of following him in a passenger vessel. I then got him to talk about his own life and of his wife and his children, and whilst we walked the evening drew down.
The brig was now rushing forward at a fine pace. Her topsails were large sails and her maintopgallant-sail was set, the weather clew of the mainsail was up, the lee clew aft, the staysails were down, the trysail brailed up, and the only sail aforemast was the fore-topmast staysail. The wind had quartered the brig, and under her wide wings and over the smooth western heave that was now shrilly ridging the vessel drove along.
‘She is a fine little ship,’ said Mr. Bates, standing with me at the after end of the deck-house. ‘Our lighting upon her is a wonderful and solemn thing, and perhaps, after all, we shall one day learn that she was derelict for the reasons related in that queer letter we found below.’
Just then Tom came up the ladder. He held my hands whilst he asked me if I had slept well.
‘My nap has made a new man of me,’ he said. ‘What’s the weather going to be? Bates, there’s a frisky spit in the water, isn’t there? But there’s no weight of wind as yet to hurt. Let’s give her all she’ll take. She walks, by Jericho! A fortnight of this will be bringing the corporal aboard.’
‘What shall I do? Make me useful, Tom. Shall I get supper?’ said I.
‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘Is the galley fire in, Bates?’
‘Ay, sir.’
‘Tom,’ said I, ‘I’d like to shift these petticoats for my Childe Harold dress. You want seamen; I’ll make you one.’