“We must have detachments of them on deck,” said Dr. Saunders. “We must let a third of them at a time breathe the open air and relieve the demands upon the atmosphere below. It may be done,” he added, with perhaps the least hint of doubtfulness in his manner.
Captain Wickham did not speak.
“It ought to be done,” said Lieutenant Venables, crossing the deck out of the shadow to port with a lighted cigar in his mouth. “It’s hell, Gordon, in the barracks.”
“You’ll want the guard to fall in, doctor?” said Captain Gordon.
“Oh yes, if you please.”
The necessary orders were given; five or six soldiers mounted the poop ladder, and ranged themselves along the break, the muskets loaded and the bayonets fixed as usual. The doctor left the deck, and in some ten minutes’ time a file of shadowy figures wound, serpent-like, past the main-hatch sentry into the barricaded enclosure. They broke into little companies, and all were as still as the dead; but I could feel in their postures, in their manner of grouping themselves, the exquisite relief and delight they found in drinking in the moist night air.
This detachment remained an hour on deck. When they went below, and the next lot came up, the time was half-past eight. I had been relieved at eight bells by the chief officer; but the heat in the cabin was so great that after I had stayed a few minutes in my berth I filled a pipe and went on to the quarter-deck, where I stood smoking in the recess under the poop. The quarter-deck barricade was about six feet tall, and the figures of the convicts behind it were not to be seen where I stood. Nothing was visible but the stars over either bulwark-rail, and the festooned cloths of the main course on high, and the dim square of the becalmed topsail above it floating up and fading in the darkness of the night.
All on a sudden an odd, low whistle sounded forward or aft—I can’t tell where; an instant later the figure of a convict sprang on to the top of the starboard bulwarks, where, poising himself whilst you might have counted ten, he shrieked aloud, “O God, have mercy upon me! O Christ, have mercy upon me!” and went overboard.
Silence lasting a moment or two followed the splash; the hush of amazement and horror was broken by loud cries from the convicts, sharp orders delivered over my head in the voice of Captain Gordon, followed by the tramp of the soldiers striding quick to the break of the poop clearly to command the people within the barricades with their muskets. I heard Mr. Barlow, the mate, roar to the man at the wheel, “Do you see anything of him there?” And Captain Wickham shouted once or twice, “Man overboard! Aft, some hands, and clear away the starboard quarter-boat.” Meanwhile I had observed the form of Dr. Saunders rush down the poop ladder and run headlong past the sentry into the barricaded enclosure, where now at this time his stern, clear voice rang out strong as he ordered the convicts to fall in and return to their quarters.
I sprang to the side to look for the man that was gone, but saw nothing. The sea was like black slush: there was scarce an undulation in it to flap the softest echo out of the lightest canvas. I saw no fire in the water. Something was wrong with the quarter-boat. They were a long time bungling with the falls, and I heard the voice of an enraged seaman harshly yell, “Who the blooming blazes has bin and stopped ’em in this fashion!”