“Jump for the port boat, men! jump for the port boat!” shouted Mr. Barlow. “The man’ll have sounded the bottom whilst you’re messing about with those tackles.”
I ran on to the poop to lend a hand. The captain, quickly making me out, told me to get into the boat and take charge. We were lowered, and rowed away round the vessel under her counter to look for the man to starboard, from which side he had jumped. The oars as they dipped made no fire in the water. We headed for the spot whence the convict had sprung, and then worked our way along the bends and afterwards went a few strokes astern, and then rowed round to port, conceiving that the poor devil might have risen on t’other side the ship.
“Do you see anything of him?” shouted Captain Wickham.
“Nothing, sir.”
“Hook on! He’s gone—there’s no more to be done,” called down the captain.
We had spent half an hour in the hunt and the man was undoubtedly drowned.
Who was the convict that had destroyed himself? After I had regained the ship, and whilst I was ordering one of the boat’s crew to go aft and coil away the end of the starboard main-brace, which I had noticed hanging over the side, the doctor arrived on the poop, walking slowly. The guard was by this time dismissed: all was silent and motionless on the main-deck betwixt the barricades; the only figures down there were the main-deck and quarter-deck sentries; but there was much stir forward upon the forecastle, where the sailors were stepping from side to side, peering over the rail with some fancy, no doubt, of catching sight of the floating body of the drowned convict.
The doctor, Captain Wickham, Captain Gordon, and the subaltern came together in a group within easy earshot of where I stood.
“It’s the man Simon Rolt,” said the doctor. “I shall be blamed for allowing the convicts to come on deck after the regulation hours.”