“Shure, the say’s not at all at all the place I thought it was, Mr Terence,” he groaned forth. “I’ve been turned inside out entirely. I don’t even know whether the inside of me isn’t the outside.”
There was a general groan, as the ship at that moment pitched into a sea, and I had to hold on fast, or I should have been sent in among the mass of human misery. When she rose again and was steady for an instant, I was able to speak to Larry.
“I can’t say I feel very comfortable myself,” I said; “but rouse up and try to prevent your feelings from overcoming you.”
“Och, Master Terence, but my faylings are mighty powerful, and for the life of me I can’t master them,” he groaned out.
This was very evident; and what with the smells and the closeness of the air,—not to speak of the pitching and rolling of the ship,—I was again almost overpowered, when there came a cry of “All hands save ship!” and down sprang the boatswain’s mates, and began kicking away at the hapless marines and green hands. Larry in a moment leaped to his feet I heard a savage growl close to me, and just then caught sight of Dan Hoolan’s countenance. Though he was kicked and cuffed, nothing would make him get up, and I saw him still lying prostrate when I hurried off to gain the deck.
The ship, struck by a heavy squall, was lying over almost on her beam-ends; the officers were shouting out their orders through their speaking-trumpets; the men were hurrying here and there as directed, some going aloft, others letting fly tacks, and sheets clewing up and hauling down. Suddenly the buoyant frigate righted herself. It seemed a wonder that none of the men were jerked overboard. The canvas was further reduced, and on we went, pounding away into the seas.
Larry was as active as any one. He seemed to have forgotten all about his sickness. It was the last time, too, that I ever suffered from the malady, and from that day forward—blow high or blow low—I felt as easy in my inside as I should on shore. A few spars had been carried away on board the merchantmen, but, as far as we could see, no other damage had occurred.
In a couple of days more the gale had completely worn itself out, and everything went as smoothly as heretofore. We were then within about a week’s sail of the West Indies. The weather was now warm and pleasant,—sometimes, during a calm, a little too hot.
One morning, just at daybreak, the look-out from the masthead announced that he saw three sail to windward. The second lieutenant went aloft, and looked at them with his glass. When he came down he pronounced two of them to be frigates, and the other a smaller vessel. We threw out signals to the convoy to keep together, while we and the other two men-of-war, hauling our wind, stood closer to the strangers. At first it was supposed that they were English, but their manoeuvres made us doubt this, and at length they were pronounced decidedly French. That they intended to pick off some of the merchantmen there could be no doubt; and this it was our object to prevent.
“Paddy, my boy,” said Tom Pim, coming up to me as I stood looking at the enemy from the quarter-deck, “we shall have some righting before long, no doubt about that. How do you feel?”