We had been five days at sea, and a fair breeze, though somewhat light at times, had sent us tolerably well on our course. A strict watch had been kept on the prisoners. All seemed very unconcerned as to the almost certain fate which awaited them. They ate and drank, and laughed and conversed among themselves, as if they were to be released at the end of the voyage. One of their number, however, who had received a severe hurt in the scuffle when they were captured, was in a very different temper. He kept as far apart from them as he could, and joined neither in their jokes nor conversation. He was far younger than the rest; and as I watched him I observed an expression in his countenance which would not have been there had he been a hardened villain. He seemed grateful to me also for noticing him, and I consequently frequently took an opportunity of saying a word to him appropriate to his situation.
“I should like to read, sir, if I had a book,” he said to me one day. “I once was used to reading, and it would be a great comfort.”
I promised to try and get him a book. When I told Mr Vernon of the man’s request, he advised me to lend him my Bible. “He may not care for it at first,” he observed; “but as he wishes to read, he may draw instruction and comfort from it; and it may, by God’s grace, enable him to perceive the evil of his career.”
I accordingly took the pirate my Bible—it had been my sainted mother’s. The unhappy man’s eye brightened as he saw it.
“Well, sir, I was ashamed to ask for it, and I knew not if one might be on board; but that is the book I wanted.”
I left it with him, and he was constantly reading it attentively and earnestly; nor did he allow the sneers and jeers of his companions to interrupt him. I had perceived a considerable change in him since he was brought on board; and he every day seemed to grow thinner and weaker. I thought that he was dying; and I believe that he was of the same opinion.
Some bulkheads had been run up in the after-part of the hold to form a cabin for Delano—not for his own comfort and convenience, because he was the greatest villain of the gang; but in order not to allow him an opportunity of communicating with his companions. He lay there on a mattress, with his heavy handcuffs, and his legs chained to staples in the deck, like a fierce hyaena, glaring on all who looked at him. I should not, however, picture him properly if I described him as a wild-looking savage. On the contrary, there was nothing particularly objectionable in his face and figure. His face was thin and sallow, without much whisker; his features were regular, and could assume a very bland expression; his figure, too, was slight and active, and his address not ungentlemanly: but it was his eye, when either sullen or excited, which was perfectly terrible. Conscience he seemed to have none: it was completely dead, as were all the better feelings of which our nature is capable: they were destroyed, too, by his own acts—his long unchecked career of wickedness. Once he had been gay, happy, and innocent; but no good principles had ever taken root in his heart. Very early, those a mother’s care had endeavoured to instil into him had been eradicated; and step by step—slow at first, perhaps—he had advanced from bad to worse, till he became the consummate villain he now was. But I am forestalling the account I afterwards got of him.
We had three officers’ watches on board the schooner. Mr Vernon kept one, I kept another, and an old quartermaster we had with us kept the third. Mr Vernon, in compassion to poor Bobby Smudge, had applied for him as cook’s boy, to get him out of the way of Chissel the carpenter, his master, and in hopes of improving him by a somewhat different treatment to what he had been accustomed. The good effect of considerate kindness was already apparent; and the poor lad seemed most grateful for any encouraging word spoken to him. The best of our men had been sent on board the brig, and we remained only with eight and the Helen’s crew—a very fair complement, had we not always required two to stand sentry over the prisoners. We had another and a more insidious enemy on board, of whom we wot not, and whom no sentry could control—the plague—that fell scourge of Asiatic cities. How it came on board we could not discover. It might have been in some of the pirates’ clothes, or some of our men might have caught it while they were on shore for a short time; or it might have been concealed in the schooner long before, and only brought forth by a congenial state of the atmosphere. There it was, however. It made its appearance on the fifth day, and in two days carried off three of our people and one of the Helen’s crew. The pirates escaped unscathed. It seemed, indeed, in no way to alarm them. They laughed and talked, and blasphemed more than ever. We hailed the brig, which had hitherto kept us company, and found that she was free from the affliction; so that, of course, except at a distance, we could hold no communication with her. I will not attempt to describe the appearance of that dreadful disease. It was sad to see the poor fellows attacked, with so little prospect of their recovery; while no one could tell who would be the next victim. As they died they were sewn up in their hammocks, with a shot at their feet, and at once consigned to the deep. Mr Vernon read the funeral service appointed by the Church of England for such an occasion.
After the first man was buried—a fine, active young fellow two days before, apparently full of life and strength—he addressed the crew:—
“Do not suppose the prayers I have read can do any good to him who has just gone for ever from our sight. For your benefit they were offered up. A like fate to his may be that of any one of us before another day has passed; and I would earnestly urge you, for the short time which yet may remain for you, to turn your hearts to God—to prepare for eternity.”