By this time one of the prisoners began to come to himself, and his astonishment was only equalled by his alarm when, on sitting up and rubbing his eyes, he found himself surrounded by strange faces, and discovered that the craft was running up the Solent Channel. My uniform at once told him the truth.
“Where’s Jim?” he asked, on seeing only his drunken companion near him.
“Jim—I don’t know who you mean,” answered Thole. “If it was any one you left on deck, master, why, all I can say is, he wasn’t there when we boarded you.”
On hearing this announcement, he started to his feet, instantly throwing off all appearance of drunkenness, except that his eye was haggard and his cheek discoloured. He was a man of about fifty, of a stout build and a weather-beaten, bronzed face, rather full and good-humoured, certainly not giving one the notion that he was an habitual drunkard. His hair was somewhat long, and dishevelled and grizzled, from exposure to the atmosphere.
“What! Jim not on board?” he exclaimed, rushing on deck. “Where is my boy—what has happened to him?”
He stood for a few seconds leaning against the companion-hatch, while his eye scanned the condition of the vessel, and he seemed instinctively to comprehend what had happened.
“Where is Jim?” he repeated, in a hollow voice.
“I don’t know, master,” answered one of our men, whom he seemed to address. “We only found you two below. If there was another of you, he must have been washed overboard while you lay drunk in the cabin.”
“Drunk!” he ejaculated; “then, my son, I’ve murdered you.” As he uttered these words he sprang to the side, and would have thrown himself overboard, had not Thole, who just then came on deck, caught him by the legs and dragged him forcibly back. The unhappy man struggled violently in his endeavour to perpetrate his intention. “Jim, Jim, my son! you gone—gone for ever; how can I go home and face your mother, my boy?” he cried, his bosom heaving with the passion raging within. Then he turned frantically to us, swearing oaths too frightful to repeat. “You’ve been murdering him, some of you, you bloody-handed king’s officers. I know you of old. It’s little you care for the life of a fellow-creature. Where is he, I say? I left him on deck sound and well, as fine a lad as ever stepped. How could he have gone overboard? He hadn’t touched a drop; he was as sober as any one of you; but I know how it was, you chased him and he wouldn’t give in—he stood at the helm like a man; so you, you cowardly hounds, shot him down as if he were a brute. There’s his blood on the deck—the brave lad’s blood, and you dabbling your feet in it—you, his murderers,—and laughing at me, his father.”
Thus the unhappy man went raving on, conjuring up, in his excited imagination, scenes the most dreadful. Of course we heeded not his raving abuse, for we pitied him most sincerely. There was now no doubt that, while the father and his smuggling companion were drunk below, the son had been knocked overboard. In vain had the voice of the poor lad implored aid from those whose brutal intoxication prevented them even from hearing his death-shriek ere he sunk for ever. It was with the greatest difficulty we could hold the wretched man as we dragged him below and lashed him into one of the standing bed-places. He there still continued raving as before, now calling on his son to come to him, and then accusing us of his murder. His cries and groans at last awoke the other man out of his drunken trance, but it was some time before he could comprehend what had happened. He was not a father, and when at length he came to his senses, he, with brutal indifference abused his companion for disturbing him. As I stood over the skylight which had been got off to give air to the little stifling cabin, I heard him growl out, “Jim’s gone, has he? his own fault then, not to keep a better look-out. It’s he, then, who’s brought us into this scrape; and I don’t see why you should make such a jaw for what can’t be helped. There now, old man, just belay all that, and let me finish my snooze. We can’t hang for it, you know; there, there, now,”—and he actually turned on his side and went off to sleep again. At length the father of the drowned lad wore himself out and fell off, it seemed, into a sort of stupor.