There was an ominous silence. A pin might have been heard to drop on deck. The life-buoy had been let go at the first by the officer of the watch. Its signal fire now burned bright astern, but no one was seen clinging to it. There could be little doubt that the poor fellow, whoever he was, had sunk at once. The ship had been running at the time a few points off the wind. She was now brought close on a wind, and then the helm was put down, and she was hove about with her head towards the life-buoy. While she was in stays, the two quarter-boats were manned and lowered. Mr Vernon jumped into one of them, and the master into another; and as the frigate lost her way, they shoved off and pulled in the direction of the spot where the man was supposed to have fallen.
“Who can it be? Who is missing?” was asked by all hands, while we were anxiously looking out towards the boats, to see if they were picking up anybody.
When the ship reached the same locality, she was hove-to, and there we remained till the boats, having picked up the life-buoy, returned on board. They brought, however, too probable a sign of some one having been lost—a boy’s hat. It had been picked up exactly at the spot where the ship was supposed to have been when the alarm was first given. The ship’s muster-roll was now called over, to ascertain who of the ship’s company was missing. One after the other had answered to their names, and it had so nearly reached the end, that we began to hope there might be some mistake after all, when that of Bobby Smudge was called. There was no answer. Poor Bobby! There could be but little doubt that the unfortunate wretch had put his threat of making away with himself into execution, rather than longer endure the tyranny of Mr Chissel. I hoped that the carpenter’s accusing conscience would make him repent of his cruelty. This surmise as to the poor boy’s fate was confirmed the next morning, when some of his clothes were discovered under the forechains. The next day the chief conversation among the men was about Bobby Smudge’s suicide, and of the threats he had uttered of haunting the ship. This led to the recounting of similar circumstances; and many a forecastle yarn was spun that evening, abounding in horrors sufficient to make the hairs of a less stout-hearted auditory stand on end. From the extraordinary remarks I heard as I passed about the decks, I declared, when I went to the berth, that I believed that some of the men fully expected to see poor Bobby Smudge come in at one of the ports and drive all hands out of the ship. A seaman will encounter anything living and tangible with a hearty good-will; but he has a mortal antipathy to meet any spirit, black, blue, white, or green, from the nether world.
“I say, D’Arcy, it would be great fun if we could just manage to give some of these fellows a fright,” whispered Dicky Sharpe. “A white sheet and a howl would do it. I could manage to imitate Bobby Smudge’s voice, and I should just like to look in on old Chissel when he is taking his first snooze. I’d just mutter, ‘Bobby Smudge’s ghost come to fetch you away, you old sinner,’ and his villainous conscience would do the rest.”
“Don’t play any such foolish trick, Dicky,” said I. “You would certainly be found out in the first place, and get severely punished into the bargain. Besides, the matter is too serious to be turned into a joke. Think of that poor unfortunate wretch, driven to despair, and plunged suddenly into another world, through the cruelty and tyranny of one who ought to have protected him, and tried to make him better!”
“But he was plunged into the sea,” said Dicky, interrupting me; “and as for the cruelty he received, I don’t think he was so very much worse off than numbers of other fellows in his position.”
“I tell you, it is not a subject for joking on. Perhaps poor Bobby Smudge had a mother and sisters who will mourn bitterly when the ship returns home, and they find he is not in her.”
“Dirty drabs, in all probability, who won’t care a rap what has become of him,” persisted the incorrigible Dicky.
“For shame, Sharpe—for shame,” said I; thinking how my cousins would grieve for me if I were to be lost overboard. I began to feel a strange sort of satisfaction at the idea. Sentiment, or whatever it might be called, was very quickly put to flight by the shrill sound of the boatswain’s whistle, and the hoarse cry of “All hands—shorten sail!”
We were hurrying to our stations aloft as fast as our legs could carry us—for the tones in which the order was issued showed us that there was not a moment to be lost,—when, just as we were springing into the rigging, a squall, which had but the moment before been perceived by the officers of the watch, struck the ship. As ill-luck would have it, it was the third lieutenant who had the first watch, and he happened to be in a poetical mood, and deeply absorbed in composing an ode to Queen Dido, or the Dodo—I don’t remember which it was reported was the case—one or the other, I know. The squall was a very heavy one: if not a white squall, not inferior to it in strength and suddenness. The ship rushed through the water, which was lashed in an instant into a sheet of foam; the masts bent like wands, and looked as if they would instantly go by the board. The helm was ordered to be put up; but before she could answer it—stiff as she generally was—over she went, as if she had been a mere skiff, till her yard-arms almost touched the water. It appeared as if she would never right herself again. Then many a stout heart quailed, and many a brave man gave himself up for lost; but, dreadful as was the scene, discipline triumphed speedily over all unworthy fears. Some of the ports were open, and the water rushed through them in torrents. Such was the case with the one in our berth. Poor Signor Mezzi, our Italian master, was sitting there. Never was a poor wretch more completely horrified. He gave up all for lost, and fancied that every moment the ship, and all in her, were going to the bottom. The assistant-surgeon and captain’s clerk, who were at the time in the berth, each seized a pillow from the hammocks, which had just before been piped down, and cramming them into the port with tolerable effect, stopped the gush of water; but terror had too completely mastered the poor dominie to allow him to observe what was going forward. He shrieked out for mercy from every saint in the calendar, and entreated one or all of them to carry him on shore, even if it was but to the sandy coast of Africa. “Ah! misericordia, misericordia, misericordia!” was the burden of his plaint.