My health began to suffer from my close confinement, and I had almost given up all hope of ever seeing again the blue skies of heaven. I could still feel the rocking and tossing of the vessel, and sometimes could hear the shouts of the men, but outside of this, I was as much dead to the world as if I had been buried.
It was about the twentieth day, I reckoned, after my conversation with DeNortier, when I heard footsteps approaching the door of my prison at an unwonted hour; as only a few minutes before the grim Herrick had brought my meal—whether breakfast, dinner, or supper, I did not know.
The heavy lock groaned; the door opened, and Herrick stood outside.
"Come," he said, "thou art wanted on deck," and candle in hand, he waited for me.
The candlelight threw into relief his grim, dark features; his broad, flat nose and coarse, rough mouth; sparkled on the earrings in his ears; gleamed on his cutlass, which was suspended from his waist by a broad leather belt—altogether it was a picture for some ancient master, as he stood in the doorway.
Picking up my tarnished hat, I passed up the ladder and stood on the deck of the ship.
The vessel lay motionless upon the water. About the deck there clustered a group of rough sailors—English, by their costume and language, some thirty or more.
On the other side of the vessel there stood about fifty of the most villainous-looking men I had ever seen—the ruffians whom I had noticed in the alehouse in London—of every clime and nationality, their faces stamped with all manner of vice; they were a crew repulsive enough to make men shudder.
Between these two groups there stood DeNortier, and a broad, squat man, whom, from his dress and deportment, I surmised to be the master of the ship.