At noon we arrived at the anchorage, and hauled our moorings on
board.
We had refitted, and been four days at sea, on our voyage to Jamaica, when
the gunroom officers gave our mess a blow--out.
The increased motion and rushing of the vessel through the water, the
groaning of the masts, the howling of the rising gale, and the frequent
trampling of the watch on deck, were prophetic of wet jackets to some of
us; still, midshipman--like, we were as happy as a good dinner and some
wine could make us, until the old gunner shoved his weather beaten phiz
and bald pate in at the door. "Beg pardon, Mr Splinter, but if you will
spare Mr Cringle on the forecastle for an hour until the moon rises."
("Spare, quotha, is his Majesty's officer a joint stool?")
"Why, Mr Kennedy, why? here, man, take a glass of grog."
"I thank you, sir. It is coming on a roughish night, sir; the running
ships should be crossing us hereabouts; indeed more than once I thought
there was a strange sail close aboard of us, the scud is flying so low, and
in such white flakes; and none of us have an eye like Mr Cringle, unless it
be John Crow, and he is all but frozen."
"Well, Tom, I suppose you will go"--Angelice, from a first lieutenant to a
mid--"Brush instanter."
Having changed my uniform, for shag--trowsers, pea--jacket, and south--west
cap, I went forward, and took my station, in no pleasant humour, on the
stowed foretopmast--staysail, with my arm round the stay.
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