Then a solitary splash here, and a dip there, and short
sharp yells, and low choking bubbling moans, as the hissing fragments of
the noble vessel we had seen fell into the sea, and the last of her gallant
crew vanished for ever beneath that pale broad moon. We were alone, and
once more, all was dark, and wild, and stormy. Fearfully had that ball
sped, fired by a dead man's hand. But what is it that clings black and
doubled across that fatal cannon, dripping and heavy, and choking the
scuppers with clotting gore, and swaying to and fro with the motion of the
vessel, like a bloody fleece?
"Who is it that was hit at the gun there?"
"Mr Nipper, the boatswain, sir. The last shot has cut him in two."
After this most melancholy incident we continued on our voyage to Jamaica,
nothing particular occurring until we anchored at Port Royal, where we had
a regular overhaul of the old Bark, and after this was completed, we were
ordered down to the leeward part of the island to afford protection to the
coasting trade. One fine morning, about a fortnight after we had left
Port Royal, the Torch was lying at anchor in Bluefields Bay. It was
between eight and nine; the land--wind had died away, and the sea--breeze
had not set in--there was not a breath stirring. The pennant from the
masthead fell sluggishly down, and clung amongst the rigging like a dead
snake, whilst the folds of the St George's ensign that hung from the
mizzen--peak, were as motionless as if they had been carved in marble.
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