“Remember the name of your ship, lads!” Captain Macpherson’s voice seemed to anticipate a movement of panic among the seamen on deck; if there had been any intention to “rush” the already well-loaded boat, it was stayed.  “Mr. Gillett, I’ll be troubling ye for the keys to the convicts’ deck.  Mr. O’Brien, get in and take charge.  Steer southeast with a bit of rag; it’s your best chance to get picked up.  Hold near the ship until the other boat with the crew can come alongside.  It’s as well to keep company.  Are the lines clear?  Let her go.”

The boat was lowered and at the right moment touched a receding wave.  Captain Macpherson waited until the chief officer called out that they were safely away, then gave his last order: 

“And now, lads, ye can be lookin’ to yourselves!”

They did; the master turned and with some difficulty made his way toward the convicts’ cells.  Her decks soon deserted, the ship, like a living, writhing thing, seemed to struggle and groan, as if every timber were crying out in vain protest against the tragic consummation.  But only an irrevocable voice answered, that of the mocking sea beating harder, the cruel sea, spotted here and there with black patches between which splashes of light revealed the wild waves throwing high their curd in the cold, argent glimmer.  One of these illuminating dashes, as if in a spirit of irony, moved toward the ship, almost enveloped it and showed suddenly a number of mad, leaping human figures issuing with horrible cries from one of the hatches.

“The life rafts!  Old man said the boats were gone.”

“Rafts good enough for the likes of us, eh?  Well, he’s paid for keeping us down so long.  Blime if I don’t think Slick Sam killed him.”

“The rafts!” Shrieking, calling down maledictions on the captain, they ran about, when suddenly an angry black wave swept the deck; a few went overboard with the hissing crest; several were hurled against the bulwarks, limp, lifeless things, swirled back and forth.  One of their number, a big fellow of unusual strength, was shot toward the open companionway leading to the main cabin; as he plunged down, he clutched at and caught the railing.  Considerably shaken, dripping with water, he pulled himself together, and, raising a face, sodden and fierce, like a beast brought to bay, he looked around him.  The light of one or two swinging lamps that had not yet been shattered revealed dimly the surroundings, the dark leather upholstering, the little tables.  Uncertainly the convict paused; then suddenly his eyes brightened; the lustful anticipation of the drunkard who had long been denied shone from his gaze as it rested on a sideboard across the cabin.

“Bottles!” he said, steadying himself.  “Rum!  Well, I guess there ain’t much chance for any of us, and a man’s a fool to go to hell thirsty!” He had started toward the sideboard with its bright gleaming ware and its divers and sundry receptacles of spirits and liqueurs, when suddenly his look changed, and his jaw fell.