It was a dark, dismal, smelly interior, amply large enough, but ill
ventilated, and inexpressibly dirty. Every stench under heaven seemed
to assail my nostrils, so compounded together, as to be separately
indistinguishable, although that of stale bilge water strongly
predominated. The only semblance of fresh air found entrance through
the small, square scuttle hole, attainable by means of a short ladder,
and staring up at this, I was able to perceive the light of day,
although so little penetrated below, the swaying slush light alone
served to illumine the place, and render its horrors visible. It was
day then, and we were well out at sea. I must have been lying
unconscious for several hours. In all probability, finding it
impossible to arouse me, the brutes had finally left me alone, to
either recover, or die, as fate willed. I rested back, feeling of the
numerous bruises on my body, and touching gingerly the dried blood
caked on my face. No very serious damage seemed to have been done, for
I could move without great pain, although every muscle and tendon
appeared to be strained and lacerated. My head had cleared also from
its earlier sensation of dullness, the brain actively taking up its
work. Clinching my teeth to keep back a groan, I succeeded in sitting
upright, my head touching the upper deck, as I undertook to survey my
surroundings. They were gloomy and dismal enough. The forecastle, in
true Dutch style, had been built directly into the bows, so that the
bunks, arranged three tiers high, formed a complete half circle. The
single lantern, flickering and flaring as it swung constantly to the
sharp pitching of the vessel, cast grotesque shadows, and failed
entirely to penetrate the corners. The deck below me was littered with
chests, sea boots, and odds and ends of clothing, while farther aft
considerable water had found entrance through the scuttle hole, and
was slushing back and forth as the bark rolled. About half the bunks
seemed to be occupied, the figures of the sleeping men barely