consigned to the sea. No doubt these tales, more or less exaggerated,
traveled aft, and reached the eager ears of the passengers. They began
to fear us, and consequently I noticed when on deck the promenade once
so popular during the earlier days of the voyage, was almost totally
deserted during our hours of recreation. So, with mutiny forward, and
fear aft, the lumbering old brig, full of tragedy and hopeless hearts,
ploughed steadily onward toward the sunset.




CHAPTER III

DOROTHY FAIRFAX


We were not far from two hundred miles east of the Capes, or at least
so one of the mates told me, gruffly answering a question, and it was
already growing twilight, the sun having disappeared a half hour
before. There was but little air stirring, barely enough to keep the
sails taut, while the swell of the sea was sufficient to be
uncomfortable, making walking on the deck a task. We were wallowing
along amid a waste of waters, the white-crested waves extending in
every direction to the far horizons, which were already purpling with
the approach of night. I had been closely confined to my bunk for two
days with illness, but now, somewhat stronger, had been ordered on
deck by the surgeon. The last batch of prisoners, after their short
hour of recreation, had been returned to the quarters below, but I was
permitted to remain alone undisturbed. I sat there quietly, perched on
a coil of rope, with head just high enough to permit an unobstructed